The Human Capacity to Complain
or
The Story of Matrim Cauthon (a.k.a. the Raven Prince, a.k.a. the Grand General of the Last Battle of the Third Age, a.k.a. Knotai)
Some days are not worth getting up for. Those, by Mat's estimates, were the good days, since they let you keep your hat.
He liked his hat, including the seam where a blade had just barely missed spilling his brain onto the earth. He liked his brain too. But his hat was gone, which, admittedly, was only almost as bad as his brain being gone.
Mat suspected, once again, that there was no justice in this world.
-
That thought, another part of his brain considered, was quite inappropriate: His hat being gone wasn't half as bad as his foxhead medaillon tumbling down the hill - to be honest, more of a very, very steep and unfairly rocky incline. The only positive thing about that was the distinct lack of arterial blood spraying from his neck. The leather cord holding it being cut, yet not his neck.
All of that wasn't as bad as the fact that, bloody ashes, he was tumbling down that bloody steep and rocky incline. Matrim Cauthon preferred his bones whole, his skin intact and, ow ow ow, unbruised. Admittedly, the near-suicidal tumble down two hundred paces of jagged rocks was still preferrable to what was at either end of said tumble.
Of course, how could he have known that the Sharans would react so to him? Appreciating the fine curves of a woman was no reason for their blademaster to try and turn his entrails into extrails, no sir, not at all. Well, she might have been the blademaster's wife, but still. Trying to take a man's head just because your wife had a rather tight dress? Downright villainous. Surely not because of what happened with the good man's daughter, no, not at all.
On the other hand, if he could get his hands on his ashandarei - which was the furthest down the hill of Mat Cauthon's possessions, including himself - he might just be able to convince the man to stop, ideally before falling into the raging rapids of the river below. That much froth on the water, and those rocks, well, Mat Cauthon wasn't afraid of anything, but they surely did look like a ravenous, gaping maw come to devour him. Above, a gull cried twice, followed by the sharp crack of stone on stone. Mat winced - that was a bad omen.
Which was even worse than tumbling down a hill, without his amulet or his weapon, with a murderous blademaster above and a no less deadly river below, because it meant that Tuon was getting to him again, and for all that he loved to run his hands over the skin of her head and kiss her, Mat Cauthon was Matrim Bloody Cauthon and not Knotai, not now, not ever.
Well, at least the dice in his head were still going on. If Mat Cauthon were a foolish man - and mind you, no matter what all those Aes Sedai said, what Tuon said, what Selucia said, what pretty much any woman said about him, Mat Cauthon was no fool.
So he used the shock of a particularly nasty outcropping of rock and, ignoring the crunch of a breaking rib, grabbed his foxhead. Some creative sliding downhill later, marvelling at how much focus a man about to die had, Mat finally had his gear again.
Whispering an apology to his ashandarei, he used the power-wrought blade as a brake and - thank the Light! - came to a halt a handful of paces above the raging river. Somewhere above, the Sharan blademaster cursed in several new and inventive ways. Mat promptly filed the insults away - you never knew when calling someone a particular type of flower could come in handy.
Still, for all his memories, he couldn't remember any man go that particular shade of purple before. And was that man truly leaping down the slope from rock to rock with nary a care for the incline, blade flashing in the sunlight?
Oh, bloody ashes. Some days weren't worth getting out of bed for, but others were absolutely worth arguing with your wife until she sent someone else to a continent's worth of homicidal maniacs. At least then, someone else would have to deal with said homicidal maniacs.
The ensuing fight was brief, but as outmatched as Mat was, his luck held. Both men stood panting on frustratingly small rocks, like jagged teeth, jutting out of the river. Water licked at his heavy boots - thank the Light that he had remembered to wear these today - and at the reed sandals of the blademaster.
As they eyed each other, and the world seemed to tilt, Mat Cauthon suspected, for the second time this day, that there was no justice in the world.
-
The journey downriver was, by all accords - which were, to Mat's chagrin, his own - an exceedingly unpleasant affair. At least the blademaster offered considerable amounts of shock padding, which was fine and dandy but for the fact that he ALSO tried to poke out Mat's eyes with his thumbs, and with one hand dedicated to holding his ashandarei, fending off these attacks was a bit troubling.
