Maladicta
Some explanation may be needed here.
When I was only a wee nipper we had an anthology of the "What Katy Did" books. There were four (What Katy Did, What Katy Did At School, What Katy Did Next and Clover). Now, to be fair, I've only roughly sketched things so far. But it was and is my intention to follow the same idea in my Polly/Mal arch. So we have "What Polly Did" (aka Monstrous Regiment), "What Polly Did Next" (being written as fast as possible!), "What Polly Did At War" (only sketched but picks up some 10 years after Monstrous Regiment and covers the massive war with Muntab) and "Maladicta" (this one).
Title: Maladicta (1. Grief)
Summary: Some time after an "unfortunate incident" occured high in the mountains of Borogravia, a familiar vampire drifts up on the shores of Ankh Morpork and finds a friendly bar.
Warnings: Angst, Character Death
Disclaimer: Terry Pratchett owns the characters and the world they live on. Author is grateful for all the brilliant books and makes no claim of ownership in any way.
Maladicta
When Time who steals our years away
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.
Thomas Moore, 1779-1852
~X~
Prologue
A tombstone stands all alone on a mountainside. The rock here is hard and the grave is but a shallow scrape in rough ground. But someone has taken the care to haul the marker all the way up here and plant it well. It will stand for a long time. Carved deep into the smooth face are words. Up here there is only the wind to read them.
Captain Perks DSO, DSC,
Borogravian Light Infantry
[date] - [date]
'Polly'
Though Lovers Be Lost,
Love Shall Not[1]
“We Will Walk In Fields Of Gold.”
[1]Dylan Thomas “Death shall have no dominion”
~X~
1. Grief
Mal sat slumped in a dark corner of the bar, legs extended out in front of her, boots no longer shiny crossed at the ankles. On the table beside her a bottle of Borogravian spirits stood in isolation, only a plain shot glass for company. Her face was hidden in shadow, but from time to time a slim hand would emerge into the candle light, pour another shot and carry it un-flinchingly back into the dark. It took time and a good deal of determination to get a vampire drunk, but her calendar currently featured no pressing engagements.
...Shufti’s face when she opened the door. Knowing immediately why Mal had arrived alone. She’d had Paul to hold her up, turning into that strong chest while Mal just stood there, the questions of the children ringing in her ears, no answer to give...
Mal reached into an inner pocket and removing the pack of cigarettes there took one out before returning the battered packet to its source. A lighter was produced from a back pocket and the cigarette lit with an action so long practised that it had become automatic. The first drag was a deep one and the plume of smoke exhaled drifted up to mingle with the fug already bringing the ceiling closer.
...Things to do. Procedures to carry out. Paperwork to process. Human things like funerals and memorials to attend. All these things passing like strangers in a dust storm. Somehow unreal. Feet carrying the body onward, walking in half remembered paths, until one day they'd carried that slouching figure around a corner and into a familiar bar and the disc had stopped turning at last.
It became apparent that the lighter would not be returned to the pocket from which it came. Instead it was turned over and over by those slender fingers. As though it were a touchstone and with a perfect moment of contact reality would return to expected paths. The object was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a lighter without dragon or imp, burnished alloy that glinted now and then in the candlelight. Something had been engraved on it a long time ago but the words were almost indecipherable now.
...The newness of the thing, gleaming in the light, nestling in midnight blue velvet. Polly’s eyes nervous, anticipating rejection. Mal had been caught up magpie-like in the bright shininess for a moment but then her attention focussed in on the inscription and the breath left her. Trust Polly to put it somewhere so obvious and yet so hidden.
The mechanism to produce flame was simple. One flicked open the top half, spun the small wheel and flame happened. Extinguishing the flame was accomplished by snapping the lighter shut again. Mal was unconsciously repeating the action over and over. Flick open, scrape, allow the flame to spring up, snap shut.
Flick, scrape, flame, snap.
Over and over again.
Her eyes were looking somewhere other than at the small piece of metal in her hands. Somewhere much further away and farther back.
...Lighting the first cigarette of the day with it. The familiarity of routine. So many individual days, so many uses.
Flick, scrape, flame, snap.
