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“Give him a week, and make him leave afterward,” said Aspen. The rapist was sentenced to the long rope so his neck would snap. He crossed that out and wrote “short rope.” “Send a note to the jail to change that. What kind of fairy is he?”
“Erm, I heard he’s got wings.”
“Cut them off too.”
She fidgeted. “We usually do things quick here and don’t brutalize-”
“I want his fucking wings cut off,” snapped Aspen. “I want his cock cut off too.”
She hesitated. “He’s scum, and I see why, but you can’t get back at others by hurting this one.”
“I want his wings sawed off his damn back, and I want him to slowly choke to death.” Aspen slammed his fist on the desk and instantly regretted it. The desk was fine, but his hand throbbed, and it only fueled his anger.
“Fine. I’ll send the stableboy. He runs notes too when needed.”
“What happened with the murderer?”
“He-he beat his wife.”
“Hang him with a short rope too.”
He could tell by her face that she was thinking this might have been a mistake. A lord might sentence murderers and rapists to harsh deaths and be good to everyone else. Or he might treat everyone just as bad.
“Release the thieves too.” He pushed away the list. “I want to go to bed.”
“Aspen, please. We need you to take this seriously. Staying in bed and stewing in...whatever happened before won’t help. You need to distract yourself and do productive things.”
He stared at her for a moment. Did she truly think this would all get better like a simple wound? “You expect me to distract myself? You think I can do some paperwork and forget about being gang-raped in the Hall or-"
“You’re not the only one that’s ever suffered, but it doesn’t mean life is over. I-”
“You actually think I won’t remember anything just because I’m doing a damn ledger?”
She huffed as she pulled over a pile of parchment. “You have to at least try. We got you out of there, and we can’t do everything all of the time. My husband needs a break from playing lord, and I still need to find and hire a cook.” She planted a firm kiss on his temple. “Try.”
She bustled out as guilt crept into his gut. She didn’t owe him shit, but she had saved him even though he’d have rather died that first night. For Elira’s sake, she'd cleaned up his piss and hadn’t even complained or scolded him. He reached for one of the parchment packets.
He went through them and had no idea what to write back. The bridge still needed fixing, and the lord there had gambled away his money. Could he help?
What bridge? What lord? Aspen flung that one aside. He wrote a reply to a property dispute involving some farmland. Everyone got exactly half. One person would probably be pissed to lose space, and the other would be elated.
A letter from a farmer on the edge said a fire had gotten out of control, and he had no crop to sell now. He’d also lost his barn and livestock. Aspen granted him rent relief for a whole year. Why not? The poor fairy needed a break. At least someone could know what relief felt like.
As he set down the quill, the bottles on the shelf in the corner by the window caught his attention.
The whiskey burned his throat a couple of minutes later as he lounged in the chair by the open window with his coat partly undone. He wasn’t used to such layers except in winter. The second gulp almost made him puke when it hit his stomach, but it seemed easier after that. He held the bottle by the neck and stared at the sky after the fifth as the warmth settled through him, and his head grew light.
He’d never particularly liked getting drunk before. Some whores drank most of what they made, and he could see why now. The warm feeling was better than numbness. The sharpness of the memories wasn’t quite so bad either.
Vima had said to avoid the bottle. It aged a fairy, and some whores would choose alcohol over food. They could even drink themselves to death.
But he hadn’t been violated, cracked beyond repair, and then thrust into a position of power and expected to be fine.
Sira came in after a bit and noticed the bottle. “Don’t get hooked on that.”
“I did your damn letters,” he snapped. Guilt immediately returned, but he couldn’t seem to pull back the anger. “If I want a fucking drink, I’ll have a fucking drink.”
“It’s not my letters. It’s work that needs to be done. You won’t even have stuff all of the time. Cardinal’s Brook is usually pretty peaceful. The income isn’t bad either since travelers come through too, so everyone is doing pretty decent.”
