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The halls were once bathed in soft light, that much she remembers. Soft light and the sounds of a home. Dinners around the fire, a bone thrown with scraps on it. A walk around the tower, the scent of the water and lushness of the woods. Curling up at the foot of her Master’s bed and, later, sleeping by the door of the baby to make sure none passed but the wet nurse. She would listen for the baby’s cries and, should they be too terrible, she would fetch her Master with a gentle nip at his sleeve, for he would be the only one who could soothe it, not even his mate could dull its howls when it was crying fiercely. When he finally got it to sleep again, he would let her leave her watch, scratching behind her ears.
That’s why he called her Squire.
She was always in his service, and always would be.
Squire the Dog thinks on her master, General Thorm. Written for the Dead 3 zine.