Neue Findungen alter Ideen

Schon wieder den Ansatz einer Geschichte unter alten Notizen gefunden, der mir zwar gefällt, von dem ich aber nicht schlau werden kann, wie die Geschichte abzulaufen hatte...

The Warrior's Queen - Tales

She looked nothing like her, and after the ordeal he was put through the past weeks this was the worst part for sure.

Not of a noble or wealthy descent, no apprentice of a renowned master, and born to a name that should never earn honours worth mentioning, not by him and not by any other of his kin, he had little use for fancy titles or land, much less so for power. He felt no need for people treating him like he were a noble lord, or putting up an obscene show to ensure him of an absolute power he were to hold over them. He knew well that his power reached as far as the span of his sword's blade. It also happened to be as much power as as he could handle comfortably and with confidence. So it happened that he had no desire for establishments with women seeing to his every whim making absurd efforts for him to believe he was worth more than the coins he was laying off.

It was no wonder then that his pick of whorehouses made him get wind of the latest craze, with no other high ranking officer frequenting commonplace brothels like the one mentioned in the rumours. The word was that one could pleasure the queen regent in a certain house , and – for the right sum – be served by her personal handmaid while giving it to her royal majesty. Despite the popularity the business idea had been received with the “Golden Wench” fortunately did not have many visitors who could afford the “royal suit”, making it easier for him to track down every last fucker who had asked for the queen-whore in the matter of a fortnight.

After that was taken care of it was her turn. He had insisted on privacy with the queen, since he had no business with a whore impersonating a maid anyway. His nocturnal ventures of late about the whorehouse had left him little time to spend on women and ale, leaving enough coins in his pouch to book the royal suit for the whole night, despite the little chance of another paying costumer showing up.

After he had sat wordlessly comparing her to the queen for a while, the queen of Golden Wench made a smug comment on how he was all bewildered and struck speechless at the royal sight of hers. Her fingers, though, stroked hastily over her robes with the uncertainty of not knowing if she was expected to undress herself or wait for him to make a move, and the beautiful pair of eyes trying to seduce him definitely belonged in a peasant's face, with a stare of an ordinary woman's who knew a few more tricks in bed than the average good wife, and with the – financial – need never to show reluctance at a paying man's approaches. It was not the cheap clothing, nor the shabby imitation of a royal residence, and not the fake jewelry. It was not even the calloused hands, the flashy colours of exaggerated make-up, or how her hair – clearly not have been washed in the last span of days – was help up by a decoration of fake flowers. Her skin – beautiful but not fair –, her eyes, and her hair had the same colours as the queen's, and the nose did not look too different, but that was the extent of it. There was no actual resemblance between her and the queen. It ticked him off the worst.

Considering the usual clientele of brothels like Golden Wench it was not incomprehensible that the queen-whore was not facing a challenge in the name of authenticity. This sort of folk seldom ever sought an audience in the royal court, and were never granted one with the their regent. Some might have gotten a glimpse of her during parades, festivities, hunts etc., always surrounded by guards, retainers, and a number of other titles down the nobility line. So the poor imitation the royal suit and its queen offered was more than enough to flicker their imagination.

The restless prostitute poured herself wine and sat down on an armchair covered with a cloth in colours of the royal crest: green, blue, and black. Crossing one leg over the other then she demanded that he stated his business without wasting any more of her precious time. Yet her efforts to make it sound condescendingly forceful was wasted on him. He could still hear a whore asking for how he wanted it between her words. “Wash your face clean”, he demanded. He had ordered enough soldiers and whores for the past years to know how to make each know he meant it. “You impertinent...” she tried to keep up the act despite the docile look in her eyes. “Wash your face clean”, he repeated himself out of pity for the poor whore who had to play a queen.

Still keen on keeping up appearances she went to the door to ask for her maid. “I ain't paying a second whore tonight”, he reminded her with an imperturbable simpleness in his voice, assuring her of how he saw her as a whore, too, no more and no less. Reluctantly she took out a basin well hidden in a cabinet with golden roses drawn on the doors, and took her time washing off layers of make-up. It felt somewhat satisfying how she washed like every other whore he had seen. He found that it made him gentler towards her. It somehow redirected his anger. “Any funny business, and...” she even started threating him. “None”, he cut her off, “In fact, no business at all. We're both hardworking folk and in need of a good night's sleep.”

she turn around to look at him mid-wash, her face dripping and make-up running down her cheeks. “Don't tell me you're one of them saviours of wretched souls with unfortunate fate.” The mocking tone to her voice and the disgust in her eyes soothed his anger even further. He shook his head. “I whore as much as the next man, with no interest for knowing your fate. 'S whores' business what they make of it. I pay and I keep tidy, so if any whore's fate's unfortunate 's not on my account. ”

Having dried her face she went to the armchair, sat down, and picked up her wine again. “What's your story then? Not getting it up lately? In need of the company? Wanna talk my ears off?” A hint of amusement rose in her voice.

