Polly and I received our contracts to become King Midas’s royal saddles together. We started at the same time, probably accepted because we look so similar. Very quickly, we decided to become allies to help solidify our place in Highbell Castle. We made ourselves desirable as a pair, superior over the rest of the saddles in Midas’s stock. We played to each other’s strengths, we gossiped, we had each other’s backs. Our friendship was strong while we were in Highbell.
Until we weren’t.
It seems like as soon as we left, things began to change.
Maybe it changed that night on the Red Raids’ ship. Maybe I changed that night on the Red Raids’ ship.
The thing about being a saddle is that it was a profession I chose. I chose to go into sex work because I was beautiful but had no highborn family or money to protect me. I’d already been accosted by men, so why not turn around something that made me feel powerless and use it to be powerful instead? By making it my career, I put sex under my control.
And I was good at it.
Becoming a royal saddle is what so many workers in the brothels dream of. The contracts always pay very well, the clients are rich and powerful, and many saddles in that position can simply retire when the contract ends, sent away with a pouch of coin and that’s that.
The problem is, somewhere along the way, I didn’t want to do it anymore.
The seduction, the flirting, the makeup and hair and tight dresses. I got tired of having to smile and bat my eyes, to suck cock and spread my legs when I wasn’t in the mood.
I wanted something different. So I started to save up the money I made when nobles and visitors stopped by the castle. I started to work even harder to please, to be the favorite, so I could fill my hidden purse instead of spend it on frivolities.
When we left Highbell, I thought Ranhold would be a new start.
But then, the Red Raids happened.
Captain Fane happened.
Auren happened.
Every night, while I tend to Polly’s feverish fits, my mind replays the events from the moment we left Highbell all the way to the ballroom when I grabbed Polly and started to flee. I nearly didn’t make it out. We were stopped in the entry hall by some of the guards, but a woman with smooth umber skin wearing army leathers and the shapes of daggers shaved into her scalp spotted me, told me that Auren had mentioned me and that I needed to go to Fourth’s army. Then she somehow distracted the guards, and Polly and I were able to slip away.
It feels as if I owe Auren, when my last assurance was that she owed me. But now, I’m not sure if she’ll help me again. Or if she even can. Because apparently, she stole Midas’s magic in front of everyone and killed him right there in that ballroom that I fled.
Men. Why is it that my life’s events always seem to revolve around the deaths of men? First was the death of my father, whose loss left me nothing but debts and vulnerability. Now Midas, marking the time for me to flee.
But I can say with complete certainty that the death of Captain Fane showed a distinct point in my life. Because that moment on the Red Raids’ ship, that’s when I realized I was finished with that life.
I’ve been assaulted before, hurt before. As a saddle, these things happen, though it’s no excuse. I’ve had to come up with ways to manage reactions over the years, to steer men to behave in ways I could manage. I couldn’t do that with Captain Fane.
That’s when I decided I was well and truly done.
Done being a saddle. Done managing men. Done trying to walk this fine line of powerless and powerful when it comes to sex.
Does he haunt my dreams? No. Apart from the nights I’ve tended to Polly, I don’t think of him at all, nor any of the other violent encounters I’ve had. Because I refuse to give them any more of me than they’ve already taken or that I’ve already given.
They had my body, but so what? Hundreds of others can claim the same. However, they will not have my mind. I won’t give it to them.
Including Captain Fane, whose gilded dick is probably buried beneath a hundred feet of snow somewhere in the Barrens.
I have to admit, that does make me smirk.
“I’m hot!”
Right on time, Polly shoves herself away from the coals and starts fanning her face. My eyes are burning with exhaustion as I get up from my pallet to drag myself toward the tent’s flap.
I don’t bother to go outside, not with my stockinged feet padding across the rolled-out fur laid on the ground. Instead, I simply grab the bucket and rag and scoop up some snow from just outside. There’s never a shortage of snow on the ground, though I do notice every night someone has come to shovel the space in front of the tent’s entrance.
I don’t have to wonder who.
There’s only one man in this army who’s big enough to fit the shadowed silhouette I see when he does the chore. The captain drags the tool beneath huge piles of snow and then packs it in against the sides of the tent to help insulate and stabilize it.
He does it each night. Just as he delivers our food and makes sure we have plenty of coals to burn. And never, not once, has he propositioned me. He hasn’t asked for a single thing in return.
I’m not quite sure what to make of that.
I close the tent flap again and walk back over to Polly, tying the ends of the rag as I go. Kneeling down in front of her, I gently press it to her flushed forehead.
She groans, clutching her stomach and licking her lips. “You’re killing me,” she says with accusation.
I pause in my ministrations. Truth be told, Polly hasn’t said much at all. Not since those first few days when she screamed and raged at me. Other than exclaiming how terrible she feels, she’s quiet. Something between us has strained and shattered, but I know that once her body recovers, once it stops needing and craving the dew, she will feel better. She’ll be back to her old self. We can be back to our old friendship.
Though, I have no idea why this process is taking so long. I hadn’t expected for her to be this sick for this long. She vomits nearly every time I try to feed her, only keeping down the smallest bits of bread and water, along with the herbs that the army mender has brought. She’s lost weight, her pallor is gray and pale, and there are deep circles under her eyes that seem to deepen every day, even though she spends nearly all of her time in fitful sleep.
I so badly want her to get better, for her to see that I took her away from Ranhold to help her. This strain between us is just the drug talking. Once she’s back to normal, she will realize that I’m doing all of this to save her.
“You’re making snow drip down my dress,” she hisses.
“Sorry.” I gently start to stroke the snow over the back of her neck, but she jerks away, so I set it down again. Reaching for the little pot I’ve been given that hangs over the coals, I tip it over into the small tin cup. “How about you try sitting up again to sip some broth?”
“Don’t want it,” she says, eyes closed, teeth nibbling incessantly at her bottom lip. She does that a lot now, like a nervous tic from the dew that she craves. She’s doing it so often that she’s peeled off the skin, leaving her mouth swollen and raw. It’s the same with her cuticles. The army mender brought a cream for me to apply onto those areas, but unless she’s asleep, she won’t let me put it on her.
“Come on, just a bit—”
Polly turns her face away again and lies back on her pallet. “Go away.”
A pang of hurt pierces me, but I shove past it. This isn’t her fault.
“Alright, I’m going to empty the chamber pot. I won’t be gone too long.”
She doesn’t reply, but when she starts to shiver again, I gently pull up a fur to cover her, just as her eyes fall shut. I tuck in my overly large shirt that I’ve been given, step into my boots, and then slip on the captain’s coat and some gloves before grabbing the chamber pot and heading outside.
Almost as soon as I’ve stepped out of the tent, a giant mountain is looming over me so close that I nearly barrel into it.
“Watch it!” I bite out as I try to steady the pot so it doesn’t splash all over me. I only have one other set of clothes, and I like wearing this shirt. I refuse to ask if it’s his. I already know.