The Folded Lily, Chapter Three

Tags: Plot, Rape, Huge Insertion

	I looked up from my hands and into the early morning light; well, that answered a few immediate questions. I sighed quietly; what was I doing here? I left my home town to preserve my virginity; because I hadn’t wanted to feel pressured into selling my body to the highest bidder and after only a week on the road I was having a threesome with two people I had just met. 
	I snorted; some resolve I had.
	Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to go back? I could probably get a job back at the tavern, especially if I agreed to Adam’s proposition and became a prostitute. At least I would know the majority of the people that would want to use me… Maybe I should talk to the Head Caravaner? I didn’t have enough money to legitimately afford another ticket, let alone food, but maybe he’d like a few nights with a fresh young whore. 
	Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and I fought to keep them there.
	“No,” I whispered, scrubbing at my eyes, last night had been different! I might no longer be a virgin but what happened last night was not prostitution. Keaton and Aine had bought me drinks and a dagger and fed me and even gave me a belt but that wasn’t in an effort to buy me. They had wanted to be friends and were just being nice; the sex just happened. Coincidence.
	At least I hoped so.
	I heard a rustling behind me and heard Aine groan. “Whu-what is it?” I looked back and saw her blearily sitting there, rubbing the last of her sleepiness from her eyes. She looked at me, then at Keaton, then outside where the sun was slowly making its presence known. Somewhere a bird chirped loudly. “Shit!” she yelled, turning to Keaton and socking him hard in the shoulder, “wake up you lump; we’re going to be late for our morning patrol!”
	“Huh? Whassat?” 
	“Patrol,” she yelled, now fully awake and pulling up a fresh pair of knickers, “y’know, what you agreed to so Jameson would cover our night shift!”
	“Fuck…” he groaned, pulling himself up and wiping at his face.
	The two scrambled around the tent, putting on clothes and arguing and completely ignoring my presence. I felt terribly insignificant; like a bug or a stain on a least-favorite shirt. Keaton was muttering under his breath as he tightened the straps on his breeches and pulled on his boots while Aine tried unsuccessfully to put her hair up without the aid of a mirror. 
Blinking, I stood myself and, at a more sedate pace, tried to gather up my own belongings, ducking under flailing limbs and dodging around the bits of armor being tossed back and forth between the two warriors as they scrambled to get dressed. Bending over, and blushing because I felt a bit of liquid slide down my leg, I plucked my knickers from the ground and gave them a sniff, immediately drawing my head back as a pungent, musk assaulted my nose. 
	Yeah, those would be unwearable until I could wash them.
	Searching with my eyes, I found my pack stuffed haphazardly into a corner. Retrieving it, I dug around for my last set of clean clothes. I used my old knickers to wipe away as much of the creampie as possible before wadding them up and throwing them in the bottom of my bag, under my still-meager food stores. I looked at my clean clothes then held my arm up, wincing at the smell. 
Fuck.
	I smelt like a week-long sex marathon and I still had a full day until we were expected to reach the capital; a full day sitting across from old Madam Tidlaw as she gave me the stink eye and clutched her handbag like I was going to try and rob her. She probably already thought that I was some kind of street urchin, what with my homemade clothes and because I was young woman out in the wide world all by my lonesome.
	“Uh, Aine,” I asked hesitantly, “do you have a washbasin anywhere? I smell awful.” 
	She looked up at me and I saw a bit of surprise in her slightly widened eyes. Surprise at what, I couldn’t tell; perhaps that she hadn’t thought to clean herself; or perhaps, I thought with a bit of dread, that I was still in their tent and hadn’t simply left like a good whore should’ve.
	That thought hurt more than I was willing to show, so I just smiled at her, waiting for her answer.
	“Uh, yeah,” she said, pointing with a thumb over her shoulder, “there’s a pail of water outside; you’re free to use it.” She turned to Keaton who was struggling with his quiver and said: “Go grab it for her, would you? She shouldn’t have to walk outside naked.”
