Chapter Text
She sips hair-of-the-dog in a backwater saloon in a town so small it’s nameless. She passes a ranch hand, a desperate squire with no master, carrying a banner with no meaning. It’s got that stupid bowlcut all squires seem to have. Reminds her too much of herself.
She lets gasoline moonshine burn off some more of her stubble. The wide brim of her helmet shades her eyes. Maybe, if she’s very quiet and still in the dark, her hangover won’t find her. It only senses motion, like a dinosaur.
“Howdy ma’am!” calls a squeaky voice. Cloying, senseless. The pit behind her eyes starts to throb immediately, a dog called to heel. Ah well, worth a shot.
She looks up. It’s here, nearly eye level on account of her own slouching low. Its backpack is huge, stuffed full of provisions. Its banner is nearly 6 feet long, coffin-sized. It’s drawing the eyes of other early-morning drinkers.
“Spit it out,” she chuffs.
“Ma’am— Sir,” it corrects quickly. “You’re a knight, ain’t you?” A drawl. Poorly educated. Speaking colloquially to its superior. She ought to behead it. But if she moves, she’ll vomit.
“So?”
“Who do you serve?” It says ‘serve’ reverently, like it’s something special. She’s definitely gonna hurl.
“Noone.” A few of the other patrons’ ears perk up. She regrets it immediately. Disobey a knight, and his lord will have you mashed into pig feed. A lordless knight though, that’s worth as much as you can pickpocket or loot off his corpse, provided you survive the attempt. She knocks back the last of her drink, and spots fill her vision. She blinks them away.
“Ain’t your momma teach you not to talk to strangers?” she reprimands. It doesn’t have the instinct to flinch yet, a pup who’s gone unnoticed by the kennel master, runt of the litter.
“You’re a knight,” it says, as though the two thoughts are connected.
“If I was a smart knight, I’d beat you senseless and sell you to the highest bidder.” It has a pretty face and soft curls, like a girl’s. Squires don’t get the privilege of being assigned a sex until they’re knighted. That doesn’t usually stop people, though. Easy pickings. Most squires die long before anyone thinks of knighting them. Knights of the realm hardly share a friendly sparring match without burning through a few Squires in the process. People don’t go looking for missing spare parts; they buy new ones.
She stands, and a few other patrons stand too. She pulls her duster aside to reveal the hilt of her sword. Well-worn handle, gleaming trigger. It’s worth enough that anyone would gut her for a chance to steal it. In the end, no-one tries.
She steps outside the saloon, and a ray of sunlight passes through both eyes like a lightning bolt, skewering her brain. She vomits immediately.
A clean hand offers a handkerchief. She accepts it without thinking, blots away the bile steaming off her teeth. She looks up to see the squire again, eyes wide and curious. She spits.
“What are you, stupid?” she croaks.
“A little,” it answers bashfully. Fair enough.
“Whose banner is that?” she points with her chin.
“Yours, Sir, I hope.” It scuffs a toe in the sand, waiting expectantly.
She hauls herself up off her knees, patting sand from her trousers. She really looks at it.
Denim that might’ve once been a royal blue, now dusted with sand and ash into a bluish-gray. A stitched emblem of The Falling Star, a many-pointed radiant thing with a long tail of white-gold fire.
The emblem of once-blessed sinners, damned things of the earth. The emblem of gravity, downward spirals, all things breathless and heaving towards their ends. A pointless emblem. A banner that declares its own master’s fast-approaching doom.
“You stitch that yourself?” she says.
“Yessir,” it says. Poorly educated, but well-brought up. Always says "please" and "thank you", sir or ma’am.
“Looks like shit.”
She’s not the type to take in strays. There’s always a kitten hanging around, mewling for milk, showing off its ribcage. She’s no momma cat. Doesn’t waste her breath on cooing, doesn’t waste her cash on withering things. She’s got plenty of betting debts, but none associated with losing dogs. Doesn’t like to be disappointed when the inevitable comes calling.
“Don’t let it trail in the sand like that,” she says. She unties her bridle and hitches her boot in its stirrup. The squire quickly turns, chasing its banner like a tail, scooping it up into its arms and patting the sand off.
“So you’ll take me?” it says, and her heart twinges. It’s the first hopeful note to touch her ears in decades.
“I won’t kill you if you try to follow me,” she says, “That’s all. I ain’t letting you ride with me, and I won’t stop just cause you get blisters.”
It squeals a profusion of gratitude, backpack clattering with god knows what, and she immediately kicks herself for being soft.