Forenote: OH MY GOODNESS, you know as well as I that this is entirely inappropriate! Just get on to the story!

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Chapter 20: Heroics

o…o…o…o…o

Days passed easily, in the rushed sort of manner that is common when something unpleasant is at hand. The afternoons were pressuring and identical, and sleep became a thing harder for Samuel and Fistynn, especially after that disheartening discovery they made as they scavenged through ancient healing context. Losing energy came as naturally to them as gaining breath did, and as they sat together one fateful afternoon, neither carried fire enough to light even the most oiled of torches.

Playing with a feathered quill, Fistynn looked over at Samuel and twisted his mouth in displeasure. "Does the Prince not love you, Samuel? You are, after all, his dear acolyte. Surely your blood would suffice."

Sharply, his friend replied. "Do not be mocking, Fistynn; you dishonor him."

"'Tis true, though. The Prince cannot possibly love only one human. May we summon the King and Queen?"

"I already told you, Fistynn, to stop your jesting; it paints you as cruel."

"But the tale said, 'the one he loves most', yes? So it could only be the Lady."

"It is no tale, Fistynn; but yes," Samuel added wearily, secretly knowing that this was his friend's nature only, and he also knew Fistynn had not a black heart – although he might as well during times of frustration. "it can only be the Lady."

Fistynn nodded and for a moment a blaze returned to his eyes, extinguishing that lethargic air for a moment. "This would be easier if we had help, any help, I do not care from whom. Perhaps we should tell the magicians after all, no matter that they should later use this experience against us. Well… if anyone could have the mind to believe us."

"Finding one would be too difficult, however." Samuel sighed. "So this is up to us. Where next does our troop stop?"

"Stop? Sam, with the Prince totally incapacitated, there is talk of the troop turning back and returning to Arvette; 'hang the Lady Rozenta,' they say. 'Let us go back to Arvette and have the Prince treated rather than continue this passionate folly. He would marry the Lady Marguerite and be well, and his kingdom would rejoice.'"

When Samuel did not reply, Fistynn looked up and seemed to want to say another word of perfect sense, but together they paused: a great wave of sound seemed to rise outside the camps, and when they strained their hearing they knew it to be the protests of many.

Outside of the tent, chaos ensued. The camp was filled with some zealous rebels that assembled around Prince Clement's tent, and looking as harried as any stressed mortals, the magicians struggled to hold them back. Words were screeched and whispered, but all were intelligible; his face white with anger, Samuel rushed forward and with a blank face, Fistynn followed.

They pushed through the crowd the way they would fight through shrubs and briars, and at the front the magicians glowered at them, warning the two acolytes with their eyes. But Samuel and Fistynn could pay them no mind, and even shoving a magician or two they slipped through the barrier of bodies and stumbled into the royal tent.

"What madness is this?" Samuel roared at the magicians. Their heads swiveled and Fistynn could see their half-panicked, half-enraged expressions. All were whey-faced.

"Acolytes! Who gave you leave to enter, you juveniles?"

Samuel stepped forward and began shouting at the top of his voice, shouting as Fistynn never heard him shout before. "Abandoning the Prince's cause? His Royal Highness would be disgusted with the lot of you, if he could awaken to see this mess!"

Sorceresses and servant girls gasped to hear Samuel speak so to those of such rank. Several of the magicians were not slow to retort. "This is no business of yours! Go back to your tents and have your midday meal; play no role in the Prince's mess. For it is his, and no other's."

Gasps were more audible, and suddenly the crowd burst into titters. "Treason!" one woman breathed, and then clapped her hands over her mouth quickly as though she were the one to lose her head.

"The Prince gave no command to turn back to Arvette!" Samuel spoke on. "It would indeed be treason to commence as though he had."

"But he is dying!" cried a tender-hearted sorceress. "We cannot treat him properly on the road; we have no herbs for antidotes, no apothecary, none of our equipment. For his sake and that of Merilian's, we choose to save our Prince's life over the Lady Rozenta's."

"And do you think the Prince can ever forgive you?"

