A Slave Named Rose Water
"She doesn't seem stupid . . ."
Scythe's response was a smack of his hoof upside the colt's head. "Shut up."
The slave being discussed sat nearby. She had a nagging little sense of irritation that she wasn't supposed to be talked about that way, but it wasn't something she could change. Not today, but soon.
"It doesn't matter if she's smart or not. You heard the old bastard yourself. She won't even try."
Scythe meant Flapjack. The old stallion had said exactly that, when he'd sold her to Scythe. "She's been good for years; won't run on you. She just doesn't have it in her." He hadn't even looked at her as he haggled. "She isn't even that smart."
She isn't even that smart.
She could remember it exactly, because that was when something broke inside her. He'd kept her -- used her -- for four years. She'd somehow deluded herself into thinking he cared about her, over that time. Now she knew; she was simply obedient flesh.
He'd sold her off, like it was nothing to him.
Her memory was interrupted by a smack at the back of her head. "Pay attention, and you can stay pretty. If you get stupid, or get brave, you can make your life a lot worse, real fast."
She kept her eyes shut, but nodded. Keep your wits through this, Rose. You can prove him wrong. Just nod and do what you're told. You can get free.
Not today, but soon.
* * *
The morning found Backwash nudging her side. "Hey . . . c'mon, wake up." He hesitated, then nudged harder.
She drew a long breath and shook off the memory of Flapjack's bed, warm and comparatively clean; of Flapjack himself, rather wrinkly but warm and comforting all the same. She'd spent years with him, even started helping with cleaning and cooking in addition to her 'required' duties. It had felt startlingly normal, the kind of thing she'd dreamed about as a foal, in a way. He hadn't been cruel or demanding. After the first few months he'd even removed her collar. It seemed almost gallant at the time. Now, she understood that he just didn't think she'd run.
If I could just go back to the night before he sold me, when I didn't have a collar and I could get to the knives --
"If you don't get moving, Scythe's going to be pissed when he comes back." Backwash had taken to her immediately. Little smiles, little looks. He wasn't like Scythe, but Rose got the sensation he was Scythe's kid . . . or more likely, nephew. Not a colt, but certainly not a stallion, in age or attitude. He seemed uncomfortable with the job.
"Right." She took a breath and got up on her hooves, then gave Backwash a little forced smile. He's not bad looking, in his own way. He had bright green eyes, a brown mane and body, and seemed a bit more ready to smile than Scythe liked. "Thanks."
Backwash returned the smile; it faded as Scythe came back from scouting. "Looks like I was wrong. One more day before we're clear of the ruins, and then one day to town."
By 'the ruins', Scythe meant the vast destroyed building they were heading through. Most of the walls were gone; it was no longer clear what the building had been, but it was huge -- and long. Last night's campfire was just outside the perimeter, and Scythe had guessed it'd be a few days to get through it, but now it'd only be one day.
Panic leaked into Rose's skull. Only one more day in the ruins? Rose had a plan in her head, things she needed to find before the last night. In town, she'd be fucked, utterly and literally.
Backwash and Scythe had her carrying the food. She'd already gone through the saddlebag at night; it didn't have all of what she needed. It wasn't going to get her free.
I have to get it from the ruins, while we're going through. She'd have to watch close. It's not a long list. I collect this stuff, then wait for them to sleep . . . put it together, and then the next day, I can get free. Every morning's routine had been the same since the first, and she had grasped that was the only way out -- take advantage of the routine.
She could do it, she knew she could.
Then she'd be free.
Not today, but soon.
* * *
Their passage through was oddly peaceful, weaving between chunks of wall and missing pieces of doorway.
Her attention shifted to her task -- watch the rubble, find the metal. Scythe had her walking ahead of him, and it was a good hour before she noticed a piece just as she'd need it. How to get it? How to get it and keep it? She shifted her steps, ostensibly to avoid a chunk of wreckage in front of her, and found she could get close, but . . . but it was on the ground. It'd be obvious what she was doing, so how to hide that, how --
"Is there something up ahead?" Scythe sounded suspicious already. From the looks he'd given the mare, he'd take any opportunity to watch her closer, both because she was easy on the eyes and because he didn't trust her.
I was an idiot for staying with Flapjack. I should have slit that fucker's throat.
She was already past it when she realized what she'd need to do to get it. Damn! Okay, just . . . keep calm. Just keep watch and look for the next one. Act, don't hesitate!