...Sheltering under hedges against the driving rain. Huddled in cold foxholes in the depths of winter. Watching the sun rise over a ruined city, having survived another night. The inscription catching her eye and always, no matter what, knowing the words were still true.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
She didn’t notice the woman walk in. Sally, coming off a 16 hour shift, desired nothing more than a quiet drink. The watch-woman and part time vampire gave her order quietly to the barman and, glancing around, noticed the spark of flame and the hooded eyes above it. She sighed at the loss of her evening and, taking her drink, walked purposefully over to the table where she halted, waiting.
Mal didn’t appear to notice her presence, her attention still on the regular spurts of flame she was producing.
Giving up any hope of being noticed Sally pushed the issue with a quiet “can I sit here?” Mal's only reply was an uncaring shrug so placing her glass on the table Sally sat down. There were a number of other tables as yet unoccupied in the vicinity, but neither of them drew attention to this fact. Sally’s attention was on her drink. Mal seemed completely absorbed in the operations of her lighter.
...Dealing what seemed like the hundredth hand of Cripple Mr Onion, legs swinging, perched on the high barstools that second year when they’d finally taken the plunge and gone back to the Duchess hand in hand to tell Shufti. Who, it swiftly became clear, had already worked most of it out and was ecstatic to finally be able to gossip freely.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
...The simple pleasure of a long lazy summer afternoon, honeysuckle drifting in through the door. Polly cheating like the crafty minx she was, checking Shufti’s cards every time she was called away to serve one of the few patrons yet still losing hand over fist due to Mal’s distraction techniques.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
It seemed nothing would stop the automaton. Again and again the lighter was snapped shut on the flame, only to be flicked open so that the procedure could begin again. Sally took another sip of her drink.
Then it happened. The casual spin of the tinder wheel wasn’t answered by an accompanying spurt of flame. It was probably just a smidgeon of dirt in the mechanism. Mal flicked the wheel more assertively.
Flick... scrape...
scrape...
Mal flicked the wheel again. Again. Her efforts were getting more and more agitated. Still not answered by the expected flare of light she resorted to tapping the lighter lightly against the table before attempting to spin the wheel.
Flick... scrape...
scrape...
scrape...
A harder tap against the table didn’t fix the problem either. Mal ran an worried finger over the flint wheel but could find no problem. Desperation building she resorted to smacking it harder and harder against the table.
The lighter adamantly refused to produce any semblance of flame.
...Polly laughing in her arms that same evening, the pub shut up for the night and the customers long gone.
Flick... scrape...
...The four of them sitting out in the Duchess’ small garden, the fragrance of summer blooms still hanging on in the air. Wrapped in warm darkness the two of them curled up in the hammock opposite the bench supporting Shufti and Paul.
Flick... scrape...
...Quiet conversation about nothing in particular, a smiling pride in Polly, who couldn’t resist showing off and pointing out the stars to her brother. It was so simple. It was home.
Mal had attempted to light the last cigarette of the night, but ended up staring at the lighter in confusion as nothing but the sound of the flint wheel had emerged. Polly had laughed, a warm wiggling life-force in her arms, and had explained about refilling the reservoir. Apparently the clever gadget didn’t contain an infinite source of fuel but the minx had neglected to pass on this information, preferring instead to wait for the inevitable moment of confusion. Squirming to escape the now also inevitable tickle attack Polly had expressed surprise “I thought you knew it wouldn’t keep going for ever!”
The words echoed through her mind, noise such as that created by the slamming of a stone door resonated through Mal’s body, spiralling in until it collapsed like a dead weight in her stomach.
“Wouldn’t keep going for ever...”
And in that moment she hated Polly. Hated her for causing this pain. Hated her for not being there like she always was, to guide and nudge and explain humanity to a confused but willing vampire. For leaving Mal like this. Fury rose up within her, her insides filling with an acidic black oily coating that smothered everything. A black futile rage against the world.
The Stupid Bitch.
How dare Polly go and die like that? How could a person be there, and then not there, how did that even work?
THEY WERE MEANT TO BE IN A SAFE AREA FOR GOD'S SAKES!!!
