The TwiceBorn

Angels Made Of Shadows

"Paint your shadows on the breath that we share..."--Sara Bareilles

There was a painful smile on Alora’s face and she struggled to hold it as she gazed into the sweaty face of the man whose hand held him captive to the table.  Her anger breathed just below the surface and she wanted it---needed it---but to embrace it would be nothing but disaster. 

And there was something else. 

A large part of her survival had been dependent upon reading people, picking up on the subtle nuance of fear turning into fearlessness and anger turning into action.  There was a deep, rich strength to Islinn, yet Alora had silently watched the girl surrender that odd strength to this man who let liquor and his cock do his thinking for him. 

 And when she’d snatched the girl out of his lap, a quick stirring had raced through her mind and across her flesh, a confused coil of shame and obedience.  Being placed in a position of having to touch others had always been enough, in the past, to bring Alora’s anger to the fore but this time, a liquid sadness had seeped into her bones and choked the fire of anger she’d felt when she’d first broke through the crowd and saw the girl and the swordsman.

It was this melancholy perception that restrained her now and allowed her to smile at the man before her.  The anger was still there and eager to flare but the strange sadness lingered.  The man gazed up at her, his trembling jaw and angry eyes a mute accusation to the maiming. 

His bulging eyes met her black stare for only a moment before a strangled growl tore through his lips.  His good hand lunged forward and grabbed her throat.  Alora snatched the dagger off the table and had time to take a quick and mean delight in the feel of tendon grating against blade before she shoved the tip against the underside of his chin.

“Want to roll the dice now?”  Alora’s breathless voice was eager.

 An awful, heavy silence had descended and she was only dimly aware of the stillness around her.  The hand against her throat had a hot dampness to it and she could feel his fear, a black milkiness as stealthy as a crow’s wing.

 “What the fuck kinda blue ruin is this??” 

The gargantuan woman descended upon them and the glowing moon of her face matched the color of her hair.  Hands on her hips, she confronted Alora.

“Turn him aloose gal; now!”

She swung her bulk around to confront the sweating swordsman.

“And you!  Tib, yore dick should be the one stuck to the table! Somebody git this milksop off my good chair and strap his hand fer him.”

The hand at her throat fell away as two men stepped forward and hooked the injured man under his arm pits and hauled him to his feet.  His face twisted and rippled with anger.

“You fucking bitch.  Winnie just saved your life.”

Winnie agilely hiked one slippered foot up and kicked him in the ass.  He would have gone down if the men hadn’t been holding him up.  His hand had swollen up into a red mitt and this final indignity unhinged him. He vomited on the floor.

Brede’s balls, what the fuck??”  Winnie howled. 

Tib wiped his good hand across his mouth and glared at Alora.  He opened his mouth to say something else and Winnie kicked him again.  Alora noticed the woman’s balance was quite good; she was able to put quite a bit of force behind her boot.

“Tib, ya better roll over now and show yore belly.  Ya go on an hear me now.” Winnie cast a quick eye at Alora. “She’ll take ya to task, mark my words.”