Perhaps it was best that Samuel and Fistynn could not remain long enough to hear the response; there were seized by their collars from behind, and clumsily they were led away – backward, that is – dragged away from the crowd. They could hear their kidnapper only say, "Such hotheads, the two of you, and you will pay one day, I swear it" as she – for it was, indeed, a she – pulled them along.

Even facing the other direction, Samuel and Fistynn could see her do magic, judging on the way the crowds were parted so forcefully. She must have combined Air and the physical forces, Samuel thought vaguely as she took them to the back, and when they were virtually alone – in a narrow space between two very large tents - she wheeled them around and they saw one another's faces.

"You two?" she exclaimed in disdain, and Samuel and Fistynn shared her surprise. It was no other than the bejeweled sorceress from before, the dark one with all the gold necklaces. Her cat eyes narrowed. "Do you think to be booted out of the Academy, boys? We can strip you of your education, you know, if you do not speak with care."

"That may be, but I cannot let them do this to the Prince! Do they intend to see him reign as a King in misery?" Samuel said, and Fistynn looked upon him in awe. Never before had Samuel been so outspoken; it was just not in his nature.

"Yes, they do, for Merilian's dear sake," the sorceress snapped impatiently. She was waving her hand dismissively, as though she had something much more important to say. "And they could be right, but I do not intend to work on their side. I believe in finding Lady Rozenta as well, but at least I am not stupid enough to yell it out to this hell of a crowd."

"Oh?" Samuel pressed on like a fool, an uncharacteristically cocksure fool. "You believe in looking for Lady Rozenta? Then why do you do nothing? Why do you speak to us like this in secret? Why do you do nothing more than conspire and discuss and count the consequences?"

"Because!" she hissed suddenly, her hands twitching as though they wished so very fervently to wring his throat. "I don't intend to be decapitated by those wild-with-panic soldiers before I can have a vial of that brat's blood – "

Fistynn gripped Samuel's arm in alarm, tightly and not without reproach. The two were silent and agape, and for a second they did not know what to think. Were they to fear her now that she knew? Or would this actually work to their advantage?

A queer look came over the sorceress' face, and she regarded them with dubiety – and then with realization.

Such understanding did not fit her features well. The expression looked like a sour grimace on a sulky face like hers. A pretty, but sullen, face. It was as though she did not appreciate having to take so much time to comprehend something.

"Ah," she said softly, contemplatively. She relaxed visibly, like an easing serpent, and she put one jewelry-festooned hand to her mouth. "So you know of it too. For a moment, I thought you two misinterpreted my words to mean I intended to murder her. Ha! I think not. But I am sharper than that – I can see you've heard the rhyme as well. 'Tis an old little verse, and more common than you'd guess. Perhaps we can help one another."

"The rhyme?" Fistynn asked before Samuel could speak. For in his storm of a huff, Samuel would say 'no' without reason. "Do you know the rhyme? Could you recite it now?"

"Certainly," she snapped, as though offended he could doubt that she could. "I am a healer; every healer should know the rhyme by heart, even if they would not speak of it." And her voice went up a pitch, giving it a sort of eerie quality. As she sang, she crossed her arms and raised her head, the very image of self-importance. "'Retching, poison, malady; we can magic up the cure. For all we'd need would simply be; fern, water, and melnomy; and blood from whom the victim'd pain; to see hurt most, the one he loves. And stir it twice and have it lain; to wait on sunlight's windowpane.'"

Melnomy – a sort of weed that grows in hideous multitudes after rain. Fern; and also water. Such common, ordinary things. How could they…? But the acolytes took in every word of it and committed the poem to their memories. None of them spoke for a breadth of a moment, so lost in the unearthly aftertaste of the rhyme, and afterwards they listened in silence to the racket of the crowd. They could hear the magicians – rather loudly, too – exclaiming that they would be taking charge in the Prince's present inability to lead, and that the search would come to an end, much to the cause of rejoice.