Mal didn’t realise she was trying to crush the lighter in her hand until cool fingers wrapped around hers and prevented it. She pulled away, still lost in that hopeless anguish, the only thought in her mind now to throw the damn thing away, to destroy it, get rid of it forever.
That would show Polly.
“I don’t think you want to do that.” The hand was as strong as hers and easily removed the lighter from her grasp, placing it gently on the table between them.
For all she hadn’t wanted the dratted little token, Mal felt its absence from her hand as an aching hole. She moved to strike at the thief, at this thing that had the effrontery to take away the only thing she had left of Polly. Her grief and rage concentrated into a boiling fury directed against this one unfortunate person in this one imperfect moment. To hit and hit until the world faded away on a black tide, washing her out into blessed oblivion.
But as she rose, her hand raised to strike, her fists were caught in a strong grip. Mal fought against the hold but Sally had accumulated a wealth of experience in calming bar fights and refused to let go. The two women struggled together, knocking over the table as they staggered, the bottle smashing into a million pieces on the hard stone floor. Panting incoherently, all Mal desired was to get her claws into this annoyance, this ant that had the temerity to crawl around on the enormity of her black anguish, the figure without becoming the pain within. And yet, even as she raged against that hold, deep down there was a small flicker of relief that the someone who had found her in her misery was strong enough that she could storm against the rock-solid restraint without causing actual physical damage, that she could fight with no holding back.
Then somehow she was pinned against the wall, her arm pinioned behind her back in such a position that it would break or dislocate if she moved. She heaved against her captor a couple of times, but the hold was unbreakable. Suddenly she was weeping, the sobs heaving out on the breaths she was still struggling to draw in from their prior exertion.
“I can’t...” The admission even to herself was relief.
“I know.”
The voice was quiet in her ear. The hold still pinned Mal against the wall and in its constancy she read an understanding that this was not over, one brief drunken explosion could not heal her grief. This was merely a ceasefire in her fight against the world and the unfairness of her loss.
The whole situation was uncomfortable and undignified, the strained position really hurting her arm, but it was comforting somehow to be held against the wall in this fashion. The flow of tears were soaking her shirt and she should feel embarrassed for such an unrestrained display but somehow it eased, just for a short moment, the crushing prison she’d been locked inside since that awful day when Polly fell. Held there, exhausted and in pain, she cried for Polly and for herself and for that terrible day up on the mountain when she had watched the world end. She wept on a stream of incomprehensible words, pouring out her grief and confusion to an unhearing world. She cried until there were no more tears left, until she was left with only trembling hitching breaths that tore the back of her throat but produced nothing substantial for all their efforts.
Her captor released her then, catching her as she stumbled and supporting her until she found a stable standing position. Shoulders still heaving on those painful breaths Mal turned her head slightly to cast a quick glance around the smallish room. As expected their little scuffle had brought them a curious audience but the few patrons left in the bar that evening caught the eye of her companion and quickly looked back into their drinks. Mal was too weary to acknowledge the embarrassment at such a rescue. Still snuffling, her clothes ruined, a weepy drunk for all to mock over, she dragged a knuckle across her nose, too tired even to make the effort to hunt for a handkerchief.
Sally led her away, picking up something from the table on the way out and they stumbled out into the cold night air. Mal, struggling with the combined effects of too much cheap illegal spirits and an mini-breakdown was somewhat occupied with steering disobedient legs and followed where ever she was led without complaint. She found herself in some kind of park and while she was gazing around in confusion her companion led her to a wooden bench at the edge of some open grass and sat her down. She'd stopped snuffling by now, the tears drying on her cheeks in the chill breeze. Her breathing was calming down too, though she was still occasionally hiccuping on the remains of catching sobs. The leaves rustled overhead as her companion reached over to where her hands were intertwined so tightly in her lap. This stranger unfurled her interlocked fingers and gently placed something in her palm.
It was the lighter.
Mal caught her breath on a fresh trembling hiccup. Running a soft finger over the inscription she read again the faded words.
“...No Regrets”
And now it was not a trigger of frustrated rage but of fresh memories. Lighting birthday candles, year on year, teasing Polly about her encroaching years; the many times she'd threatened to burn discovered snippets of bad poetry, Polly stealing the pages, wrestling untidily about the room as Polly valiantly tried to keep it out of Mal's reach, scolding her reproachfully when she used vampire strength to retrieve it from a closed hand.
