A Lonely Guard

Chapter 3: The Road Again (Part 4)

The fire popped---a shower of sparks and embers bursting upward. One of them landed on the hem of her dress. The dry, frayed fabric caught instantly, a small flame licking up toward her thigh.

Lyra screamed.

She slapped at the flame with her bare hands, burning her palms in the process. The fire died quickly---the fabric was too thin to sustain it---but not before it had devoured a six-inch strip of the dress, leaving a gaping hole that exposed her right hip and the upper curve of her buttock. The smell of burned wool filled the air.

"Careful there," Voss called from across the camp, her voice utterly unconcerned. "We don't need another fire."

No one offered to help. No one asked if she was alright. The mercenaries watched with amusement, and Pip---who had been assigned to help her---stared at the ground, his face red.

Lyra finished cooking the stew in a daze. When it was done, she ladled it into bowls and handed them out, her arms still crossed, her body on display. The mercenaries took their food with grunts of acknowledgment, their eyes lingering on her breasts, her hips, the dark shadow between her legs.

She didn't eat. She couldn't.

Night fell, and the camp settled into a low murmur of conversation and clinking bowls. Lyra found a spot near the edge of the wagon circle, as far from the fire as she could get without leaving the safety of the camp. She sat with her back against a wheel, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. The position hid most of her body, but she knew it wouldn't last. Eventually, she would have to move, and when she did, everything would be on display again.

She was so tired. So tired of being looked at, of being laughed at, of being treated like a piece of meat. She missed her home, her bed, her clothes---the simple, taken-for-granted dignity of being fully dressed. She missed not having to think about her body every second of every day.

Footsteps approached.

Lyra tensed, her fingers digging into her shins. But the figure that emerged from the darkness was not one of the leering mercenaries. It was a young man---perhaps twenty, with sandy hair and a face that was almost handsome. She recognized him as one of the guards, though he had been quieter than the others, less prone to crude jokes.

"Hey," he said softly, stopping a few feet away. "You okay?"

Lyra stared at him. No one had asked her that. Not once, not since she'd arrived in this nightmare world.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice hollow.

"You don't look fine." He crouched down, bringing himself to her eye level. His gaze flicked over her---the torn dress, the bare skin, the arms wrapped around her knees---but it was less hungry than the others. More... assessing. "I'm Dren. I've been watching you. You've had a rough time."

"That's one way to put it."

He smiled slightly. "Look, I know Voss isn't paying you. And I know you need money. For clothes, for... whatever." He glanced around, making sure no one was listening, then lowered his voice. "I could help with that."

Lyra's heart skipped. "How?"

Dren hesitated. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "There's... extra work. After dark. Private work. If you're willing." He held up his hands, as if to ward off her reaction. "Nothing violent. Nothing... forced. Just... company. A man gets lonely on the road. And I'd pay well. Enough to buy a proper dress when we reach Thornwall. Maybe more."

The offer hung in the air between them.

Lyra's mind raced. She understood what he was asking. She wasn't naive. And part of her---a desperate, exhausted, humiliated part---was tempted. Five days of this, and then she'd have money. Real money. Enough to buy clothes, to cover herself, to walk into a city with her head held high.

But another part of her recoiled. She didn't know this man. She didn't know what "company" meant, exactly, or what he would expect from her. And even if she did---even if she said yes---what would that make her? What would she become?

"I---" She swallowed hard. "I need to think about it."

Dren nodded, as if he'd expected that answer. "Take your time. Offer stands." He rose to his feet, then paused. "One more thing. Watch yourself around Galt---the one with the scar. He's not as... patient as I am."

He slipped away into the darkness, leaving Lyra alone with her thoughts.

She didn't sleep that night either. She sat against the wagon wheel, staring at the stars, her body shivering in the cool night air. The scarf was still damp, still hanging over the wagon wheel. She was bare-breasted, barefoot, barely covered by the tattered remnants of her dress. The world was cruel, and the night was cold, and she had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

But she was still alive.

And for now, that would have to be enough.