That next opportunity came some time later, a little flash of a shard of metal, long and thin, laying there in the rubble. Now, she just had to 'stumble', and make sure she caught it okay. Here we go . . .
She found herself with a mouthful of grimy musty sheetrock. Missed. Fuck!
"Hey, hey! Careful there!" She coughed the stuff out of her mouth as she got up on her hooves again proper; a dry papery dirt taste still on her tongue and lips, as Scythe came around. "Don't hurt your face, precious. You'll fetch less," Scythe chuckled. Fewer caps if you're not pretty, he means.
She choked back nausea and forced a small smile on her lips.
"There you go. Now . . . " He passed to her rear again, and gave her a light nudge on the ass. " . . . move that rump. Give it a little shake. You're going to need to show it off more, where you're going."
She swallowed and made herself start walking. She would not miss the next piece of metal with the right shape, long and thin. Hell, she might just grip it in her teeth and try to slash that old fucker's neck open --
No. Rose, keep to the plan. Think it through. He deserves it, but . . . it isn't going to get you free. You can't take him in a fair fight.
She had to be free.
I have the will. I just don't have the tools. Not yet.
But soon.
* * *
The third time was the charm, and she got up without too much difficulty. With the piece of metal gripped in her teeth, she only had to figure out how to hide it and get it stashed in the toolbag. Scythe and Backwash weren't checking in there -- they only needed food while they traveled. She got a few Buck Cakes at the end of each day, lucky her; they were actually eating at mealtimes, as they trotted.
Which, really, was kind of a mistake on their part. The next time they're eating, I'll slip it into the other saddlebag.
The plan went off without a hitch. Scythe was hungry enough not to care, and as he and the colt trotted away, she did the deed. She had the blade; that just left item two -- something to wrap around the metal, as a mouthgrip. She couldn't stab somepony in the throat with something that might slip and cut up her pretty mouth, now could she?
A few minutes later, Backwash brought over his last Buck Cake and offered it to Rose. A moment of hesitation, and then a quick look at Scythe; he disapproved, but didn't seem ready to hurt Rose in any way, so she took it. Look the part. Make it seem like you're still obedient, like it was with Flapjack. Just pretend a while longer.
"Thanks, Backwash," she murmured.
They'll get theirs. Not today.
But soon.
* * *
Item two was a harder thing to find. It didn't help that she wasn't sure what would work -- blanket, too much material to use or hide. Piece of blanket? Could she tear off a chunk before they realized? No, that was stupid.
It didn't help that she could see the outer edge of the ruins approaching with every step.
"Once we're out, we'll set up camp for the night."
My last night as a slave, she thought. Because, from here, if she didn't get free, she'd rather die than be owned. She wasn't sure exactly why, but what Flapjack had done -- the time spent in a seemingly normal existence, as a 'wife', had given her a hope she'd lost when she was first sold.
And his betrayal had changed absolutely everything.
Backwash was whispering with Scythe along the way; Rose took advantage of that to look more closely at the rubble. Finally, she found the thing she needed, in a form she wasn't expecting: A lab coat. She walked by it, having seen it too quick to formulate some idea of what to do with it, how to get a piece, and realized she hadn't missed her opportunity after all.
There were three dozen more skeletons, all with lab coats in various states of filth and rot, were strewn about the last long room. Rose felt another poke at her rump. "Move. They're skeletons; they can't hurt you now. I can, though. So can Backwash."
She knew that, too. Scythe knew Backwash wasn't much for a fight, so he'd given him the ultimate insurance policy. Backwash was the one who held the detonator that would make her collar explode if he set it off.
Focus, Rose. You need a lab coat; there's plenty. Just . . . look for a skeleton near you, and stumble again. Maybe you can grab a bit in your teeth and step on the rest and pull some of it off.
She took a breath and tried; her teeth slipped off it.
"C'mon, watch your hooves. I want to get camped," Scythe grumbled from the back.
Two more between the exit door, inexorable and approaching. Two more opportunities. She was about to take her second effort when she overheard Backwash talking to Scythe, the colt having spoken louder than he'd probably intended. "So let me, okay? I want it!"
Rose could guess, just a bit, at what he was talking about. She could, she realized, let herself analyze it . . . or she could focus on what she needed to get. She had one more opportunity -- one more mass of dirty once-white fabric. She could tear that sleeve right off, she was sure, she just needed to stumble a bit and . . .