“Tonight I came to see, not to fuck.”

“See what? Never been to a whorehouse?”

“See what men want to see in a queen.”

“And yourself? Aren't you a man?”

“Exactly: a man, not men.”

“What do you care about men?”

“That's my wretched fate, my business.”

Although clearly insulted by his rejection of her services, she decided not to press any further. “You'll fuck another night then?” she asked after a short silence. “Do not fancy other men's queen”, he said, needing no time to think. Obviously having misunderstood him, she laughed out loud in amusement. “Got one for yourself then?” she mused, not totally uninterested though. “Highborns and princes have queens. I am a sellsword”, he replied.

Having taken note of the conviction in his words, she said “You make it sound like a death sentence.”

“Depends on whether or not you fancy highborns and princes while fucking commoners.” Taken aback by his accusation, she gulped down a generous amount of wine, watching him sit in front of her like solid furniture, with the sword he apparently sold hanging from his belt. “A good night's sleep, ey?” she said more to herself, pouring more wine. “Don't know if this bed's any good for that.” He dismissed her thought by half raising his fingers from the chair's arms. “If I can sleep on stone and twigs I will manage on your canopy bed, too.” She nodded “Want me to help you get out of your clothes? Or are you hitting the bed with boots and all still on you?” she protested. He stood up, motioned her closer with his head, and rose his arms to the sides to make it easier for her. “Sellsword”, she muttered under her breath as she undressed him.

* * *

Used to a much different daily routine, he had been up and about, left the brothel, and had tended to most of his work by the time she left Golden Wench next day. It sparked no one's interest if he had stayed at this whorehouse or another for the night, or if he had slept in his own bed. He had made no secret of the mediocre whores from commonplace brothels he picked over the fancy ones. Try to hide something and it would come back to bite you in the balls, he believed, hence he neither boasted proudly about the sort of women he fucked nor tried to keep it quiet. Were there any chance of him being needed back in the castle, he would tell his squire where he could be found during the night, and that was the extent of people's business with what he did and where he went.

Abducting a whore from a street corner was like cutting open a juicy melon with a sharp sword for a man of his line of work, a swing was all it took as long as it did not hit with the flat side. It was not until they had stopped in a cottage on the mountainside that she found out what had happened to her. The same as how most of the clients at places like Golden Wench were not worth peering into, they were also used to whores coming and going, specially when the number of paying customers died down, and he had made sure exactly of her visitors dying down for the past fortnight. The men picturing a sweaty night pounding her majesty on a cracking canopy bed while another whore served them a fruit wine sweet enough to make up for the poor taste, helping them imagine a majestic brew, had all died by his sword.

“You killed them all?” cried the terrified queen-whore in disbelief.

Men deemed worthy of standing before the queen found no entertainment in down-trodden brothels; they were certainly not men such as himself and held office or positions that were nothing like his. Yet he officially ranked among them, spending hours in her presence, engraving the queen's every expression into his mind. It made the thought of sweaty drunk common folk fantasizing her privacy while fucking a whore with fake moans unbearable. Not even in their fantasy did they deserve being with the queen. The fact that unlike him they did not know the queen changed nothing. The whore's face went from bright red to pale as he reassured her how every single man who had paid for the royal suit at Golden Wench had died at his hand.

She grabbed hold of a chair when she realized her shaking knees were not going to keep her body upright. Having sat down she took a drink of the water he had offered her earlier and looked frantically around the cottage, clearly in search of anything she could use later as a weapon to defend her own life. “Even if I gave you my sword it'd do you no good”, he said, no sign of reprimand in his voice. “And dying out here quietly will do you good, not me”, she said, her voice trembling. Untroubled by her panic he continued “No one has to die here.”

She felt that talking right now was the only thing keeping hysteria at bay. “You're a nut job!” she almost cried out “You come to a brothel and sleep instead of fucking, and then kill everyone else who's fucked there!” “Not everyone”, he corrected. “What is your problem?” Her question sounded like a demanding plea. “What do you want? If you have some sick fantasy you only had to pay the right price... or does killing people and spilling out guts turn you on? Is that it? Can't you get it up for just naked women?”

