Chapter Two

In the distance, Flauvic could clearly see the palace glowing in all its glory a brilliant orange and pink. It was truly a breath-taking sight to behold.

But as usual, his hate for the place ruined the picture.

Startled from his thoughts by a sharp roll of thunder, the Merinder found himself plummeting a good nine, ten feet. Landing painfully in a shrub of pine needles, Flauvic cursed as he looked up at the handsome bluewood tree.

"Damn traitor."

He pulled himself out of the needle bed, his grace and beauty clashing foully with his various cuts and bruises and his trademark snarl of disgust.

Plucking green needles from places even he didn't know he had, the fugitive decided to find water to wash his cuts. Five minutes from the treacherous tree a small stream flowed merrily through some wild flowers and disappeared under a mossy beaver dam. Finding a nice patch of soft moss, he plopped down ungracefully and stuck his bare feet into the water. He sighed. That felt good.

How could it not? What with blistered, burned, scraped, bruised, dirty feet—well, one could only imagine the pain and discomfort.

Taking a couple of second to let his poor behind heal, Flauvic proceeded to gingerly scrape away the grime and dried blood from his arms and hands. That done, he splashed the cool water on his face and scrubbed until its reflection was pink. He scowled at the stubble that had started to grow, a bothersome reminder of his current situation. It did not help his morale when he found his beautiful hair—his most prized possession—tangled and stringy with sweaty and mud.

"You poor thing," he consoled himself, gazing at his reflection. Flauvic stirred the still stream water that had gathered in a pool beside the dam. His reflection whirled into blurriness. He noticed the smoothness of the water itself and its pleasing temperature.

"Perhaps a dip?"

Late summer was a horrible time of the year in Remalna City, he concluded. He felt sticky and hot and his ragged cloths were like a second skin. Thus, the idea of a cool refreshing bath overrode his anxiety of being seen.

Besides, the ferns and wild flowers that edged the pond and the stream were a couple of feet tall—enough to hide him from view.

But first, the fact that he would, eventually, have to pull on those dirty cloths again wasn't appealing.

'What would be the point of the bath,' he thought.

So, cautiously, he conjured a small fire, and with the help of some more magic, he assembled a rickety stand of wood above the fire where he could hang his cloths. Parting the tall, stream-side plants Flauvic retook his seat on the soft moss. Glancing nervously around, he stripped himself of everything except his undergarments and a knife. Slowly he entered the water and submerged himself, pulling his laundry with him. He sighed happily as he returned to the surface. Searching around the banks, Flauvic found the common soap plant growing a few feet away. With his knife he cut away a couple of stems and flowers, chopped them up on a flat rock. Usually the plant was to be boiled and strained, but he didn't have any of those instruments or the patience to do so. Instead, he smashed and ground the chopped plant into a paste with another rock. As he rinsed the clothing first, he was appalled at the clouds of dirt that billowed from them in the water.

Then he searched for a large rock where he could smack, soap, and scrub the cloth. He spotted such a rock near the spring and was happy to note that it had smooth bumps so that it was ideal of scrubbing but would not tear the cloth. Scooping up his handmade soap and garb, he swam over and began to rigorously clean.

He was, of course, slightly put out that he had to stoop so low as to perform a servant's chores. Yet, he could help but pat himself on the back at his ingenuity and flexibility. It wasn't just any day you found a man so skilled that he could wash himself and his cloths with only the help of the wilderness.

Although his arms ached slightly, he was also pleased that his physique had only improved from all this hell he was going through. Men often came in two breed, he observed. Those that were unimaginably strong and physically fit but lacked brains and those that were dangerously smart but lacked the brawns to swat a fly.

Hopeless fools, he thought. The fact that he was magically fit as well did wonders to his ego.

There was, though, a small setback, or rather a tall one. No matter his brains, brawns, or magic, for the past twenty he had found himself as tree.

A cursed tree!

And at times, he had to commend the hill-folk in their choice of punishments. The experience was definitely humbling. Not that he did not enjoy being a tree. It was boring sometimes, but extremely relaxing. It truly was a curious feeling to feel the sun warm his veins—to be able to sense the slight changes in weather and the overall vibe in the atmosphere. He could sense the tension or the happiness all in a pleasant silence.

His mind wandered to the voices he had begun to decipher. The ringing, annoying squeal of Tamara and that loathsome Savona's daughter—what was her name, again? Elestra had told him once her name...'With quite a bit of venom, too,' he recalled with amusement.

Speaking of the princess, he still wondered why he had stayed with her for so long when the border had been right there. Was it because she amused him? Yes, he would've been obstinate if he hadn't at least admitted that.

Yet, for some reason it seemed that he had lingered because of something deeper. When it came to escape or amusement he was sure escape had a much greater priority.

So, then what was his excuse, he berated himself for an answer.

Had he wanted to keep her safe? Now that was truly laughable. Flauvic Merinder risk his own skin to save another?

Ya, as soooon as he married Elestra.

For some reason the thought, meant to act upon sarcasm, made his skin tingle.

"All this labor's getting to me," he mumbled.

Smacking his shirt (the last of his laundry, thank god) fervently to extinguish anymore thoughts of the princess, he deftly plunged the garment into the water, twisted it and rung it of excess liquid.

Parting the reeds, Flauvic hung the last of wash on the makeshift drying rack and proceed to clean himself with the remaining soap. Submerging himself all way into the pond and then sitting up, he successfully rinsed away the suds and filth. He took a peek at himself in the glassy surface of the water.

'Ah, much better.'

Although his hair remained somewhat stringy and unkempt, he didn't seem to mind much. Along with the stubble, the hairdo gave him more of a rugged look, a refreshing variation—albeit a little one—from his usual feminine look.

Flauvic floated over to the stream and settled comfortably on a bed of underwater moss. The gentle current that blanketed him massaged his soar body and further cleaned his cuts and scrapes. He couldn't bring himself to get up; so he remained in reclining in the curling waves of the stream—he couldn't nor cared to remember when he had finally drifted off to a peaceful sleep.