Some ignorant, shortsighted soldiers were cheering already, for how could anyone have doubts that the magicians would revive the Prince in Arvette? It was a heinous thought! Treasonous, the authoritative sorcerers declared. Traitorous to doubt them! The Prince would be sent back to Arvette and would undergo intense magical healing – how can that fail? All the soldiers would have to do is cooperate, and they would all be heroes!

The sorceress, who appeared kinder now that the acolytes could compare her to her co-magicians, made an irritated noise, a sort of tsk that was not under her breath. "Fools, the entire lot of them," she said in voice that was both agitated and regretful. "There is nothing they can do for the Prince, even with the right supplies. I suppose I should've realized this sooner, but perhaps I am just as blind as the rest of them." The thought made her mouth twist, as though the idea was something bitter.

"If this cure-all is a secret known to a very privileged few, then how can you be positive it works with everything? Have you tried it? With everything?" Samuel demanded, and Fistynn wanted so dearly to groan. They had so unexpectedly gained an ally to value, he thought, and now Samuel would dare to lose her. Was he possessed?

"You impudent little boy," she drawled unpleasantly. "Do use your brain, will you? Magic is a very corrupting tool, just as efficient as a title of power or a claim to the throne. Thus, magicians – sorcerers and sorceresses alike, I'm afraid – are not the most well-intentioned of folk. When we learn something worth knowing, we keep it to ourselves – we are not so honest as to share. Even the most sincere find it a weakness. And believe me, acolyte, a cure-all recipe is very likely the most valuable bit of knowledge a healing magician can acquire. Have you never wondered why you hear so little of it, despite the guarantees that it does indeed work perfectly? Are you so honest – so sheer – that none of this could've crossed your mind? That is outrageous, boy."

"But surely the magicians would use it," Fistynn put in aggressively. "Surely they would flaunt it, knowing who they are. At least, some would, as I should've said."

"And they do," the sorceress replied sharply. "But they are not stupid. They do not want others knowing of it, and so they disguise it as something else. They do not brag about its greatness for fear of another cleverer magician using what he heard to procure the knowledge. So I warn you, acolyte, to beware of what the magicians do brag about. Usually, it is not something worth paying any mind to."

The psychology – the disgusting psychology – compelled the two boys to want to argue some more, argue on the behalves of the magicians that were not so shrewd and selfish; but they couldn't. It was peculiar, actually, that no matter how they could rack their minds for an example, they could find nothing to oppose the sorceress' logic. They could find nothing to prove her words untrue.

They did not waste more time conversing in that cramped alley between the tents. Hastily, the sorceress made a promise to do what she could for the ailing Prince as well as to buy time for the acolytes. In exchange, Samuel and Fistynn would use whatever time she won them to think of some way – some way, any way – to find the ambiguously hidden Lady Rozenta.

For of course, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that it was her blood they needed, not his favorite acolyte's nor the King or Queen's. Things always – most inconveniently always – worked that way.

It would be sick if it weren't so ageless.

o…o…o…o…o

It was very deceiving, actually, how quickly the days flew by. In actuality, there weren't many – and upon second thought, there were only a few. One, two, and half of the third; the routine that the minute troop and I had endured became inarguably diurnal. We might have been energetic and indefatigable at the very beginning of the journey – or on another second thought, maybe not – but the tedium began to wear upon us, and due to a few days' lack of adventure, we were lulled into a calm that was not so justified.

And it just so happened that sleep became easy again, and just as it became easy, it gradually became deep. Insomnia no longer crept in the back of our minds, ready to pounce when the sun was well below its dawning horizon, and there were actually a few nights that Artor managed to snore.

It was the third day, and it began to appear that we were finally making progress; the landscape began to change, morphing from a spare and barren land to something much more verdant, something more complete. Trees were not existing in shallow groves; along the left side of the path, we could see the bare edges of a rather dark and vast woodland. When evening came and threw its sheer silhouette upon all, the waxing moon displayed itself half-lit in the sky. The illumination had a strange effect on the forest.

As the light hit it, tinges of red could be seen along the outline of the forest canopy, a cross between flame and burgundy. It was an unearthly sight, and we revered it as we slowed down and began to find a side of the wood shallow enough to sleep by. Our resting rule had been restored, what with the rather uneventful turn our journey was taking.

