Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 6

She'd had to chop logs for the rest of the week. Six days of numb fingers and toes and a nose, of being splashed awake, of inevitably missing at least one meal -- usually two.

On the seventh day of her chore, as she was sitting by the fire with her dinner, trying to warm her feet, Mentor looked up from her book. "Tomorrow we'll start something new. I suggest you get to sleep early."

Clara was ecstatic. She didn't care about being drenched in ice water (well, not as much as usual), or about missing breakfast, or how her hands were sore and beginning to form callouses from the axe.

She waited eagerly for Mentor to shrug on her coat, but instead of that, the older woman headed for the small sink. There, she picked up the bucket and piled several pots and pans into it. They were placed in Clara's hands, so heavy that she nearly dropped them.

The two women went outside to a stream about fifty meters away, not quite frozen over. Clara groaned. This was going to be terrible. She hunched next to the stream and clumsily attempted to clean the kitchenware, unsure of what she was doing.

"Mentor-" she began, but was cut off.

"I know you don't have any experience. Try anyway. I want them spotless."

Clara's eyes widened. "What do I use?" A piece of metal mesh, tightly woven, was thrown her way. She caught it (barely), and examined it.

"Don't miss lunch." Mentor remarked as she walked away.

The apprentice sighed and rolled up her sleeves, feeling the cold bite at her. God, she hated this. Her scrubbing grew harder, the metal skidding across the pot. Add a little water, rinse, and keep going.

It was somewhat soothing, she had to admit. The monotonous action let her mind fade away, and she tried to ignore the anger and hurt at being used as a maid, rather than a trainee assassin. Elliot (her husband) had died a month and a half ago, and the mix of emotion was still fresh. Should she be surprised that his death made her feel so strongly? Maybe.

After she finished, she brought it all back and used a cloth to dry the pots and pans out. It was just before lunch. Clara sat down with her meal and warmed herself by the fireplace, closing her eyes briefly.

Mentor smirked. "Tired already?"

"You told me not to complain." The younger woman shot back.

A thoughtful nod. "I did. If you're finished with the dishes, go chop wood for the fireplaces. I don't want to go cold tonight on account of your slacking off."

Aaaand there she went being bossy again, thought Clara. She really was just a maid, wasn't she?

Nonetheless, for the next week, she performed her tasks dutifully, and her anger grew with every command. Finally, she snapped.

It was after a long day of working, and near frostbite, and soaked mornings. Her bed was permanently damp, she was sure. As were her socks and boots. She'd missed every meal that day to Mentor's chores, and damn if she wasn't hungry.

The older woman, in all her criticism and lack of social understanding, commented offhandedly, "Maybe if you finished your job faster, you wouldn't miss your meals."

Clara tried to push back her frustration, she really did. But enough was enough. "That does it! I've had all I can take of you and your orders every day! Why don't you just train me to FIGHT!?!" She shouted, on her feet with fists clenched.

Mentor stirred her drink and took a sip, choosing to stay calm at the apprentice's outburst. "You want me to teach you to fight?"

The noblewoman nodded. "I do."

A pair of almost-black eyes turned to pierce any thoughts of rebellion in the other woman's soul. "Sit down. You're not ready yet."

"No! I'm done taking orders from you!" Clara yelled.

"Then leave." Mentor said curtly.

The younger woman was taken aback. "W-What?"

"You obviously don't care enough about your training to listen to your Mentor. So leave." She dismissed her pupil, looking back down to her book.

Clara thought for a moment. It was still fiercely winter outside; she wouldn't last until she got out of the mountains, even with her horse. "Just tell me why you're making me do all these things and not training me for the reason I came."

"If I trained you to hold a pointy piece of metal from the beginning, you would never last in the world. Fighting isn't about swinging a sword; not entirely. You have to learn patience, diligence, and wisdom, to name a few. I won't waste my time teaching a brat like you, only for you to die a fool's death." Mentor retorted. "You want to learn? Fine. But you do it my way, because last time I checked, I was the teacher, not you."

Clara felt her anger collapse. She was ashamed, her cheeks red as she thought of how foolish and childish she'd acted. "Am I still welcome?"

"Does it look like I have anything better to do?" The older woman scoffed.

Her apprentice chose to stay quiet, instead opting to add another log to the fire (Mentor had shown her how to make and tend the fireplace a few days prior -- it was the only lesson she found useful thus far).

Several minutes of not-quite-comfortable-but-not-quite-awkward silence later, Clara spoke again. "Mentor?"

"What." Grumbled the older woman.

Clara cleared her throat. "I can't help but notice: you only ever read that one book. You reach the end and begin anew."

"So you do have eyes after all. What of it?"

"Well," she began slowly. "I was wondering if you have any others?"

An irritable look came over the hawkish woman's face. "Even if I did, I wouldn't want you to get grime all over them."

"Actually, I was going to lend you mine." Clara quipped, an eyebrow raised.

"Why the hell would you do that?" Snapped Mentor, defensive.

A shrug. "Out of the goodness of my heart... and maybe breakfast in the mornings."

After a moment of deliberation, Mentor nodded. "I'll still douse you if you sleep past time."