Gray-skinned No-name

Nightfall brought danger to Lord Porter's humble halls.

Gray-skinned No-name sat with her head bowed; her hair, loosely secured in a knot at the top of her head, was as gray as her wrinkled skin, her ears sharply pointed. The iron chains at her wrist were heavy, the lock rusted. Where the metal touched her wrists, her skin burned.

“The dark hides many things,” she said.

The Porter family had gathered in the Great Hall for the night. Four living daughters of the late Lord Porter and two of three sons stood together, watching the eldest and new master don armor and blade for the coming fight. He waged a fool's war.

“Quiet, old woman,” he said, his lips curling up in a sneer, “No one asked the likes of you.”

“Come now, Tom Porter,” she said, clucking her tongue, “Is that the way to talk to the one who wiped the sweat from your mother's brow as she birthed you?”
He scoffed, whipping his head so that his long hair lashed the air; for all his bluster, he couldn't hide the look of uncertainty that flashed in his eyes. And though few would dare to recognize it for what it was, Gray-skinned no-name shook her head.

“What slave speaks a name she has no right to speak and dares talk back to her betters?” he asked, “Be silent.”

“Not this time, boy,” she said, rising on stiff legs, “You seek a fool's end. If you leave these walls tonight, you will die.”

“You dare too much,” he said, though his gaze softened.

In that moment, he was the boy again, the child who'd brought her daffodils stolen from his mother's garden, who had cried on her shoulder for his lost mother, and played at her feet in the kitchen. He'd been the first and only one to ask her real name, unsatisfied with the one his ancestors had given her. Too many years had passed and her memory ebbed and flowed like the tide.

“I dare you,” she said, “Wait for daybreak. Let the creatures howl at the doors and scratch at the windows. Wait them out and learn what you can before you face them.”

His brothers and sisters, his wife and children, his servants and his friends said nothing, but a few nodded, their eyes beseeching. If just one of them spoke, just one, maybe he'd listen. What were the fears of one slave compared to the silence of his peers?

Outside, the wind shrieked and raged, lashing at the windows.

“Wait them out!” he said, “I've waited all my life. We know the same now as we did then, as we would by morning, and that is nothing. I will not spend another night in fear.”

The creatures had plagued these lands for as long as anyone could remember. Though, no one knew what they looked like or what they were; those who'd glimpsed them had not survived the moment to tell the tale. Early morning revealed their corpses, skin marred with deep cuts, bones shattered and useless.

For that reason, only the foolish walked the plains after dark, and Tom Porter was proving to be one of them.

“We cower indoors,” he said, “Like animals. And the creatures still come. They pick us off slowly and we never fight back. It's my duty to face them.”

“It's your duty to protect your family,” she said, “Your father knew that and he lived to a ripe old age.”

“My father,” he spat, “Was a coward. He could have ended this long ago, but he chose to let us die.”

His youngest sister, Melissa, gasped, her eyes wide and wet with angry tears, her hands clenching into fists.

“You take that back,” she said.

Tom shook his head.

“Hush, girl,” he said.

“No,” she said, “Father was no coward!”

Tom nodded to the second eldest, a stoic man with a weak chin. When Tom was dead, he would inherit the estate. Would he be a patient man and a kind master? Even as a child, he had shown little emotion, rarely smiling, rarely laughing; he hadn't played since he was three. While the others chased each other through the shadowed halls, he sat at the window, quietly reading.

“Take her to her room,” he said, “And make certain she stays there.”

Melissa shot him a look that would freeze salt water. Of all the children, Lord Porter's passing had been hardest on the her. She sat at his side while he weakened, his body wasting away to nothing, and she was at his side when he breathed his last breath.

“You never would have said such things to father's face,” she said.

“Melissa,” he said, the warning undeniable.

Her chin jutted out and she looked through him. Gray-skinned No-name had seen the look before, a thousand times when they were young. As the oldest son, Tom had kept a close eye on his youngest sister, taking it upon himself to keep her safe while their father wavered in and out of ill health. The Lady Porter had died shortly after the girl's birth, a blow from which Lord Porter never really recovered. Melissa never took to the extra attention, the extra rules, the extra scolding her older brother lavished upon her.

She preferred to run free.