The tears came afresh and she pulled up her knees to sit huddled on the bench the lighter clasped tightly in her hand. Her companion remained with her, shoulder to shoulder, shielding her from the worst of the chill breeze as she wept quietly.
This bout didn't last long and she was drearily wiping the moisture from her eyes when she felt her companion sit back against the bench. Feeling the headache beginning at her temples Mal didn't really want to have to acknowledge this witness to her collapse but noblesse oblige and all that. She shifted to get a better glimpse of this stranger, this Samaritan who didn't appear to mind being punched or kicked and who had such strength and constancy. A vampire, she'd figured that much, but who?
Her companion caught her gaze. “Sally” she stated quietly to the unasked question.
“Oh.” Mal didn't really know what to do with the information, it carried no extra knowledge and didn't spark up any memories. It had been a long time since she'd run with the 'Bright Young Things'. The days when she'd known everyone who was anyone in society were way back in a misty past.
“I'm...”
“Maladict.” The woman answered for her. “Captain Maladict of the Borogravian Light Infantry. Though still wearing the Lieutenant bars” she added.
“I was never the captain type,” Mal spoke quietly. “How did you know?”
“I used to work with Mister Vimes. He's retired now but he hasn't forgotten. He's... we're all, so very sorry.”
“Yeah.” The tiredness in Mal's voice summarised the many times she'd heard that sympathetic phrase.
Her companion nodded and stood up. “I have to go.” She rose from the seat in a single graceful movement. “It isn't only Vimes, there are people who remember you. If you ever need anything...” She placed a hand on Mal's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. “I'll see you around.”
She walked away and Mal watched her go, exhaustion flowing into the gaping holes left behind that thunderstorm of tears. The wind was making the thin withies by the lake dance and she shivered suddenly as the chill of the night crept through her thin clothes. Standing in one swift motion she stood for a moment watching the ripples on the water before pulling the lapels of her jacket tightly around her and walking away into the darkness.
~X~
When I was only a wee nipper we had an anthology of the "What Katy Did" books. There were four (What Katy Did, What Katy Did At School, What Katy Did Next and Clover). Now, to be fair, I've only roughly sketched things so far. But it was and is my intention to follow the same idea in my Polly/Mal arch. So we have "What Polly Did" (aka Monstrous Regiment), "What Polly Did Next" (being written as fast as possible!), "What Polly Did At War" (only sketched but picks up some 10 years after Monstrous Regiment and covers the massive war with Muntab) and "Maladicta" (this one).
Title: Maladicta (1. Grief)
Summary: Some time after an "unfortunate incident" occured high in the mountains of Borogravia, a familiar vampire drifts up on the shores of Ankh Morpork and finds a friendly bar.
Warnings: Angst, Character Death
Disclaimer: Terry Pratchett owns the characters and the world they live on. Author is grateful for all the brilliant books and makes no claim of ownership in any way.
Maladicta
When Time who steals our years away
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.
Thomas Moore, 1779-1852
~X~
Prologue
A tombstone stands all alone on a mountainside. The rock here is hard and the grave is but a shallow scrape in rough ground. But someone has taken the care to haul the marker all the way up here and plant it well. It will stand for a long time. Carved deep into the smooth face are words. Up here there is only the wind to read them.
Captain Perks DSO, DSC,
Borogravian Light Infantry
[date] - [date]
'Polly'
Though Lovers Be Lost,
Love Shall Not[1]
“We Will Walk In Fields Of Gold.”
[1]Dylan Thomas “Death shall have no dominion”
~X~
1. Grief
Mal sat slumped in a dark corner of the bar, legs extended out in front of her, boots no longer shiny crossed at the ankles. On the table beside her a bottle of Borogravian spirits stood in isolation, only a plain shot glass for company. Her face was hidden in shadow, but from time to time a slim hand would emerge into the candle light, pour another shot and carry it un-flinchingly back into the dark. It took time and a good deal of determination to get a vampire drunk, but her calendar currently featured no pressing engagements.