We stole glances at the bark of the trees that lined the very edge of the forest, which gleamed with a deep wine color whenever the moonlight fell upon it.

"Finally," grunted Artor, making a racket with the pots and pans and wooden dishes. "I did not realize until now that the way to the Redtide Forest was so long. Our map promises a shorter distance from here to the next village, at least."

"Redtide Forest?" I asked, my pitch rising by a tone. The name made perfect sense. "Artor, why is it that the trip going from Arvette to Whitewhey took one night, one dawn, and one afternoon, and that this takes over a week?"

He looked up, surprised I had to ask. "Have you forgotten the route we take? The traveler's road. It goes around the seven or so villages we could've cut through if we tried going along the main road. You see, the traveler's road is harder to trace, although admittedly it is more difficult to rely on. It is this road alone that has no branching streets, thank the Deity. Otherwise, we could've been caught many, many days ago." The oil he flung onto the kindling burst into a comfortable flame and as the warmth settled over the two of us, he visibly relaxed.

"Nifty," I remarked lightly, and he nodded.

"A Kionean oil for instant fires," he explained, his voice smooth with an expert's satisfaction. "Damn expensive, too. Glad it worked. Deity, I'm tired."

And it was then that I noticed he has a pillow laid against a log behind him, for cushioning. I, however, merely leant against a strong but flexible tree, the lower half of my body covered with a journeyman's blanket. It was cozy, in the most perfect phrasing, resting against the tree and waiting easily for his – now with his eyes closed – snores to come. Our dinner was short – sausage, the quality of which was wise to doubt but even wiser to disregard – and sleep followed us like a stalking shadow. I could feel myself actually fall into a doze, a fool's doze, an inadvisable doze…

Somewhere nearby, I heard the seemingly distant chatting of Corinne and Lady Asca, both of whom sounded as tired as they were enthusiastic. And funnily enough, not far from there, I could hear Jessamine rolling in her own makeshift cot, taking only a diminutive moment to begin snoring as loudly as a man. Now that was unexpected.

Jessamine, a serious, strange woman – snoring? It was practically a joke. Even as the first notes of slumber played across my mind, I could feel myself chuckle – could I hear it? – as I shifted into a more comfortable position…

o…o…o…o…o

I suppose the first thing that woke me was the sound of a woman's scream, shrill and bloodcurdling and everything any traveler would be loath to hear in unknown territory, on the edge of a woodland, in the middle of the night. My blood jetted like mercury through my veins, and with the last pitch of the scream still ringing in my ears, an urgent thump of the heart clawed me back to reality. My eyes popped open. With my hearing clear, I could hear a whinnying horse and the thin silver sound of an unsheathing sword.

I, like a zombie, sat into an upright position. My nostrils were filled with the smell of putrid ash. The blankets that were wound around me were formidable as I battled them, and as soon as I had managed to throw them off, a tree nearby burst into flame and I reeled backwards, shrieking.

The fires swallowed the tree whole, and even as I sat in the dirt before it, gazing up in utter horror and amazement, I knew dimly that it was something unnatural and not – as the reasonable would chance to say – lightning. The combustion started at the bottom, the roots catching fire and with a crackling roar, turning into a black burnt color as the flames rose up along it; the blaze disappeared into the air as soon as it hit the topmost tip of the tree. As the blackened thing bent and broke before me, I glimpsed a man with a thick mustache and a mangy, unwashed appearance atop a black mount, galloping cleverly out of the forest, weaving in and out of the trees and finding an exit down the length of the shallow ends.

There was a bundle tied to the back of his horse; try as I might – I figured they would be stolen goods or so – I could not distinguish its finer details with my eyes; in the night, it looked only like a shadowy misshapen form.

Numb with terror and knowing too well that I was completely helpless, I turned and found myself in a tomblike silence, alone in my clearing. Where would Lady Asca, Corinne, Artor, and Jessamine be? I stood and began to push my way through the trees, but there was no need for anything more than the gentlest push; they were all charred and roasted, and at my touch, they splintered and tore before me, landing like a bundle of kindling at my feet.

