Dara

Defensive Posture

A background story from A Grand Affair
copyright 2003 Deb Atwood

Step forward, strike. Blade met blade with the sound of steel on steel. Dara grunted, pulling back and out of the way as a clawed hand thrust through the air. She spun, smaller blade in her left hand, bringing it up to push back at the claws, releasing the blade as the sharp talons curled around it. It was better to lose the blade than to be caught herself.

Borel turned the blade in his hand, melding the hilt into the skin, incorporating the sharp metal as an extension of his own form. "Hold on to your blade," he admonished. "You know better ways to do so."

Dara didn't answer. Free-form fencing was a delight, and she had yet to truly start to stretch this session. He was right -- she could simply make it impossible for the blade to be removed. But this was more of a challenge. More exciting.

Green eyes glittered as she swapped hands, moving her long blade into her left hand, her right sweeping down and coming back with a small knife palmed, the blade nearly hidden, sticking out between her fingers. She concentrated on drawing his attention to the flashing long blade, twisting it around his attacks. It was her off hand and it took more work, but she was determined to come out of this practice session without a scratch. At least, without anything that would take time to heal.

She followed where Borel led. He drew her in, pulling her into a rhythm and dance of light footsteps as they sparred. She let him bring her within close range. Let him believe that he had the upper hand. Now... now he would bring out that blade he had stolen, spikes raising like hackles along the length of his arm. It hurt... she knew how it hurt when he did that. She had healed those wounds numerous times before she learned to harden skin to stone at the right time. And now it was like a dance with an expected move by a partner, missed when it did not happen.

She took the hit, feeling the spikes dig into tender skin. She gritted her teeth, clamping down on the shout of pain. Turned with the strike, hardening skin around Borel's spikes, pulling him with her. He made a noise, low in his throat, a rumble of surprise perhaps. Then she turned again, curling back towards him, thick granite keeping the spikes from further penetrating her side as she pushed the hidden blade forward. Her skin slid out, coating it in diamond hard grit, knowing that she would need that help to penetrate Borel's natural armor. The tip struck, jarring her. She lifted her gaze to meet his.

Eyes wide, he stared down at her, grunting softly as the tip penetrated beneath the scales. It hurt, her skin sloughing off against the strength of his armor, and she bit down again on the noise as she drove it in. Not far. Not very far. Just enough to make a point.

She stopped, taking a long breath, feeling it shudder in through her lungs and then out again. She was held close to him, her blade still tipped within his skin, his spikes still caught in her armor. She felt him shudder, and it took a moment to realize he was laughing.

Brows drew together in a frown that rapidly tripped into a scowl. "What do you find so funny?"

"You've learned a lot since our last lesson, my dear." A smile split his craggy face, gaze warming fondly.

Dara smiled to see it, feeling home again here. She felt his spikes withdraw, and she to retreated. She stepped back, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. "I've fenced a good bit while I was out, although very little of it involved shapeshifting. Still... I've learned a lot. Learned quite a bit about the element of surprise."

Borel moved to the weapons cabinet and began cleaning the blades, in preparation to return them to storage. "We did discuss that during our lessons. Often, if you'll recall."

"Yes, but you were the person I fenced the most often, and I never could figure out how to get past your guard," Dara admits. "I was always here and always doing things just the same way. Nothing ever changed." She made a slight face as if to admit to the irony of that statement. "Everything was different once I left."

"And you, as well," Borel noted. He placed the blade in the cabinet, closing the doors. The small wound was gone, a faint tear in the fabric of his doublet the only sign of it's passing.

"And me as well." Dara looked away, unable to hold his gaze. She focussed on the necessary changes in her form, pulling herself back fully to humanity and knitting flesh and bone together. The bleeding slowed and finally stopped. The shirt was ruined, rent from shoulder to wrist, the sleeve hanging loose. She frowned at it. "Damn, I liked this shirt."

"Why don't you change, and then return once you are comfortable."