...Shufti’s face when she opened the door. Knowing immediately why Mal had arrived alone. She’d had Paul to hold her up, turning into that strong chest while Mal just stood there, the questions of the children ringing in her ears, no answer to give...
Mal reached into an inner pocket and removing the pack of cigarettes there took one out before returning the battered packet to its source. A lighter was produced from a back pocket and the cigarette lit with an action so long practised that it had become automatic. The first drag was a deep one and the plume of smoke exhaled drifted up to mingle with the fug already bringing the ceiling closer.
...Things to do. Procedures to carry out. Paperwork to process. Human things like funerals and memorials to attend. All these things passing like strangers in a dust storm. Somehow unreal. Feet carrying the body onward, walking in half remembered paths, until one day they'd carried that slouching figure around a corner and into a familiar bar and the disc had stopped turning at last.
It became apparent that the lighter would not be returned to the pocket from which it came. Instead it was turned over and over by those slender fingers. As though it were a touchstone and with a perfect moment of contact reality would return to expected paths. The object was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a lighter without dragon or imp, burnished alloy that glinted now and then in the candlelight. Something had been engraved on it a long time ago but the words were almost indecipherable now.
...The newness of the thing, gleaming in the light, nestling in midnight blue velvet. Polly’s eyes nervous, anticipating rejection. Mal had been caught up magpie-like in the bright shininess for a moment but then her attention focussed in on the inscription and the breath left her. Trust Polly to put it somewhere so obvious and yet so hidden.
The mechanism to produce flame was simple. One flicked open the top half, spun the small wheel and flame happened. Extinguishing the flame was accomplished by snapping the lighter shut again. Mal was unconsciously repeating the action over and over. Flick open, scrape, allow the flame to spring up, snap shut.
Flick, scrape, flame, snap.
Over and over again.
Her eyes were looking somewhere other than at the small piece of metal in her hands. Somewhere much further away and farther back.
...Lighting the first cigarette of the day with it. The familiarity of routine. So many individual days, so many uses.
Flick, scrape, flame, snap.
...Sheltering under hedges against the driving rain. Huddled in cold foxholes in the depths of winter. Watching the sun rise over a ruined city, having survived another night. The inscription catching her eye and always, no matter what, knowing the words were still true.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
She didn’t notice the woman walk in. Sally, coming off a 16 hour shift, desired nothing more than a quiet drink. The watch-woman and part time vampire gave her order quietly to the barman and, glancing around, noticed the spark of flame and the hooded eyes above it. She sighed at the loss of her evening and, taking her drink, walked purposefully over to the table where she halted, waiting.
Mal didn’t appear to notice her presence, her attention still on the regular spurts of flame she was producing.
Giving up any hope of being noticed Sally pushed the issue with a quiet “can I sit here?” Mal's only reply was an uncaring shrug so placing her glass on the table Sally sat down. There were a number of other tables as yet unoccupied in the vicinity, but neither of them drew attention to this fact. Sally’s attention was on her drink. Mal seemed completely absorbed in the operations of her lighter.
...Dealing what seemed like the hundredth hand of Cripple Mr Onion, legs swinging, perched on the high barstools that second year when they’d finally taken the plunge and gone back to the Duchess hand in hand to tell Shufti. Who, it swiftly became clear, had already worked most of it out and was ecstatic to finally be able to gossip freely.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
...The simple pleasure of a long lazy summer afternoon, honeysuckle drifting in through the door. Polly cheating like the crafty minx she was, checking Shufti’s cards every time she was called away to serve one of the few patrons yet still losing hand over fist due to Mal’s distraction techniques.
Flick... scrape... flame... snap.
It seemed nothing would stop the automaton. Again and again the lighter was snapped shut on the flame, only to be flicked open so that the procedure could begin again. Sally took another sip of her drink.
Then it happened. The casual spin of the tinder wheel wasn’t answered by an accompanying spurt of flame. It was probably just a smidgeon of dirt in the mechanism. Mal flicked the wheel more assertively.
Flick... scrape...
scrape...
Mal flicked the wheel again. Again. Her efforts were getting more and more agitated. Still not answered by the expected flare of light she resorted to tapping the lighter lightly against the table before attempting to spin the wheel.