	“Yeah,” he said, finally pulling the quiver into place and rubbing his jaw wearily, “I need to find someone to pack up our stuff as well.” Aine nodded and Keaton shuffled out of the tent, cursing when his arrows caught on the flap. 
	Aine shook her head and turned to me; she didn’t seem to know what to say, which was fine with me because I had no clue either, and simply set about checking the buckles on her armor for tautness. Finally she said: “Why don’t you come back tonight, Lu? The centaurs will have left by now and you never got to buy food because of us so we’ll take care of it for the rest of the trip.” 
	I smiled a bit at her; I had been worried about that. Perhaps I should’ve taken that to mean that they really did like me, and that last night hadn’t simply been them trying to get at my puss, but the doubt was still there; what if they expected still more sex? Was I okay with that? I had enjoyed myself last night, I wouldn’t lie about that, but it had all been so horribly rushed. I had been swept up in emotion and lust. The worst part was that I couldn’t even blame Aine or Keaton; they had both stopped and I had been the one to take that next step.
	Last night was my fault.
	I smiled up at her, still unsure but unwilling to starve myself over it, and nodded. Aine smiled at me before a look of comprehension dawned on her face. She raised a finger and stepped out of the tent momentarily before returning a minute later carrying a small leather pouch. Grinning, she stepped up to me and thrust it into my hands.
	“What’s this,” I asked, loosening the pouch’s drawstring and peering inside, “herbs?”
	Aine’s smile widened. “My mom used to call that the ‘little-bit-of-Herbalism-every-girl-should-know’.” I looked at her blankly and she laughed. “It’s a tea, Lu, you steep it in one cup of hot but-not-boiling water for five minutes and drink it down, leaves and all, and it’ll make sure you won’t have a surprise nine months from now.”
	I blushed when I realized I was essentially holding a contraceptive and that Aine was making sure Keaton wouldn’t knock me up.
	Of course moments after this revelation Keaton himself had walked into the tent carrying a pail of water, doing his best not to splash it. “What’s that?” he asked curiously, setting the bucket down and pointing at the little bag I held in a white-knuckled grip.
	A glint in her eye, Aine said: “Oh nothing, just making sure your bastard isn’t kicking around in her belly.” If Keaton’s rosy cheeks were his idea of a blush then I must’ve looked like the setting sun; my flush stretching down passed my collarbone. Unfortunately, she wasn’t done teasing us. “Yep, if you’re gonna put a bun in Lu’s oven then I’m afraid you’re gonna half to marry her first; we don’t want people talking, after all.” She affected a faux thoughtful expression, a single finger tapping against her lower lip. “What d’you think, Lovers,” she said, addressing us both, “we set Lu up with some money and a house in the capitol and she bears your babies; when we retire I’ll get knocked up and we can all marry each other and have a gaggle of sprogs?”
	“How does your mind work, woman?” spluttered the Hunter, now matching me blush for blush while I lapsed into an embarrassed silence.
	Aine laughed and drew me in for a one-armed hug while I clutched my little bag of birth control. “What?” she asked, poking me in the side with a gauntleted finger while I wiggled (naked) against her. “Most men would give a testicle to marry two sexy women like us,” she winked down at me, “of course with all the babies we’ll want you might need both of yours.”
	She laughed so hard at the look of panic on Keaton’s face that she snorted a bit while I just wished for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Of course the earth hadn’t felt like cooperating and I had to ready myself to suffer more teasing when Keaton crossed the tent, picking up her greatsword in the process, and fairly dragged the lady-warrior out of the tent shooting an apologetic look at me over his shoulder. 