After what seemed like an eternity, felt like a journey through the great forges at Cairhien and probably was a quarter of an hour of indiscriminate grappling while being half-crushed by river currents and stones,
Mat Cauthon decided that he hated Shara already, and it was only half an hour past noon. Though, admittedly, that half-hour had mostly consisted of being nearly cut to pieces, tumbling down a steep, long incline, being nearly cut to pieces again, then being swept away by a flash flood and being very nearly crushed by rocks.
Then the blademaster stirred behind him, dragging himself to his feet before leaping at Mat in an attempt to wring the life from his neck.
For the third time that day, Mat Cauthon suspected there was no justice in the world.
-
Several hours of misadventure later - hours that included but to Mat's further woe were not limited to a pack of hungry Sharan predator-cats, a geyser erupting beneath him and another inauspicious omen of two predator birds striking each other dead in their attempt to catch the same hare - Mat carried the blademaster over his shoulder. At least the man wasn't too heavy, for all the muscles the maniac had put to use in an attempt to end his life.
At least they had come to an understanding while waiting out the hungry predator-cats, perching on the thorny, raspy, generally unpleasant tree whose bark made Mat's skin itch. And, given the sorry state of his coat, shirt and pants, that was a lot more itching than Mat Cauthon liked on any one day.
From where the sun stood, Mat reckoned he would be able to get a late lunch and, hopefully, avoid her Imperial Majesty and the Imperial Heiress. Matrim Cauthon was a man of many talents, but squalling babes fell well outside them. Rounding the wall to the side entrance of the Sharan castle, Mat Cauthon counted himself lucky that he'd had the foresight to scout the various side paths. It wouldn't do to accidentally stumble upon a group of soldiers while carrying their bloodied, beaten-up lord.
The dice in his head stopped at that thought.
As did Mat Cauthon, who at this point knew with all the certainty under the Light that there was no such thing as justice.
"Knotai. I am not amused by your attempts to wiggle out of holding Suan."
And worst of all? He still didn't have his hat.
or
The Story of Matrim Cauthon (a.k.a. the Raven Prince, a.k.a. the Grand General of the Last Battle of the Third Age, a.k.a. Knotai)
Some days are not worth getting up for. Those, by Mat's estimates, were the good days, since they let you keep your hat.
He liked his hat, including the seam where a blade had just barely missed spilling his brain onto the earth. He liked his brain too. But his hat was gone, which, admittedly, was only almost as bad as his brain being gone.
Mat suspected, once again, that there was no justice in this world.
-
That thought, another part of his brain considered, was quite inappropriate: His hat being gone wasn't half as bad as his foxhead medaillon tumbling down the hill - to be honest, more of a very, very steep and unfairly rocky incline. The only positive thing about that was the distinct lack of arterial blood spraying from his neck. The leather cord holding it being cut, yet not his neck.
All of that wasn't as bad as the fact that, bloody ashes, he was tumbling down that bloody steep and rocky incline. Matrim Cauthon preferred his bones whole, his skin intact and, ow ow ow, unbruised. Admittedly, the near-suicidal tumble down two hundred paces of jagged rocks was still preferrable to what was at either end of said tumble.
Of course, how could he have known that the Sharans would react so to him? Appreciating the fine curves of a woman was no reason for their blademaster to try and turn his entrails into extrails, no sir, not at all. Well, she might have been the blademaster's wife, but still. Trying to take a man's head just because your wife had a rather tight dress? Downright villainous. Surely not because of what happened with the good man's daughter, no, not at all.
On the other hand, if he could get his hands on his ashandarei - which was the furthest down the hill of Mat Cauthon's possessions, including himself - he might just be able to convince the man to stop, ideally before falling into the raging rapids of the river below. That much froth on the water, and those rocks, well, Mat Cauthon wasn't afraid of anything, but they surely did look like a ravenous, gaping maw come to devour him. Above, a gull cried twice, followed by the sharp crack of stone on stone. Mat winced - that was a bad omen.
