The TwiceBorn

Forgetting What We Never Knew

"It's not what you are, it's what you don't become that hurts."―Oscar Levant

Alora moved grimly forward. The robed men were endless, and Alora moved through them, stabbing and slicing, her dagger stroking neck after neck as she dodged and weaved her way towards the Temple. The white robes turned red then brown with mud as the men fell and were trampled into the wet muck as more took their place.

Townspeople and store keeps burst from buildings wielding whatever they had on hand as weapons and Alora found herself bombarded with axes, broken bottles, and heavy tankards wildly swung by screaming women as their children ran and scooped up rocks to throw. Alora didn't care. She advanced, her grip on her weapons gummy with blood, and a wide smile emblazoned across her face.

Her hands worked of their own accord, her talent though a wild one, was one of terrible patience and lightning-fast reflexes, leaving her mind free to roam at will. And in all her dark, and thumping madness, her mind skated over the vast weightlessness of the small things.

Her and Cam and Elisa, laying in the tall grass and gazing up at the clouds lazy stroll across the sky, their hearts open windows to the world around them

The first time she rode Loki and he'd seized the bit and raced across the grasslands, ignoring her bothersome presence as he felt the sun on his coat and the grass whipping his legs and she had finally given voice to what she thought she might become, screaming then laughing as her heart beat a loud tattoo in the back of her throat

The last morning she'd seen her mother alive...had the smile on her lips been sad? When she waved, did she know? Of course she had. But Alora hadn't known. She'd skipped off, saying she was going to collect flowers but headed to the hags' camp instead and the last words to her mother had been a lie but how she wished she'd looked back a little longer that last time because now her heartbeat was like a fist in the cage of her chest as she lay awake on sleepless nights knowing her simple lie had really been a eulogy...

The first time she'd felt Islinn's body pressed against her back when she'd pulled her aboard Loki amidst all the chaos, all the prayers scattered to the winds, prayers for the poor slave mounted behind the demon whore, and how she had not known that Islinn would become her prayer...her holy covenant to a god she despised but one that somehow had favored her by giving her such a beautiful gift...

And how all the little things after that had become better...

Alora ducked a scythe aimed at her head by a wild-eyed juxun slave and swung her blade low, cutting through both ankles, then dodged a quick blue-steeled blade as it came in from the side in an attempt to take her head. She came up fast, driving her dagger upward through the robed man's chin then, just as quickly yanking it free, as the assault continued.

She'd reached the main doors to the temple. The large wooden structures had been propped open so more of Brede's fanatics could pour out into the street. Alora paused, putting both her hands on her knees, and leaning over to draw in a ragged breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jordakath, the Dusk-Bringer, strolling up the road, and snapping the necks of anyone who dared to come near him.

One robed man darted forward, his blade ready, but the Dusk-Bringer's taloned hand was a blur as it whipped out and buried itself in the top of the man's head. Jordakath turned to look, empty-eyed, at the man who had begun to shake uncontrollably.