Sword Born

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Sword pierced flesh, broke bone. I felt it go in, felt the give, the tension in my wrists as steel cut into body. Heard my own hoarse shout as I denied again that this was what I wanted, what I meant —

— and awoke with an awkward upward lunge that smashed the back of my skull into wood.

One way to stop a dream, I guess: knock it clean out of your head.

Driven flat by the force of the collision, I lay belly-down on the threadbare blanket and scrunched my face against pain and shock, locking teeth together. I couldn’t manage a word, just swore a lot in silence inside my rattled skull.

From above, warily, "Tiger?"

I didn’t answer. I was too busy gripping the back of my abused skull, trying to keep it whole.

"Are you all right?"

No, I wasn’t all right, thank you very much; I’d just come close to splattering my brains all over the tiny cabin we shared aboard a ship I’d learned to hate the day we sailed. But to say I wasn’t all right?

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