Creative Challenge: Post 4

I knew what I’d done as soon as the door closed.

My heart was beating fast, faster than was probably healthy. I took the stairs two at a time, tripped near the bottom, and landed in a heap of wings and limbs at the bottom. My robe was slipping from my shoulders, held on only by the button that joined the folds of fabric above my wings. My front was exposed; I hoped none of the inn’s patrons noticed me. The chains around my feet were heavy and constricting, and my bound hands made it difficult for me to right myself. I heard hearty guffaws from the men at a table to my right, and even the cry of scandal from a woman at the bar. The laughs cut short as one of the men noticed that my hands were bloody, and cried out, “He’s got a sword!”

Still struggling to get back on my feet, my bound wings flapped helplessly beside me. I finally used the wall to support myself, and held the sword that was as tall as I was in front of me, brandishing it. Some men were rising, drawing their own weapons, their ruddy faces alight with wonder of my exoticness, and adrenaline from the opportunity to gut me.

“Stay back!” I yelled. I was met with looks of confusion, and I realized I was speaking Draconan. I repeated myself in their language, and some edged off. The woman was screaming now; several had left the bar. Others had come inside to watch, attracted by the noise.

I was trapped. There were far too many of them. Even if I had the use of my hands and feet, I was weak, and had never been a good fighter. My weakness limited my magic; I could maybe spook them, blow a few down in a burst of wind, but that was it, and it would leave me more exhausted. I looked wildly about for an escape, but the door was ten feet away, the a throng of curious passerby pedestrians was concentrated there. My head was swimming; I realized again that my hands were slippery with blood, and my body ached from his usage. My tailed curled around my legs, the sharp, metallic point threatening those edging closer to me. My head swam; I felt myself growing faint.

“Step aside!” A voice suddenly called. The sea of people parted, and I saw my slaver standing there coldly, her copper hair glinting in the hearthlight, her red eyes glaring at me, flicking from my hands to my face. She moved towards me, and I readied myself again, but she slapped me hard, and I fell against the wall, losing my balance.

“Well, someone get upstairs to see if the gentleman’s still breathing!” she hollered, still facing me. My cheek stung, and I feebly tried to stab her, but she grabbed my wrist and hit it against the wall. I felt it sprain as she ripped the blade from my hand. People rushed past me to inspect the damage I’d done. The carried him down a few minutes later; Ryth pulled me from my corner and out of the way. The man was still breathing, of course; I’d never meant to harm him seriously. His head bled a little where the bowl had smashed and cut him, as they had cut my hands, but otherwise he was unharmed. They had covered him with a blanket for decency’s sake. Ryth looked down at me, seething.

“Is this how you treat paying customers?” She shrieked, and slapped me again.

“He was hurting me, ma’am,” I whimpered. “Bad.”

“I don’t give a balgath’s hide,” she said, so quietly that only he could hear. The venom in her voice was almost tastable. “And if you’d like to keep yours, you march right out to the caravan, and wait till I-”

“Excuse me,” said another voice, barely more audible than Ryth’s. She stopped, and turned.

“Yes, my lady?” she said, politely. I looked at the speaker. She was beautiful, with hair the color of candlelight and skin as white as wax, pale lips and gray-green eyes set above her high cheekbones. She wore a beaded gray gown, and sat alone in a corner of a room that I was unable to see from the stairwell. Horror rose in my chest; I knew her. I shook, and Ryth dug her nails so hard into my shoulder that it almost broke skin. I quieted, but continued to stare at the woman.

“I would like to be a…” she paused. The words flowed with unnatural smoothness from her mouth. “A paying customer.”

“Now?” my owner said, surprised. “After all this? Surely, you’d prefer a more-”

“No. I want him,” she said, nodding at me. Our eyes remained interlocked as Ryth shrugged and thrust me over to her. She caught me gently, never blinking, and stood, pulling my robe about me.

“He’s 30 cartys an hour,” she said. The woman nodded, and lead me quietly in front of her, up the stairs, and into an empty room. It took all my willpower not to scream as we ascended, and I felt the tears slide down my face as she locked the door quietly behind us.

I was tired. I was weak. I bowed my head in resignation. At least I would rest at last; hell wasn’t that bad, or so my Other Voice had told me. I might even go to the top, where the soulgrass was, and be consumed quickly by a terror there.

But, to my surprise, I felt the bindings falling away from my wings. I blinked and looked up in shock, and twitched them. They hadn’t opened for over a year, and they we stiff. They stretched, and knocked a bowl of the table. Retracting guiltily, I looked up into her face. Her eyes still gazed incessantly at me as she removed the bindings from my wrists, and then my ankles.

“But-” I said. The anger and fear was bubbling in my stomach, but the confusion overwhelmed it. “But I thought you were going to kill me?”

She said nothing. Something in her expression looked pained, almost angry, as if she was doing this against her better judgement. She went to touch my face, but I recoiled automatically. Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer. Then she went to the window, unfastened it, and opened it, letting the chill night air seep into the room. I stared at her, but all she did was turn and head to the door.

“Th…” I started to say, but couldn’t finish. This did not make up for the murders of everyone I ever knew. She paused at my syllable, as if to say something in response. Then she turned the lock, opened the door, and disappeared.

I ran to the window. I was starving and exhausted, but the tingling in my wings gave me strength enough to launch myself out. They beat furiously, almost having forgotten how to work, and took me up, up onto the rooftop of the next building. Even that small feat drained me, but I knew I had to get out.

“You can do this!” said the Other, so, taking his encouragement, I ran and leaped again, gliding between rooftops. I wondered how far I would have to go to be safe. And then, I didn’t care how far. I could never be far enough. I was free, and by the strangest fate. But I was free.