Flick... scrape...
scrape...
scrape...
A harder tap against the table didn’t fix the problem either. Mal ran an worried finger over the flint wheel but could find no problem. Desperation building she resorted to smacking it harder and harder against the table.
The lighter adamantly refused to produce any semblance of flame.
...Polly laughing in her arms that same evening, the pub shut up for the night and the customers long gone.
Flick... scrape...
...The four of them sitting out in the Duchess’ small garden, the fragrance of summer blooms still hanging on in the air. Wrapped in warm darkness the two of them curled up in the hammock opposite the bench supporting Shufti and Paul.
Flick... scrape...
...Quiet conversation about nothing in particular, a smiling pride in Polly, who couldn’t resist showing off and pointing out the stars to her brother. It was so simple. It was home.
Mal had attempted to light the last cigarette of the night, but ended up staring at the lighter in confusion as nothing but the sound of the flint wheel had emerged. Polly had laughed, a warm wiggling life-force in her arms, and had explained about refilling the reservoir. Apparently the clever gadget didn’t contain an infinite source of fuel but the minx had neglected to pass on this information, preferring instead to wait for the inevitable moment of confusion. Squirming to escape the now also inevitable tickle attack Polly had expressed surprise “I thought you knew it wouldn’t keep going for ever!”
The words echoed through her mind, noise such as that created by the slamming of a stone door resonated through Mal’s body, spiralling in until it collapsed like a dead weight in her stomach.
“Wouldn’t keep going for ever...”
And in that moment she hated Polly. Hated her for causing this pain. Hated her for not being there like she always was, to guide and nudge and explain humanity to a confused but willing vampire. For leaving Mal like this. Fury rose up within her, her insides filling with an acidic black oily coating that smothered everything. A black futile rage against the world.
The Stupid Bitch.
How dare Polly go and die like that? How could a person be there, and then not there, how did that even work?
THEY WERE MEANT TO BE IN A SAFE AREA FOR GOD'S SAKES!!!
Mal didn’t realise she was trying to crush the lighter in her hand until cool fingers wrapped around hers and prevented it. She pulled away, still lost in that hopeless anguish, the only thought in her mind now to throw the damn thing away, to destroy it, get rid of it forever.
That would show Polly.
“I don’t think you want to do that.” The hand was as strong as hers and easily removed the lighter from her grasp, placing it gently on the table between them.
For all she hadn’t wanted the dratted little token, Mal felt its absence from her hand as an aching hole. She moved to strike at the thief, at this thing that had the effrontery to take away the only thing she had left of Polly. Her grief and rage concentrated into a boiling fury directed against this one unfortunate person in this one imperfect moment. To hit and hit until the world faded away on a black tide, washing her out into blessed oblivion.
But as she rose, her hand raised to strike, her fists were caught in a strong grip. Mal fought against the hold but Sally had accumulated a wealth of experience in calming bar fights and refused to let go. The two women struggled together, knocking over the table as they staggered, the bottle smashing into a million pieces on the hard stone floor. Panting incoherently, all Mal desired was to get her claws into this annoyance, this ant that had the temerity to crawl around on the enormity of her black anguish, the figure without becoming the pain within. And yet, even as she raged against that hold, deep down there was a small flicker of relief that the someone who had found her in her misery was strong enough that she could storm against the rock-solid restraint without causing actual physical damage, that she could fight with no holding back.
Then somehow she was pinned against the wall, her arm pinioned behind her back in such a position that it would break or dislocate if she moved. She heaved against her captor a couple of times, but the hold was unbreakable. Suddenly she was weeping, the sobs heaving out on the breaths she was still struggling to draw in from their prior exertion.
“I can’t...” The admission even to herself was relief.
“I know.”
The voice was quiet in her ear. The hold still pinned Mal against the wall and in its constancy she read an understanding that this was not over, one brief drunken explosion could not heal her grief. This was merely a ceasefire in her fight against the world and the unfairness of her loss.