He noticed in her voice her throat drying up and poured her more water. “I'm a mercenary. I kill for the right price just like you fuck for it.” She wasted no time in taking a huge gulp. “You're saying someone paid you to ruin a cheap whorehouse's business?! I've seen the sheath of that sword you carry. Don't shit me with claiming that anyone who would mind Golden Wench could afford to buy you.” “I agreed to kill for her sake”, he answered in a firm tone that said this was the answer to all of her questions. “Her sake? Is this some jealous wife's...” and then it struck her, “You want me to believe that the Queen actually gives shit about whom and how men fuck at Golden Wench and alike?” His silence bounced her a little to the mischievous side which had helped her deal with men. Her smirk, though, was hard to recognize as one since the traces of fear had yet to disappear from her face. “She has no idea, does she? She'll not even bother with it, will she?” “She does not need to”, he said, his indifferent expression unchanged. She burst out laughing hysterically. “Because you go on and kill people behind her back, pretending she'd wished for it? For something she could not care less about.”

“I'd be more concerned about myself now if I were you.”

The laughter stopped abruptly and turned to a grotesque grimace of dread and disbelief on her face as she realized this time she should not play it out to her will, regardless of how she tormented or toyed with the man. Compared to what he had in mind for her, reminding him of how little the queen cared for his troubles was a tiny revenge. “What do you want? Want me to double her only for you, never again being »another man's queen«? Learn to act and talk like her? Maybe refuse you and then let you pretend rape me?” He had to smile at her last offer. “Is that it?” she pressed, her voice raising with tension. Remembering how easy men were, how easy he himself could be, his smile grew wider. In order to stop the desperate woman from guessing on then he rose a hand.

“You can not bed men with a face they picture as hers. They can fancy their queen all they want to, but no one lacking the guts to stand face to face with her and seduce her shall play fuck-the-queen. As you are now I can't let you run off to another town and restart spreading your legs for men lusting over her”, he explained with fastidious patience of a mentor. “The problem is your face. It makes it easy for people to believe you look like her. Without it you can go about your business like any other whore.” “That's bullshit!” she cried out. “Then bullshit's how it is”, he carried on, “I could of course report you. True that what goes on at your place finds little importance in the castle but that is until it is brought to the right people's attention at the right time and place, and then ignoring it would measure up to betraying her majesty.” The matter-of-factly tone of his voice did not change as he explained how he could involve others in what he had taken upon himself, with severer consequences for her and her fellows at the brothel.

She stared at the clay mug in her hand for long minutes. He stood there without moving a visible muscle. “Are you going to mutilate my face?” It was obvious she was fighting against tears welling up in her beautiful eyes. “There are cuts and burns, and then there's what I personally find more tasteful. It'll even give you and exotic flare.” She looked up at him, horrified by what was going to come. “My gift to you for your troubles: a free tattoo, on the face of course, and big enough to make you resemble no one else.” “A tattoo?!” she shrieked, “If I'm lucky not to be shunned and mistaken for a cursed savage I can kiss a normal life out of brothels goodbye!”

“You did not look keen for a life out of the brothel to me”, he said, untouched by her objection, “Besides, that's all could-have's and would-have's now. I can also kill you if you prefer. Will make it quick and painless too, nice and clean, since I've got no grudge against you... If you have family somewhere I can even let some small compensation slip into their possession, cause they're not at fault, either.”

The more she listened to him the less real it all sounded. He talked like he were selling vegetables at the market, telling her how to best cook up the stew. She knew then she had not taken him seriously enough back when he had called himself a sellsword, and neither when he had confessed to having killed her customers. She looked down at her hands, unable to remember when tears had started falling off her eyes and onto her fingers clutching the mug. All of a sudden his voice sounded gentle, almost as if caring. “See? You're frightened. You don't want to be killed. 'S only natural, means you're normal.” Even his smile offered her warmth as her efforts to say something, anything, pushed her into a full sob. “That's right”, were the only words of encouragement – but what for, she was too scared to think about – he said. There was no embrace, no wiping off her tears, no hand on her shoulder, only a solid approval of her giving up and in to the fate he had chosen for her.

* * *

He had agreed to kill for the queen, and never to earn honours and title. He was not born into nobility and was not about to start a make-belief just because he spoke with too many of them every day. He was no fucking lord just as the whore was no fucking queen. Now that he had seen her act he knew exactly how revolting his own would look like if he played at being high and noble. The comfort of his chambers, meals to fill his stomach and delight his mouth, well bred horses, and even a personal squire were all thanks to his way with the sword and the queen's keen eyes for spotting a crafty killer. They should not make him believe he had become something he was not.

“Say what you will, but you've sold out your heart along with your sword this time”, was the last of the whore's poison, the last with her pretty face which had played queen still intact. Her glare burned like a curse before she closed her eyes to brace herself against the coming pain.

He paid her no mind.