Tom Porter checked his scabbard, unsheathing his father's blade an inch as he ignored his sister. It gleamed in the dim fire light, the metal white and curiously sharp. As far as she knew, it had never needed to be sharpened nor could it be broken; the family legend claimed it was elf forged, the blade drawn from magic, though how or where the Porter's came by such a sword was long a mystery. It had passed to Tom at  the hour of his father's passing, as it had to his father and his grand-father. Every Lord Porter she could remember wore the sword, died with it at their side.

Gray-skinned No-name knew it would be the same with Tom. If he left the sanctuary, the creatures would kill him, and though she should welcome the death of another master, she felt only sadness for the boy she had loved as a son.
“There's no shame in staying,” Gray-skinned No-name said.

“Only a fool would go into the night to fight a foe he can't see,” Melissa said.
“I will succeed,” he said.

His voice was firm, his jaw set as he turned to the door, opening it with a nod to the doorman. Cold whipped through the room, the shriek of the wind loud and angry until the door slammed shut. The others watched from the window, one of the brothers shoving her hard back to her corner. The iron scrapped against the floor, and she sat heavily. Her bones ached, her muscles ached, and her core felt hollow.

It had always been so, but over the last years, as the creatures attacks worsened, so did the feeling. She was ancient and tired, worn by the lifetimes of servitude; that bit puzzled her the most. She never aged, but was always old. She had outlived at least six Porter Lords, cut couldn't understand why, and while the paid servants whispered their suspicions behind her hunched back, the only truth she could accept was the truth that she had no answers.

Melissa sulked from the doorway; her refusal to follow her brother's wishes had gone unnoticed by her kin. They would have called it willful, but Gray-skinned No-name saw fear on the girl's face. The winds shook the walls, groaning through the cracks in the mortar. It touched her face like icy fingers, the caress oddly gentle, comforting even. It traced the length of her jaw.

“He's going to be alright,” one of the sisters said.

“Can you see him?”

A heavy silence followed.

Had he found the creatures? Had they dealt the fatal blow? Pain lanced her shoulder, shooting out from her heart. The air in her lungs felt thick; each breath came in ragged, as though forced through a small space. Her vision blurred, the flickering fire light dancing wildly on the walls, the shadows stretching and shrinking. At once, the winds were silent.

The door crashed open, a figure collapsing in the doorway.

“Is it Tom?”

Gray-skinned No-name tried to rise, to go to the figure's aid, but her knees wouldn't hold her. He shifted, the hair falling away from his face to reveal Tom's proud features. Blood gushed from deep gouges across his chest, from his nose and the corners of his mouth. His wife cried out, pushing past the sisters to sink beside him. She touched his face.

“Tom, are you alright?”

The wind whipped past her, dousing the fire and chilling air. Darkness flooded the room. Tom groaned, his head lolling back. His sword was sheathed; he hadn't even had a chance to draw it against the enemy. The pain sharpened, and her arm went numb from the tips of her fingers to her neck.

“Answer me,” his wife said, her voice breaking.

The second eldest knelt beside her, his hand at Tom's pulse.

“He's gone,” he said.

He reeled back in genuine shock as the now widowed Mrs. Porter collapsed on Tom's chest. The sisters protested, anger turning quickly to grief as they wept, clutching each other for solace and finding none. Melissa, from her place in the doorway, was silent, her face an expressionless mask. Only her eyes betrayed her feelings.

Young Tom Porter was dead.

Gray-skinned No-name wanted to cry. Her circle of vision shrank, darkening around the edges. Shadows seemed to stretch through the door like long claws, moving with the wind. Outside, the howls grew louder, the voice unearthly and inhuman. As it grew louder, the shadows seemed to swell and swipe at the air, raking along the walls.

The stone cracked where the shadows touched. The sisters shrieked, stumbling back out of reach, and the brothers stumbled, shrieking as they fell over themselves. The shadow claws shattered the window, shards of glass showering the floor.

So this was the creature, Gray-skinned No-name mused. In her last moments, at least she had seen the truth. It was no beast, no man or woman, but rather, a piece of old magic loose on the land. No wonder none had defeated it, and she doubted anyone could. Magic was a ghost in the world, remembered by all but lost, unreachable.

A shadow surged past her, ducking under the claws to Tom's side. Melissa! She caught the sword, ripped it free of the scabbard and brandished it.

“You've spilled enough blood this night,” she said.

The sword blazed with a light its own; truly, it was elf forged, and in Melissa's hands it drove the shadow back to the door. Each feint, each thrust made the creature shriek with rage.