	Aine’s laughter fading into the distance, I set about cleaning myself. I didn’t have much by means of soaps, but I had a rough washcloth and towel in my pack. Dipping the smaller of the two in the water, I did my best to wash off the stale sweat and blood and stickiness, trying to ignore the way my nipples peaked when the cold water hit my skin. That done, I dipped my head into the mostly clean water and ran my fingers through my hair; making sure to work as much of the road-dust and sweat out as possible. I toweled off quickly before wrapping my hair up to dry while I pulled my only other pair of knickers up my legs before wrapping my chest with a long, clean strip of cloth. I shucked on a cream-colored blouse and a navy-colored, knee-length skirt, and then I looked at my bodice. I sighed and dropped it back into my pack. I just wasn’t feeling the need for it; my breasts were bound, they weren’t going anywhere and, after a peek outside, I decided that it would be a hot day. I slipped into my stockings and boots before I wrapped my new belt around my waist and clipped my dagger to it, grinning; the weapon made me feel safe, tougher, even though I had no idea how to use the thing beyond putting the pointy end into the other guy. Whipping my towel off my still-damp hair, I stuffed all my belongings back into my sack and left the tent, making sure to dump the pail of water outside as I left.

	Three hours…
	I had endured this woman’s ‘whispered’ remarks for three hours. 
	The moment I had shown up at my wagon Madam Tidlaw had taken one look at me, ‘half-dressed’ and had simply turned her nose up at me. That would’ve been fine, except I had caught a few words from her not-so-quiet mumbling: Scarlet, and shameless she had said, frowning into her handbag. She had also noticed my knife and had deduced that I had been doing something scandalous where I might need such protection. I never caught those mumbles but when we had stopped at midday to feed and water the horses it became clear just what she thought I was and, worse still, that she had seen fit to spread her views amongst the other caravaners.

	I had been sitting alone, testing my knife’s edge by cutting one of my last few strips of venison into smaller and smaller pieces, when a man approached me. He was older than me, perhaps even older than Adam back home, but still strong looking. He was wearing chain mail and had a spear draped over his shoulder. He glanced around furtively, as though he didn't want to be seen talking to me. "Lass," he said sotto voce, his muddy eyes looking me up and down.
	I felt my skin crawl. "Yes," I said, tossing a piece of salty venison into my mouth, "what can I do for you?"
	He glanced around once more before leaning in. His breath smelling of fish and stale ale, he asked: "How much do you charge?"
	I felt a sinking in my stomach. "Charge for what?"
	He frowned, as though he thought I was playing games with him. "For, y'know, sex."
	I felt a scowl tug my lips. With my recent self-doubts I really wasn't feeling the need to put up with this kinda shit. 
Without conscious thought my hand came up and I slapped him across the face, leaving an impressive red mark on his skin. I stood, breathing hard and clutching my throbbing hand, my lunch forgotten on the dusty ground, "Excuse me, Ser," I snapped, my actions drawing a crowd, including, I saw out of the corner of my eye, Madam Tidlaw, "I am not a prostitute!" I was shaking with fury, my five foot, three inch frame practically vibrating; I felt tears gathering in the corners of my eyes and I whipped my glasses off to scrub at them with the sleeve of my blouse. 
	The crowd around us was whispering and the man stood there rubbing at his smarting cheek, a ruddy flush blooming on his skin, though whether that was from shame for his assumption or anger that I had embarrassed him I wasn't sure.
Finally he stumbled away without so much as a mumbled apology and the crowd had dispersed, probably to spread this latest bit of gossip amongst the caravan.
	I spun on my heel and stomped my way towards my wagon, seething at the presumptiveness of the man and the gossiping of that wretched old woman.

	Needless to say that the ride, once we started back up, was silent and awkward. 
	The road was now growing steadily rocky as we passed Hammerstroke Quarry, a large gouge dug into the earth where great blocks of stone were hauled up for use in construction projects all over King Jowan's territory from keeps and garrisons to cottages and boundary walls. 