Dara watched as he moved past the cabinet to the table where drinks were set, pouring a tall glass of misty blue. Lord Borel was a sight for sore eyes... and she was loathe to leave, afraid that if she did, somehow he'd be gone again before she returned. Just like... no. She clenched one hand tightly, feeling her skin stiffen to stone before she could control it.

A soft sound of the glass set again upon the table. "What is wrong?"

Dara looked up, eyes wide, trying to reclaim her mask. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Ah." The one word held a wealth of understanding. "Will you be returning to the war?" He held out a glass, daybreak clouds rolling off the lip to tangle around her hand as she accepted it.

She breathed in the soft mist, tasting the salt in the air. "Yes. Soon." Too soon. Not soon enough. She couldn't say what she wanted anymore, except not this. Not how it was happening.

"I have seen your son."

"You have?"

"I have," Borel confirmed. He sipped slowly at the drink. "From what I have heard, he looks like his father. I take it all went well?"

"Perfectly." She flushed. "The lessons worked their magic over Corwin. I barely blinked at him and he was ready to tumble me without a second thought. I don't think there was any need for all the lessons I had had. Persuasion wasn't a necessity." She held the glass to her lips, sipping at the sweet liquid hidden beneath the cool breeze. It tickled her nose and reminded her of other practices, other times. Something twisted in her gut at the thought of leaving again so quickly.

"Will you return to him?"

"Corwin?" The flush grew deeper. "I don't know. He... I... it would be good, for our side, if I kept him dangling, I'm sure." Borel was right, she knew. There were reasons to leave, other than the war. People she wanted to see.

The brew in her hands grew dark, shifting to stormclouds in reaction to her mood. She drank it down quickly before it built electricity -- she didn't like the way that tickled her throat.

"Dara."

One hand settled upon her shoulder, and she looked up at him. It was a face she was fond of, more familiar sometimes than her own mother. He had been a solid presence in her life, from early childhood, and an anchor for her. Now he smiled, and something shone in his eyes that she could not define.

"You are doing what needs to be done. Chaos will thank you once it is over."

"I know." She struggled to keep the hollow sound from her voice. "Lord Borel?"

"Ah, it is never a good thing when you remember to use titles. What is it?"

"Why is it that you never participated in my lessons?" The question was meant in all seriousness, and her expression was earnest as she spoke. She turned to look at him, disappointed when his hand fell away from her shoulder.

"My dear, I was here nearly every day of your upbringing. We had lessons as often as I could manage." He stepped away, reaching to take her glass to the bar. He chose a different bottle, avoiding the storms in favor of a moonlit night that shivered with sounds of dark creatures.

"That's not what I meant."

Only the whispers of creaks and groans as the liquid slid from bottle to glass. When he turned, he held both glasses before him, but did not approach. "Tell me, Dara. Why is it that you are more willing to shift your shape when you are planning to defend, than you are in order to strike a blow?"

Her nose wrinkled up in response. "Because I need to maintain a defensive posture. The better I do at that, the more you are willing to give. But if I open up my stance, or let my skin shift back to human, you call an end to the spar."

He smiled tightly. "Exactly. Defensive posture." With a faint bow, he presented the glass to her, and she took it. She watched him as he drank, not understanding his response, but unsure how to ask again. And knew she shouldn't push past this point to the question she had been going to ask.

"When do you leave again?"

"As soon as I'm ready." Dara ran one hand over her injured arm, now fully healed. "I think I'm ready." Physically, yes but also no, and she knew neither was the right answer. She ached inside.

"Be well, Dara." Both hands on her shoulders, he watched her for a moment as she savored the contact, memorizing him.

"I'll see you when I come back," she said softly. "And if you can... watch over him for me."

"I will." He spoke with the solemness of a vow, then brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. "Take care."

And her smile flickered, missing her oldest friend and her son, before she had even left, yet missing those she had left behind in the war as well. Take care? She wasn't sure how anymore. A tight almost laugh as Borel walked away, his skin a faint greying stone as he left her behind. Yes. Defensive posture.