“Melissa, don't!”

At her sisters' protest, she looked away. The sword light dimmed and the shadow lunged, catching her side and knocking her off her feet. The sword clattered across the floor, sliding out of reach to stop at Gray-skinned No-name's feet. One shadow claw raked the girl's face, splitting the flesh of her cheek in a slow line.

She struggled but didn't cry out.

Blood welled along the cut, spilling down her face.

“What do you want?” someone asked, “We haven't done anything. Leave us be!”

“Oh god!”

Grey-skinned No-name, with the last of her strength, picked up the sword and stood. The chains weighed her down, made her sluggish, made her stumble, and her body seemed so far away. She could barely feel the cold metal against her palm, and the room seemed to be at the end of a long tunnel. If she was to die an old slave, she would die fighting.

“Leave the girl,” she said.

The blade glowed, filling her body with a strange warmth. It chased the numb feeling from her limbs, dulled the pain in her chest. The shadow creature was unimpressed; it drew another claw down Melissa's face.

Gray-skinned No-name leveled the blade.

“I said, leave the girl.”

She felt young; in all her life she couldn't remember such a feeling. There had only ever been the tired ache in her body, the cold burn of iron at her wrists. The light of the blade swelled, zigzagging along and under the manacles, looping along the thick chain. For the first time, she couldn't feel the metal, only the warmth of the light.

Distantly, she heard the frightened murmurs of the Porters, saw them cower at the edge of her vision. Melissa struggled, wrenching away at last, the shadow trailing after her. It stretched a long tendril of darkness.

Gray-skinned No-name brought the sword down sharply on the shadow, neatly severing it. The tendril evaporated, the shadow howling in rage. The sound shook the walls; never had she heard such anger.

The remaining shadow claws snaked around the blade, sizzling where the light touched. It brushed her skin, cold searing deep, but she twisted, bringing the blade down with a force and skill she would not have thought possible.

She knew nothing of battle, had never wielded a sword, but with the Porter Blade, she moved as a seasoned warrior. The light burned hotter, brighter, and the shadow's howl of rage turned to pain as it sizzled. In a flash, it was gone, the scream cut off by a resounding crack and the tumbling sound of metal on metal.

The weight lifted from her arms, the pain in her chest suddenly gone and leaving her gasping for breath. In that moment, her chains had shattered; she was free of the hated metal and her thoughts tumbled over each other, her memory a floodgate. She had a name. She had a life. She had a past outside the Porter Halls.

Melissa let out a shriek, scrambling back away from her. Her sisters followed her example, clambering behind their brothers in a mad dash. The creature that terrorized her captors was indeed the result of a curse, but a curse of her own making. All of the anger and frustration from her enslavement, from the humiliation had lashed out, taking the shadowy form. Her rage on the wind.

Only when she took up the Porter's blade, the sword rightfully her own, did the spell break. And though the anger threatened to choke her, made her want to lash out at the cowering family, she could still see the children they had been, the kindness they once possessed. It made her hand shake, made her hesitate. The skin of her hand, once wrinkled and gray and scarred by the iron, was rosy and smooth. Her other hand was the same; she touched her face, the weathered lines gone. It was smooth as a babe's.

Whether by the blade's magic or the removal of the iron, the false aging had been reversed. She was the woman she remembered.

“Give me the sword.”

The eldest living Porter stood on shaky legs, palm outstretched. She stepped back, leveling the sword at his eye. He stopped, his gaze shifting back and forth from brother to sister to poor, dead Tom. She could almost hear him wonder what his brother would have done or his father.

“Relinquish the blade, slave.”

Another brother chimed in, rising to stand beside him. For all their family had taken from her, they wanted more. It wasn't enough, the centuries and centuries of servitude. To watch iron slow poison her blood and wither her body, to age as she was never meant to age.

She shook.

“Your ancestors were fools,” she said, “And you are eager to follow their footsteps. My name is not slave, and I belong to no one but myself. For that, I would kill you. For that, you would suffer.”

With one hand to her wounds, Melissa pulled him back, stepping between them.

“Who are you?” she asked, she demanded.

She was answered with a smile and a name that fell from her lips like water on a desert. So long had she been the nameless slave, the nothing in the corner. To remember was an answered prayer, a blessing from the gods.

“Elithorra Windbane,” she said.

Soon would come the dawn.