	I fingered the pull straps of the little pouch Aine had given me earlier; I'd need to brew that tea when dinner hit that night. A small smile crossed my face as I allowed my mind to wander back to Aine's teasing. I wondered what I'd look like pregnant; belly bulging with my babies and a motherly glow emanating from my skin, my breasts swollen with milk. Mom had always mentioned wanting more children but my birth had been difficult on her and by the time she had recovered enough for more kids dad had died.
	Once more I looked at the pouch. It'd be easy, I thought, to toss the pouch over the side of the wagon and just tell Aine I had followed her instructions. I could let nature take its course and if I ended up with child well at least I wouldn't be alone any more, and besides: Maybe Aine would make Keaton marry me, then I'd have a husband and a child...
	I shook my head, blushing, what was I thinking? I wasn't ready for a baby; I was barely an adult myself, and didn't even know Keaton; I couldn't marry him. I might no longer be pure but I at least wanted to be in love with the man I married!
The sun was setting and the quarry was fading into the horizon. The Head Caravaner would soon call a halt to the day's progress. With no complications I figured we'd reach the capitol by midday tomorrow. I grinned, as soon as we stopped I'd be off to find Keaton and Aine; I might still have my doubts about them and our relationship but they said they'd feed me and I was looking forward to not eating cured venison for supper.

	We traveled for maybe an hour longer when the Head called a halt to the day's march and the wagon’s slowly ground to a stop. I stood, gathering my bag and tossing it over my shoulder, and stepped from the wagons, making sure to turn my nose up at Madam Tidlaw as she had done to me. My stomach rumbled and I snickered to myself; that old bitty would be having preserved food tonight.
	I never once said I was above petty one-upmanship. 
	I started walking to the back of the caravan, figuring that’d be where Keaton and Aine would set up their tent. I nodded greetings to people I had had friendly words with over the last week, but I noticed that the majority of them were turning their eyes away from me uncomfortably, probably, I thought, because of the scene with the man during lunch.
	My mood soured slightly and my skipping gave way to a shuffle and my bag seemed heavier than normal. I had been passing more and more of the caravan’s hired guards when I walked into a ring of half-constructed tents. People were arguing back and forth and the pounding of stakes could be heard. I was scanning the ring for Keaton and Aine when a man stumbled into the clearing, drawing all eyes to him. He was short and had a large flaming red beard and, oddly enough, a thin, delicate-looking saber clutched in his hand. It took me half a second to realize why the other warriors were looking at him. 
He was smeared with blood.
	“S-Sirians,” he gasped, free hand clutching his side where more blood was seeping through his armor, “ambush,” his voice was getting quieter and quieter, “East of here, dozens,” he dropped to one knee, using his blade to support his weight, “only survivor,” he fell over and didn’t move again.
	The world ground to a halt and my breath came in shallow gasps. How, I thought, my mind sluggish with shock, Keaton had said they killed and routed them, how could they be attacking us now that we were a stone’s throw from the capitol?
The other mercenaries were dropping their current tasks and plucking weapons from the ground and someone was shouting orders. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it; Keaton had said they drove the survivors off. He said! Suddenly a heavy hand fell on my shoulder and my knees buckled a bit. Turning, I saw a man, one of the guards if the mace in his other hand was any indication; his eyes were wide under his helm and I knew mine probably mirrored his behind my glasses. 
	He said something but I couldn’t take it in.
	Keaton promised!
	I felt a sharp sting on my cheek that pierced the fog in my mind and I absently raised a hand to rub at it. 
	“Girl,” he hissed, his voice tight with worry, “get Dale; he needs to know; he needs to get the caravan moving again; we’re going to try and drive them off!”
	I shook my head, too afraid to speak.
	“Dale,” he said, squeezing my shoulder, “the head Caravaner! Give him the message!” 
	I tried to take a step, to speak, to even breathe, but I couldn’t; my legs felt as though they were made of lead; I had an iron cape draped across my shoulders. 
	The man pushed me and I stumbled forward. “Go!” he shouted, turning and pelting off with others into the twilight.
