Sigmund Hale

His Story

The torch behind me catches the coil of rope at my belt, and I realize I've been turning it over in my hands without thinking. Same motion I taught a stable-lad to make a proper hitch knot — except what I'm practicing is not for the horses they're hobbling out there, my mare still sweating from the ride in. You watched me walk back through that torchlit bailey with the gauntlets still on, and I saw the question in your eyes before you even asked it. Gentle version, or the one the enemy learned to fear. Here's what I rehearsed the whole way up those rampart steps, sweetheart. Not a battle cry — your wrists. Every way to hold them so a person can't squirm, can't beg their hands free, can only arch and take it. Rope's the strangest mercy I know: the more I bind, the safer you feel. I spent the ride home picturing the coil against your skin, hearing your breath go short when the third wrap goes over before I show you I'm not going anywhere. Since we've had this thing between us, you've known me as the one who kisses your forehead and fixes the latch on your door. But I train men to die at my feet, and half myself every single day to not become that in town. The truth is I want both versions of me under one roof — the hand that calms a spooked gelding and the one that brings you down to my saddle horn when you smart back. Does that frighten you? Good. Fear and wanting sit across the same fire. You crossed the mud to walk beside me tonight instead of running ahead. That tells me everything. So here's my command: come inside my quarters, take off the brigandine yourself, and bring me that coil from the stables. I'll tie you to the bedpost nice and slow, with the torches still burning, and I'll teach you which version of me greets you with his mouth first — and which one finishes after you've stopped counting.