The whole situation was uncomfortable and undignified, the strained position really hurting her arm, but it was comforting somehow to be held against the wall in this fashion. The flow of tears were soaking her shirt and she should feel embarrassed for such an unrestrained display but somehow it eased, just for a short moment, the crushing prison she’d been locked inside since that awful day when Polly fell. Held there, exhausted and in pain, she cried for Polly and for herself and for that terrible day up on the mountain when she had watched the world end. She wept on a stream of incomprehensible words, pouring out her grief and confusion to an unhearing world. She cried until there were no more tears left, until she was left with only trembling hitching breaths that tore the back of her throat but produced nothing substantial for all their efforts.
Her captor released her then, catching her as she stumbled and supporting her until she found a stable standing position. Shoulders still heaving on those painful breaths Mal turned her head slightly to cast a quick glance around the smallish room. As expected their little scuffle had brought them a curious audience but the few patrons left in the bar that evening caught the eye of her companion and quickly looked back into their drinks. Mal was too weary to acknowledge the embarrassment at such a rescue. Still snuffling, her clothes ruined, a weepy drunk for all to mock over, she dragged a knuckle across her nose, too tired even to make the effort to hunt for a handkerchief.
Sally led her away, picking up something from the table on the way out and they stumbled out into the cold night air. Mal, struggling with the combined effects of too much cheap illegal spirits and an mini-breakdown was somewhat occupied with steering disobedient legs and followed where ever she was led without complaint. She found herself in some kind of park and while she was gazing around in confusion her companion led her to a wooden bench at the edge of some open grass and sat her down. She'd stopped snuffling by now, the tears drying on her cheeks in the chill breeze. Her breathing was calming down too, though she was still occasionally hiccuping on the remains of catching sobs. The leaves rustled overhead as her companion reached over to where her hands were intertwined so tightly in her lap. This stranger unfurled her interlocked fingers and gently placed something in her palm.
It was the lighter.
Mal caught her breath on a fresh trembling hiccup. Running a soft finger over the inscription she read again the faded words.
“...No Regrets”
And now it was not a trigger of frustrated rage but of fresh memories. Lighting birthday candles, year on year, teasing Polly about her encroaching years; the many times she'd threatened to burn discovered snippets of bad poetry, Polly stealing the pages, wrestling untidily about the room as Polly valiantly tried to keep it out of Mal's reach, scolding her reproachfully when she used vampire strength to retrieve it from a closed hand.
The tears came afresh and she pulled up her knees to sit huddled on the bench the lighter clasped tightly in her hand. Her companion remained with her, shoulder to shoulder, shielding her from the worst of the chill breeze as she wept quietly.
This bout didn't last long and she was drearily wiping the moisture from her eyes when she felt her companion sit back against the bench. Feeling the headache beginning at her temples Mal didn't really want to have to acknowledge this witness to her collapse but noblesse oblige and all that. She shifted to get a better glimpse of this stranger, this Samaritan who didn't appear to mind being punched or kicked and who had such strength and constancy. A vampire, she'd figured that much, but who?
Her companion caught her gaze. “Sally” she stated quietly to the unasked question.
“Oh.” Mal didn't really know what to do with the information, it carried no extra knowledge and didn't spark up any memories. It had been a long time since she'd run with the 'Bright Young Things'. The days when she'd known everyone who was anyone in society were way back in a misty past.
“I'm...”
“Maladict.” The woman answered for her. “Captain Maladict of the Borogravian Light Infantry. Though still wearing the Lieutenant bars” she added.
“I was never the captain type,” Mal spoke quietly. “How did you know?”
“I used to work with Mister Vimes. He's retired now but he hasn't forgotten. He's... we're all, so very sorry.”
“Yeah.” The tiredness in Mal's voice summarised the many times she'd heard that sympathetic phrase.
Her companion nodded and stood up. “I have to go.” She rose from the seat in a single graceful movement. “It isn't only Vimes, there are people who remember you. If you ever need anything...” She placed a hand on Mal's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. “I'll see you around.”
She walked away and Mal watched her go, exhaustion flowing into the gaping holes left behind that thunderstorm of tears. The wind was making the thin withies by the lake dance and she shivered suddenly as the chill of the night crept through her thin clothes. Standing in one swift motion she stood for a moment watching the ripples on the water before pulling the lapels of her jacket tightly around her and walking away into the darkness.
~X~