I looked down and was met with an extreme feeling of vertigo. Closing my eyes to fight the nausea I took a single, hesitant step. I opened my eyes and breathed deeply.
	Right. 
	I had a job to do. I needed to warn Dale. 
	My feet beat a legato as I ran faster than I ever had in my entire life. My thoughts raced through my mind as though to make up for lost time, the most prevalent of them were focused on Keaton and Aine.  They had had patrol that morning so they shouldn’t have had it again tonight. Still I hadn’t seen them in the guard’s campsite. Surely if they were there they had ran off to join the fight without a second thought. 
	The knot of worry and of fear in my stomach grew with the realization.
	People called out to me as I passed, curious I suppose, of why an alleged whore would be sprinting though the caravan like fire was nipping at her heels. Blood thumped in my ears and I absently put a hand on my dagger, drawing a bit of comfort from my little bit of steel. I made it to the head of the caravan in record time, breathing heavily, I felt my knees wobble. Dale already had his tent up, years of experience probably, so I called out: “Sir!” I received no answer so I approached the tent. “Master Dale!” Again there was silence and I swallowed nervously; what if the sirians had sent someone around, someone to take out the one person who could get the caravan moving. I drew my knife in my left hand, raising it defensively, and breathed deeply. I opened the tent flap, only to immediately drop my hand; Dale was there, sitting at a folding table eating a bowl of hearty-looking stew, his sandy blond hair parted neatly even after a day on the road. 
	He looked over and saw me standing there in what was essentially his doorway holding a weapon. His brows furrowed, I saw his hand trail unobtrusively under his table. “Lass?” he questioned. His voice was a deep rumble, both curious but with a warning.
I sheathed my blade and I saw a bit of tension bleed from his shoulders. “Sirians,” I said, entering the tent, “from the East. The guards went off to fight. One sent me here; told me to tell you to get us moving.”
	With each word I spoke I saw his face lose more and more color until he sat there looking ashen and gray. He sighed and pushed back from his table, his hidden hand coming away with a short sword, the blade at least three times as long as my own dagger. 
	I swallowed.
	“C’mon, little lady,” he said, forlornly looking at his dinner.
	I nodded numbly and followed him out of the tent, only to be deafened moments later when an explosion a scant one-hundred feet away rocked me onto the balls of my feet and lit the night with fire and the screams of my fellow travelers. “What was that!?” I shouted, digging my fingers into my ears in an effort to stop the incessant ringing. 
	“My son,” roared Dale, his voice muted to my ears, a snarl crossing his lips, “he’s a wizard; if he’s fighting then they must be close! Get to your wagon; we’re getting out of here!”

	I made my way through the panicked crowed, forced to duck and weave around people and horses loose from their reigns. I heard animalistic snarls and hulking shadows flitted around me. I smelt fire on the night air as another explosions knocked the breath out of my lungs. Screams were cut short as people were dragged off by creatures I wasn’t sure I wanted to see and I wondered where our guards were and if they were all dead.
	Soon though, I approached my wagon as a pair of shrieks sounded even over the din of the slaughter; they were feminine and high-pitched. They were a voice I knew; one was Madam Tidlaw and the other was a young woman who had been traveling with her brother. Swallowing my jittery nerves, I circled around the cart and hid, surveying the scene: 
Madam Tidlaw was being held by the throat by what I could only assume was a sirian whilst another held a girl who could be no older than thirteen to the ground, her blouse and chest wrap torn while the sirian ripped her skirt and knickers off. The girl’s brother lay in a pool of blood; even from here I could see his glassy eyes. He was dead. 
	The sirians were between seven and-a-half and eight feet tall and covered in coarse black fur. Their heads were like a wolf’s only broader and not so long, with broad, hunched, muscular shoulders and disproportionally long arms ending in hands that were an impossible cross between that of a human’s and a dog’s paws with three inch long claws. Their legs were like trees for how strong they looked and had backwards bending knees. Their feet were the size of dinner plates and also had wicked-looking claws. 