Which was even worse than tumbling down a hill, without his amulet or his weapon, with a murderous blademaster above and a no less deadly river below, because it meant that Tuon was getting to him again, and for all that he loved to run his hands over the skin of her head and kiss her, Mat Cauthon was Matrim Bloody Cauthon and not Knotai, not now, not ever.
Well, at least the dice in his head were still going on. If Mat Cauthon were a foolish man - and mind you, no matter what all those Aes Sedai said, what Tuon said, what Selucia said, what pretty much any woman said about him, Mat Cauthon was no fool.
So he used the shock of a particularly nasty outcropping of rock and, ignoring the crunch of a breaking rib, grabbed his foxhead. Some creative sliding downhill later, marvelling at how much focus a man about to die had, Mat finally had his gear again.
Whispering an apology to his ashandarei, he used the power-wrought blade as a brake and - thank the Light! - came to a halt a handful of paces above the raging river. Somewhere above, the Sharan blademaster cursed in several new and inventive ways. Mat promptly filed the insults away - you never knew when calling someone a particular type of flower could come in handy.
Still, for all his memories, he couldn't remember any man go that particular shade of purple before. And was that man truly leaping down the slope from rock to rock with nary a care for the incline, blade flashing in the sunlight?
Oh, bloody ashes. Some days weren't worth getting out of bed for, but others were absolutely worth arguing with your wife until she sent someone else to a continent's worth of homicidal maniacs. At least then, someone else would have to deal with said homicidal maniacs.
The ensuing fight was brief, but as outmatched as Mat was, his luck held. Both men stood panting on frustratingly small rocks, like jagged teeth, jutting out of the river. Water licked at his heavy boots - thank the Light that he had remembered to wear these today - and at the reed sandals of the blademaster.
As they eyed each other, and the world seemed to tilt, Mat Cauthon suspected, for the second time this day, that there was no justice in the world.
-
The journey downriver was, by all accords - which were, to Mat's chagrin, his own - an exceedingly unpleasant affair. At least the blademaster offered considerable amounts of shock padding, which was fine and dandy but for the fact that he ALSO tried to poke out Mat's eyes with his thumbs, and with one hand dedicated to holding his ashandarei, fending off these attacks was a bit troubling.
After what seemed like an eternity, felt like a journey through the great forges at Cairhien and probably was a quarter of an hour of indiscriminate grappling while being half-crushed by river currents and stones,
Mat Cauthon decided that he hated Shara already, and it was only half an hour past noon. Though, admittedly, that half-hour had mostly consisted of being nearly cut to pieces, tumbling down a steep, long incline, being nearly cut to pieces again, then being swept away by a flash flood and being very nearly crushed by rocks.
Then the blademaster stirred behind him, dragging himself to his feet before leaping at Mat in an attempt to wring the life from his neck.
For the third time that day, Mat Cauthon suspected there was no justice in the world.
-
Several hours of misadventure later - hours that included but to Mat's further woe were not limited to a pack of hungry Sharan predator-cats, a geyser erupting beneath him and another inauspicious omen of two predator birds striking each other dead in their attempt to catch the same hare - Mat carried the blademaster over his shoulder. At least the man wasn't too heavy, for all the muscles the maniac had put to use in an attempt to end his life.
At least they had come to an understanding while waiting out the hungry predator-cats, perching on the thorny, raspy, generally unpleasant tree whose bark made Mat's skin itch. And, given the sorry state of his coat, shirt and pants, that was a lot more itching than Mat Cauthon liked on any one day.
From where the sun stood, Mat reckoned he would be able to get a late lunch and, hopefully, avoid her Imperial Majesty and the Imperial Heiress. Matrim Cauthon was a man of many talents, but squalling babes fell well outside them. Rounding the wall to the side entrance of the Sharan castle, Mat Cauthon counted himself lucky that he'd had the foresight to scout the various side paths. It wouldn't do to accidentally stumble upon a group of soldiers while carrying their bloodied, beaten-up lord.
The dice in his head stopped at that thought.
As did Mat Cauthon, who at this point knew with all the certainty under the Light that there was no such thing as justice.
"Knotai. I am not amused by your attempts to wiggle out of holding Suan."
And worst of all? He still didn't have his hat.