“Need….me…” she gasped, desperately trying to pry the hands that grasped her throat away, to at least loosen them, so she could breathe rather than slowly suffocate.
“Why should I listen to a trickster such as yourself?” the man squeezing her throat snarled, his demeanor one of extreme anger.
She foundered for a moment, trying to think of words. “Can’t win…” she managed to get out. She tried to continue, but the words weren’t coming, and her vision was beginning to act up.
“Hmf.” the man said, releasing her. She coughed and gasped for air, still reeling from how close she’d come to losing her life.
“It sickens me now to know that I have to rely on you for a winning strategy.” he groused. “But I cannot deny the results.” He watched her struggle to get to her feet, waiting until she had gained footing before speaking again, a crude smile crossing his face. “Kneel.” he demanded.
With a silent air of frustration, she complied, planting the tip of her sword in the ground to help keep her steady as she sunk to one knee. “My liege.”
“I will not forget this Nikolaus.” he stated. “You can be certain of that. However, until such time I deem otherwise, you are not to reveal your serpentine nature to anyone.” he stated, in an effort to make a Biblical reference at her in order to drive the point home.
“Yes, my liege.” she repeated, though he was unsatisfied with this.
“Use my proper nomenclature.” he demanded.
“Yes, Lord Alaric.” she said.
“Hmf.” he said, brushing himself off as though he’d been dirtied. “Collect yourself and be useful.” he stated, before leaving her commander’s tent.
Inwardly, she felt humiliated. But she dutifully did as instructed, completing the change of bandage, binding herself, and pulling on padding then armor before poring over maps and intelligence reports to come up with possible strategies for the battle that was to come.
That incident occurred in the fourteenth century, and nothing was ever said of it again. With strategy and tactics she developed for Alaric, he grew in power, and became drunk on success. She tried to taper the amount of successes he gained, however she was reluctant to do this often, for her was known to have a violent temper, and she worried about the safety of the troops.
As time wore on, it became clearer and clearer that he valued her in direct proportion to how much she could help him gain power, prestige, or both. There were times she did not succeed so well – such as when firearms first became a thing. There were catastrophes until she was able to break it down and discover their usefulness and adapt. That’s all her life seemed to be – adaptation in order to survive.
Privately, she welcomed the advances of the Renaissance age, though Alaric didn’t care for it until he could figure out how to manipulate things to his favor. Her primary duties as far as he was concerned were what they had always been – strategize, and train troops. So in her spare time, she made effort to study the changing world around her, and try to pick up a few skills, if she could.
By the eighteenth century, his opinion of her usefulness to him had begun to wane, though it wasn’t until the century was nearly over that he directly addressed these concerns.
“Nikolaus, it’s time.”
“Time? Time for what, Master?” she asked.
He took a moment to revel at being called Master before speaking again. “It’s time you no longer be Nikolaus. For that matter, you will no longer present yourself as that which you are not.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” she said, carefully playing to his ego.
“From this night hence, you will be the woman that you are. Will will dress as such, you will comport yourself as such, and you will have an appropriate name, of my choosing.” he told her.
“Sir, I’m far more able to benefit you as I have been.” she protested.
“You are of no use to me.” he stated. “It’s far too trying to gain another ghoul as loyal as yourself, however. I’ve arranged for a tailor to see to outfitting you. Be off, and I’ll inform you of your new name by evening’s end.” he said, dismissing her.
It was the hardest night she’d had since she’d run away from home centuries before. The rest of the night was spent with her largely quiet, and feeling more than a little lost and uncertain. An hour or so before dawn, a slip of paper was delivered to her, and it contained a single name in Alaric’s handwriting: “Petra” it read. She was not looking forward to presenting as a woman again. Though she had nothing against women or being a woman in and of itself, she resented their lot in life and lack of respect they were generally given, and wasn’t looking forward to feeling like a second-class citizen again.