The sirian holding the girl down got between her legs and I saw a flash of red as a cock the size of my forearm slid from a sheath. The girl screamed but closed her mouth with a whimper as the sirian growled low and dangerously into her face, his breath steaming the air.
	I looked away as, with a sudden jerk, the beast was inside her and she screamed so loudly that her voice cracked. Fat tears streamed down her face as her womanhood was decimated by a dick that was far too large for any girl her age and size to take. The beast never bothered slowing, just burying himself in and out of her, her tiny breasts shaking with each movement. I noticed an obscene bulge forming in her stomach on every down stroke. The fight seemed to have been knocked out of her as she laid there and took it, an occasional whimper making its way past her lips.
	Madam Tidlaw, however, seemed to just get more and more incensed the longer she had to watch the rape and was struggling with the vigor of a woman half her age, heedless of the growls of her captor. I looked away, sure that she would be the next to die. 
	I should never have left my village. Vomit rose in my throat but I swallowed it down and pulled my knife from its sheath. There were two of them. The rapist had his back to me while the other one could’ve seen me if he turned his head too far. 
Was I really about to do this?
	I would probably die. 
	I made to take a step but my muscles failed me and I stayed there, hiding behind my wagon.
	It’d be a worthless death.
	I breathed deeply, trying to relax my stance.
	Nothing would change; save perhaps they’d rape me after they were done with the other girl. 
	Without conscious thought I ducked around the corner of the wagon, leading low with my knife, trying to moving quickly yet silently. Ten feet and my heart was in my throat. Five feet and I clenched the grip on my knife. One foot, and using two hands I drove my blade upwards into his chest, slipping between his ribs with a wet squelch, thick blood almost immediately reddening my hands and staining my shirt.
	If I thought that maybe I could kill him in one attack I was sorely mistaken. Without missing a beat the beast whirled around, slipping from the girl’s ravaged, bloody body, and backhanded me through the air to collide with the side of the wagon. Pain lanced up my body as I slid to the ground, already a lump swelling on my head as blood matted my hair
	I couldn’t move my body as the sirian shuffled on his legs to stand before me. “Guurrrrrlllll…” he growled through a mouth that was ill-equipped for human speech. The hilt of my knife stuck out at an awkward angle, looking almost comically tiny near his massive body. His member glistened red with blood, a swelling bulb at the base looking like a clenched fist. Terror filled my mind as I fought to rise, to flee, to somehow get myself out of this mess. I shouldn’t have interfered. The girl had already been violated. Nothing I could’ve done would’ve saved her or Madam Tidlaw. Now I’d be fucked by this beast in her stead and then killed or worse; taken as a slave and forced to bear his monstrous pups.
	He leaned down, hand grasping for my leg, when he stopped suddenly. I looked up into his face; his eyes were wide and reflected the moon hanging low in the sky. He fell to his knees and I scrambled away as he took my spot on the ground. An axe was buried horizontally in his back, neatly severing his spine. 
	My head whipped around and I saw Keaton standing on an overturned wagon less than fifteen feet away, a look of such utter fury etched into his face that I found myself flinching backwards without thought. He had his bow in hand, a thick-shafted arrow nocked on the string, with two more in his hand, ready to be fired and reloaded with incredible speed. The sirian on the ground twitched mightily and died with an almost pathetic whimper.
	We both turned our attention to the other sirian who had dropped Madam Tidlaw, the old woman landing hard and with a gasp. The beast fell to all fours and made to charge the archer but out of the darkness ran Aine with a battle cry, closing the distance between her and her prey, her sword raised high over her shoulder, the lady-warrior severed the beast’s head with a great downwards swing, an arch of blood painting the ground beneath and behind her. 
	The night was eerily quiet after that last sirian had died, even though I could hear other fights in the distance. They all seemed so far away; nothing that concerned me. 
	So far away…
	My head hit the ground and I knew nothing.