I looked up and found myself in a clearing, a space in the woods that looked as though it had been burnt thickly; from overhead, the moon beamed down and cast a pool of light down onto the ash-dappled ground. It was eerie to be alone in such a place, after such an abrupt blasting of fire, and the circumstances finally registered in my mind.

I broke into a run, my throat so thick that I could not do so much as yell for my companions.

It did not take me long to eventually run into a tree; I bounced off rather painfully and found myself with my back to the ground, and as I struggled to get up, I heard an odd rustling sound somewhere in front of me, somewhere I could not see. I had only rolled and made it to my knees before I heard the great wood crack loudly at the bottom, and with a mighty scream, I threw myself blindly to the side.

I heard it creak hugely as it collapsed, and I winced as I felt a branch graze itself rudely along my thigh. Some sort of womanly figure came rushing over, muttering an endless string of apologies, and she put her hand upon the mild wound; there was dirt on her palm, and for an excruciating moment, the tender cut began to throb and sting. I squirmed, but something on her own flesh changed – her hand was heating up like a muffled furnace, and then freezing, and heating up again.

Then she took her hand from my skin and seemed to examine the red spot before leaving it alone. Befuddled, I pushed myself up on my elbows and put my own hand to my leg, searching for the injury.

There was none.

With a great exhale, I – practically a cat – heaved myself up and managed a sitting position. Jessamine, still seeming unconvinced that I was not in the best of physical conditions, took my hand and assisted me in balancing my weight on my legs.

I felt like a new colt, but still I could not speak; quite honestly, I felt sick with the distress. My vision was poor, and I had to squint several times before the figures of my friends could begin to clear up; there was Lady Asca, standing by Jessamine in her nightgown and looking pale and confused, and to the back of her – treading around with some distance between the company – was Artor. He had one hand over his face and for the second that I watched him, he nearly stumbled in his steps.

He looked weak; I thought it strange, but then I frowned and looked over the faces again.

Lady Asca; Jessamine; Artor.

Someone was missing.

In answer to Jessamine's rather fierce stare, I admitted, "It is the shock more than anything else," in a hoarse tone, and when my vocal chords shook, I noticed that they felt raw with the inhalation of smoke.

"Good," she said with an obvious ferocity, and whipping her head around, she turned and threw out her hand.

The tree closest in its direction burst into an immense flame, and I could not breathe; it was blue and heavier than anything ordinary, and it stole all the air in the area. You could see the bark roast through it, and then, as suddenly as it had come, the fire disappeared into a tiny, gray puff of smoke.

I swayed, and her arm reached out again to grab mine; she caught me right before my knees could bend, but some force other than her physical strength drove me upwards. If it was fear or the magic that this woman could conjure, I could not decide.

"I knew you had been strange, but…" I choked on my words.

"I know some of the fires cropped up near you," she said brusquely, as though I had not been speaking. "so I apologize. You were not my target."

She said no more and stepped away, disappearing behind a few trees. No one asked questions. She'd be back, I thought to myself, safe in my head. She's made it her business now. She'll be back.

Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could pretend that I did not know she was magic.

"So," I sighed, putting a hand to my temple. It was throbbing. "A disastrous night, this. What did the bandit steal? I saw him on a horse with a bundle; they weren't the pots, were they?"

Lady Asca had made to shrug – very unlike a lady, I noticed, realizing that she knew etiquette was of little importance on this quest – as a derisive cackle broke through the wood. Startled, we turned around and saw Artor stamping towards us, his face a fury. There was pain and anger and a mad sneer on his face; I could not look long at his expression without cringing.

"The pots? The pots! How stupid are you, Rozenta?" he bellowed, suddenly an imposing figure with a strong chest and broad shoulders and the capacity to go insane. "If it'll please you, our pots are fine, absolutely fine. It's… the bundle…" But he faltered and couldn't continue. He hands flew up to his face, as though shame had finally caught up with him. Shame, and maybe a little sanity.

