This is intended to be a series of one-shots, each chapter unrelated to the next. Most of them are things I wrote when trying to write the next chapter of a fic.

I came up with this one when attempting to revamp 'Never give up the fight'. That isn't a plug for it, don't read it :P Enjoy.

Jon wiped his sweating brow, noticing that the room had suddenly become uncomfortably hot.

Instantly, Gary was by his side, his attention attracted by the movement. "Jon, is something wrong?" His tone and eyes were anxious, and Jon knew his cousin only meant well, but this hawk-like scrutiny of everything he did was beginning to get on his nerves.

Everybody was watchful of the heir to the throne. In this time of sickness, it was imperative to ensure that Jonathan was not contaminated with the deadly virus. And he knew that. He did.

It was just annoying.

In fact, the only person who wasn't constantly badgering the Prince about the state of his health was seated across the room, staring at the book shelf with thoughtful purple eyes. Alan had been... different since Francis' death. Almost subdued. Gone was the tart humour that never failed to make Jon grin. The fiery temper that had always seemed to simmer underneath the surface had been doused. Jon wasn't sure what to make of the newly sombre page now.

Alan turned, almost as if he had sensed Jonathan's gaze. The Prince flashed him a smile that refused to be steady. Abruptly, Alan stood, acknowledged the two cousins with a curt nod, and left the library.

"Jon. Jon!" he suddenly heard Gary call, with the exasperation of someone who was not being paid attention to.

"Hmm?" Jonathan replied absently. A headache was beginning to pound in his temples. He rubbed them in an attempt to lessen the throbbing pain, but nothing happened.

Gary let out a sigh. "Is something wrong?"

Jon got to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. His head was beginning to swim, and he now felt unbearably overheated. "No, nothing!" he snapped. He couldn't be ill. He didn't have the Sweating Sickness. It was unthinkable.

As he turned to leave, his legs collapsed beneath him.

Heat enveloped him, swamped him, drowned him in waves of fiery orange.

He had no concept of time passing, only of the slow burning away of his life, like a candle flickering out.

Occasionally, he would take in long, shuddering breaths, and find the air tasted of perfumed smoke. His ears rang with a near-constant hum of jumbled words, and when he opened his dry eyes, he could make out obscure, ghostly forms through the hazy mist. When he closed his eyes, eternal blackness beckoned.

For a brief second, the fire shrank away from its scorching of his mind. He could think clearly. It all added up – the voices, the blackness, the mist.

He was in the Realms of the Dead.

He shuddered violently, the fire roaring in full force once more. Was this truly death? Had he left everybody behind? His parents, Gary, Raoul, Alex, Alan –

Alan.

An image of the small page swam before him, offering peace, a chance to rest at last. "Alan," the Prince mumbled through cracked lips. "Alan." The image turned away. Desperation filled Jonathan. Alan could save him. "ALAN!"

Another figure was blossoming out of the dancing flames. At first, Jon took it for a sturdy knight, prepared to fight to the death for his country. Was this a knight who would have fought for King Jonathan? Then, he realised it was a woman, not beautiful, but oddly attractive all the same. Power and strength radiated from her being. Her short red hair whipped around her face as she readied her sword to face an enemy.

Jonathan felt sorry for her, although he couldn't say why. His attention began to focus on the thing he had pushed aside for so long. The thing that offered the only respite from the endless heat that ate at him from the inside.

He paused at the edge of the Black God's Realm, as the shadowy figure raised its staff in welcome. Doubt now set in. He looked back.

"Cousin, it is the end. You need your rest, you deserve it."

Jon searched for the owner of the voice and found Roger, watching him calmly. His cousin's presence was somehow reassuring. "But – Mother, and Father..."

"I will take care of them," Roger promised.

Jonathan nodded gratefully, his attention now fixed on a ball of amethyst fire, shooting towards them. "What's that?" He was surprised to find that he had expected to see this.

Roger's face had blanched. "That must be the sender of the fever. Go, before they can finish us both off!"

The alarm in his cousin's voice was real. Jonathan nodded, noting an odd coolness now setting in. The fire had receded finally. Oddly enough, he knew now why he pitied the warrior woman. He pitied her because she would never exist. "Take care of them all, Roger," he requested, before surrendering himself to the darkness.

The purple fire dissipated as the Crown Prince of Tortall was enveloped in shadow. In its place came a small, redheaded boy. "Jon, come-" He stopped abruptly, eyeing Roger with suspicion and with something strangely like hatred. "Where is he?"

"It is with my deepest regrets that I have to inform you that my dearest cousin has passed away."

The boy stopped short, his unusual purple eyes narrowing, and weighing up the information. Roger almost expected him to bow. He certainly expected him to give in and accept that his friend was dead, perhaps with tears, perhaps in silence.

He did not expect what the young page actually did. Which was to spit at the Duke's feet. "You," he whispered. "You did this. I hate you."

Roger regarded the little boy, considering the comment. Finally, "Good."