PENUMBRA (how the flowers grow)

23. Skin

The craving of touch is a recent development that Sabina is unsure how she feels about. She's never liked touch and so it became a defining trait: doesn't like touch. Now, she's not sure that's true. She's not sure of anything about herself anymore, so she finds herself making a list in her head of all the things she thought she knew.

I am a weapon.

I do not like touch.

I belong to Arthur.

I deserve nothing more than I have.

I will die on a mission, serving my purpose.

I do as I am told.

I am skilled and swift.

I am cold.

I am nothing.

I am a Shadow, a silhouette of a person.

She thinks these things and none of the pieces fit right, not like they used to. She doesn't know what she's supposed to be. She thinks that perhaps she is not a shadow- a simple trick of the light- but a more solid, tangible thing. She's grown roots without meaning to.

These thoughts keep her awake at night, keep her mind functioning at full intensity, eyes staring blankly up at the glittering stars.

Sabina untangles her hand from Tuluvey's and walks over to where Eggel is taking watch, sipping on a flask of who-knows-what. Xaniphe has fallen asleep next to him, wrapped up in a checkered shawl.

"I can take over," she offers, sitting down beside him.

"Can't sleep?"

Sabina shrugs. She sticks out her feet to warm them by the fire. Summer is fast approaching, but nights down here are still colder than in Shasan. It was always temperate there, even in the constant rain.

"Have a swig of this," Eggel says.

Sabina takes a sip from Eggel's flask and promptly chokes. Eggel laughs loudly, then tries to quiet down to keep from waking anyone. Xaniphe grumbles and pulls the shawl tighter around herself. Her pale orange skin looks like fire itself in this light.

"What is that?"

"Dwarven rum," Eggel chuckles. "I got the good kind while we were in Stillhaven."

"I don't want to know what the bad kind tastes like."

Eggel grins at her. "Probably make you throw up. It's an acquired taste."

He takes another gulp and sets the flask down. He stretches out his limbs, sighing.

"Want to hear a story?" he queries.

"Yeah."

"Out by the Frostlands, there's mountains so tall they touch the clouds. It's freezing there, all the time. Through there, it snows all the time. We Goldhands- a different batch than now but the same in essence- were doing business up there. Things went wrong. A village got burned down. L'gaoia blames herself for it, still. There was a little girl who didn't talk. We called her Anta. It means 'small' in Dwarven. We took Anta around for a whole summer because we didn't know what to do with her. Her family was dead and we couldn't just leave her."