"… was Corinne," a softened voice behind us completed for him: Jessamine. She had returned from the depths of the clearing with a clear, glimmering, ruby-red stone in hand. Her fingers rubbed at it in excess, and there was a solemnity in her face that made her look more like a magical politician than a dead bard's widow.

This time, I could not contain my surprise and anguish. I let out a huge gasp and found my stomach turning and turning and churning – that bundle, that crumpled bundle, it was motionless.. she could not be…!

"Not dead," Jessamine snapped in answer to my thoughts. Oh yes, I thought, ignoring my surprise. They can do that. "Only kidnapped. And she cannot be more than a mile from here – I have this stone that will go hot when we come some meters near her; it will help us in our ride to find her. We can forget Loranen Village," she added, a glint in her eye that challenged opposition.

"No!" Artor yelped, taking us all by surprise. There was a concentrated silence before he elaborated. "No. We've come too far, and that was a bandit… who knows if the others had come here with him? The rest may ambush us at any given moment."

My jaw went slack.

"I think," he went on in a slow, quiet, careful voice. "that this will be something I will have to do myself. My own little problem, you can say. Please," he added sharply, raising his hand when Jessamine's mouth instantly popped open to object. "The Lady Asca is in constant danger, especially since she is with child – yes, I know that you are," he answered the unasked question Lady Asca's eyes threw at him. "So this will be up to me. I'll take a horse and I'll find her. And I won't come back until that bandit is dead."

With the last sentence, his voice rose in volume and grew in savagery. The protests were made in wordless but nonetheless cutting glances, and we knew that he could read them – perfectly well, too, we would choose to think – but he gave no notice. Instead, though he spoke decently enough, we knew there was some sort of hell going on behind his eyes, a sort of turmoil that he preferred us not to witness.

We did not appreciate the consideration. With our gazes, we expressed our disapproval, and though Jessamine actually stepped forward once, he turned swiftly away and disappeared among the trees.

"Nonsense," Lady Asca breathed, torn between frustration and reverence. "He can't be serious. Him, alone? I don't suppose any of us can stop him," she added, receiving a hard glare from Jessamine. The serious young woman gave a derisive snort, as though she thought she could somehow bridle him, but there was a sort of twist to her mouth that bespoke of doubt.

Goodness, I thought to myself, tilting my head. She's arrogant. Until now, I couldn't tell.

And so there was another moment of silence, stretching with every breath, as though all of us were recoiled somehow, ready to pounce with the next word. Deep down, all of us knew that during this moment in time, Corinne was being hauled off by some scoundrel, and that anything could happen to her within the next hour.

We would do well to make haste, I thought, and after half a second, the thought sent the others into a rush. I couldn't help but notice that we no longer walked between duties, but ran; and we simply chucked all the supplies into the nearest satchels.

o…o…o…o…o

It was decided; it would be Artor and Artor alone who would go to seek her, taking his horse and an arguably pocket percentage of the supplies. It was not as though the decision was fairly made – it was more of the opposite, really, although maybe our true fault lay in not debating cleverly enough – but how much could you say that a man in love would not disregard completely? A strong, proud, and madly-in-love man – someone like the heroes who died in those love stories.

Hopefully more like the ones who come back victorious, I prayed in my mind, but who could be so sure?

Only minutes had passed – like wind by the window – by the time we were prepared to leave. None of us save for Artor had the spirit enough to mount his horse, and we only followed suit for the sake of normalcy. He began to ride, taking a few steps ahead of us, and we knew this was not a proper goodbye, but did nothing.

Before he could get very far, his horse jerked back as though it were whipped.

He turned in his seat, and instinctively, the rest of us turned. Jessamine, somewhere toward the back, had her arm outstretched defiantly, her face pinched with more rage than gloom.

"Jessa," he said reproachfully, and I couldn't help but frown at the nickname. Odd, that was.

"Artor, you utter moron," she spat at him, her voice dripping with venomous scorn. That was odd, too; you'd think she'd be a little more docile. "Let us go with you, at least. You think she does not matter to us? Do you refuse to see us as anything more than commiserating bystanders?"