With a taste in her mouth of dry dusty soil, she had the material. There was a soft rrrrip as she tugged the half-rotted sleeve from the coat; a bone was revealed after she pulled it away.
I got it, I got it. Okay. I got it. Now, I just need to hide it.
They trotted a few yards away from the edge of the ruins before Scythe gave the order to stop. She did, stock still. If they came around her, they'd know she was trying to do something. Hide it! Hide it!
With a bit of effort, she pulled the fabric up into her mouth. Her tongue sat underneath the filthy rag; she struggled to keep her breathing level. Now that nighttime was coming, there wasn't any ambient sunlight coming through the clouds. It's darker, so . . . maybe they won't see my cheeks being full.
Maybe.
They trotted past, and she swiftly turned her head and pushed the sleeve out of her mouth with her tongue, into the gear saddlebag. She'd have to wait until they were asleep to put the pieces together, of course.
Backwash trotted right up to her a minute or two later, while Scythe worked on getting a fire started.
"Tonight, uh . . . " He swallowed. The poor little colt; so adamant with Scythe, and now he was getting flustered. " . . . tonight, I . . . "
She knew where this was going. Several years before Flapjack, Rose Water had been used and used. Most thought they had the biggest fifth leg of them all, and lacked no confidence trying to push it in. Some of them, of course, were nervous. None had been so nervous as this colt-going-on-stallion.
She forced a little smile on her lips. It was easier than it should have been. "You'll . . . be sleeping with me?" Nausea bubbled in her stomach.
He seemed relieved, and immediately put on false arrogance. "Yeah!" He turned back. "See? I told her, Scythe!"
"Yeah, yeah. Help me find some more scrub, or this fire's not going to keep lit long."
***
A few hours later, the stallion -- as he no doubt fancied himself now -- was asleep, laying on his side, still slick in places just as Rose was. It made things easier in her head.
She hadn't cum, of course. Backwash was all bark. He'd tried to be nice to her, sure, but she knew that was because he didn't really understand that he was a pony who sold ponies.
Scythe, that sick fuck, had watched during the first part, but rolled over after Backwash's premature finish. Once they were both asleep, she got into the gear bag, and as quietly as she could fished out the sleeve, the metal fragment, and the wire that the slavers themselves had collected as salvage -- the third piece of her intended weapon.
The slave wrapped the labcoat sleeve around the metal, coiled the wires around the sleeve, then tucked the ends of the wire inside the coils and tugged until they were tight enough.
Now I have a knife. Now I just wait until morning. This is it. My last night as a slave. I'll be free!
Tomorrow morning.
* * *
The sun came up, and Rose felt anticipation flow through her veins. She knew the drill. Scythe was up before the sun, scouting ahead; he'd be gone a while. Backwash laid next to her, snoring, the detonator on a cord around his neck.
She took the knife in her teeth, bit hard into the wire and filthy fabric, and . . . hesitated.
You can do this, Rose. She just had to do the smart thing -- kill him. Sure, she could cut the cord -- but maybe he'd wake up when she did it. She couldn't get far enough fast enough to be sure he couldn't catch her, even if she got the detonator; he'd been eating regular meals. She'd been eating regular scraps.
But he wasn't even the mean one!
How much do you want to be free, Rose?
She looked down at the sleeping Backwash, undoubtedly a virgin before last night, a little smile still on his face. He didn't look like a slaver. He looked like he was barely a stallion.
Do you want to be free? Do you want it enough? She could hear Flapjack again in her head. She isn't even that smart.
She drove her head forward, plunging the knife into the little almost-stallion's neck. His eyes popped open and terror crashed into his expression; those bright green eyes looked at her, pleading for the voice he couldn't use past gurgling, pleading for his very little life.
She whimpered and stepped back. She'd seen that much blood before a few times -- she'd just never spilled it herself from another pony. She took another deep breath, and gripped the cord of the detonator in her teeth, then yanked hard to snap it off his gushing neck before he was even done dying. It's only another half hour before Scythe gets back. All I have to do now is run, run and I'm free, I --
She made herself turn away from Backwash's body; she didn't want to see the blood pumping out, the last bit of recognition dying in his eyes. I just need to walk. I need to go, or I killed him for nothing. After a few more moments, Rose even made herself run, as fast as her hooves could take her, towards freedom.