"Jessamine, shouldn't he hurry?" I asked her hastily, my voice rising in panic. It just occurred to me… if he took her because he desired her, how long would it take for him to…?

"Yes, I should," he said to me, ignoring Jessamine completely. "But not for that reason; he was a bandit, remember? He might be part of the group that is combing the roads for us. He would have to report back immediately, to keep the others' suspicions from arising. He would not simply stop by the road to…" Visibly, Artor winced.

"Are you sure?" Lady Asca inquired, sounding disdainful of the dawdling. But this time Jessamine stepped forward, scoffed, and waved her hand.

"Don't you think I've thought of that already?" she cried impatiently. "Otherwise, I'd have whipped you all for taking so long. Now that you all know what I am," and she raised her chin, daring someone to make any sort of derogatory remark, "you know what I can do. Or can guess, at least. As the bandit carried her off, I made certain – with a spell, a good spell – that he would not be able to touch her, harm her, in any way."

Artor let out a strong exhale, seemingly reassured. "Is it strong?"

"Indeed. However, it is only temporary, and the perilous thing is that I don't quite know how long it will last. It depends on the magician's concentration when cast – and as you may know…" she let herself trail off, and sternly she scrutinized him, his reaction. We could all guess that what with the fireballs she ignited everywhere, she wasn't too focused.

So this was up to Artor, now. His expression was closed, that internal hell now weighed with pressure. There was nothing anyone could say to take this duty from him; that was obvious. We knew he loved Corinne to the death, and we also knew that he knew that saving Lady Asca was just as important. She was with child. Since time was scarce, this was a choice that should not be taken too lightly to heart.

"I wish you could let us help," I said before I clenched her jaw. Beside her, Lady Asca nodded, protectively keeping one hand on her belly; that was reasonable, in times like these. "I wish we could do something. I wish you wouldn't be so bigheaded as to keep this to yourself."

But he only shrugged it off, dismissively. "All of you have helped; Jessamine lent me the stone, remember? And anyway, we'd best be moving. Do not look so upset, it doesn't become any of you," he added, with the merest trace of his old jolliness. "You'll see me again. I promise it."

But even as we bid him our farewell and began to trot off in separate directions, there was no doubt that if he would succeed, it would take a miracle for he and Corinne to find us. And at this point, there was no sense – everything was about sense, now – in hoping for anything more than was natural.

But then, aren't these the tales of heroes? Upon thought, this is what love is infamous for doing: planting the most obscene of stupidities in otherwise entirely reasonable people. Could we be grateful for it? Perhaps not now, when we are forced to watch one of our cherished comrades ride away with only a half-full satchel, the most amateur of hero-ing devices, and only a fiercely beating heart to set things aright.

Lady Asca, Jessamine, and I simultaneously swiveled in our seats; we saw his back, the back of his horse, and our hearts sank a little further. He looked a hero in the budding light, with the white-yellow crowning him as he disappeared toward it, and with the shadow of what followed heroic fools trailing him.

It was easy letting go; it was watching his retreating back that was so difficult. Perhaps it was because at this point, everything was moving by Fortuna's hand, not ours.

Dimly, as the flat, almost cynical lands were lit by the whispers of dawn, as the not-so-rolling hills and the not-so-verdant plains seemed longer than ever before, and as we rode not as a comfortable troop of five but now a thoroughly helpless trio, I thought of my own hero, as much a risk-taker as Artor.

But thinking leisurely was impractical; I suppressed my pride for him and urged the others to fall into a strong, rushing gallop; by light, we were beginning to see the tops of village roofs rising over the landscape, and unconsciously, we did our best to win back the time we wasted.

o…o…o…o…o

Afterthoughts: Not as well-written as I would have liked it to be, but I don't have a lot of time on my hands. I haven't read a decent book in weeks (unless you count Animal Farm by George Orwell for a class assignment), I've been bombarded with end-of-the-year business, and quite frankly, I've been losing enthusiasm in everything – yes, even writing. Is this a phase?

If it is, it's taking too damn long.

Cheers. :-)