Author's Classic Note: I wonder if any of you (my readers) ever read Dracula. Well, that's not the point, but it just popped in my mind (as some things often do—I mean sometimes an idea or word just pops in my mind, and then good luck to chase it. For example sometimes as I am meditating Plato's philosophy—honest!—it happens that I think about tweedledee and tweedledum, which is perfectly ludicrous. If I had been playing chess and thought about them, that would have been normal—but there is no logical link between Plato and the two towers (not the lord of the rings ones, silly, the through the looking-glass ones!) Never mind. That's not the point.)

Um, sorry for this nonsense upstairs. Its my—um, twisted-minded personality; Ink of the Night-Castel. But here we go: a small chapter. "Antidote" is a magnificent word, and I love it. I was going to call this chapter antidote, but it is more normal to call it the name of the antidote in question, you must admit (will you admit, scoundrel! Traitor! Um, excuse him, that's Colonel Constantine, an old soldier, incurable…:theatrically tragic sigh: Never mind. Read and review!

Chapter Thirteen

Last Cure

It was a few minutes later that Hawkke appeared at the other side of the field, looming up suddenly in the horizon, black and gold against blue. The other knights were all gone, scattered in the plain, but it wasn't what he was looking for. He was coming to talk to Drymarchon, and to try to get the girl back. He rode slowly toward the castle, his eyes fixed on the slim, tall tower, thinking about what he was going to say, and it was just when he passed by them that he noticed the two inanimate bodies on the floor. The two horses had fled, galloping, frightened, in the plain, and they were just them, with a pool of blood under them, one on top of the other, with the black and green arrow standing tall and proud over them, its two green feathers making a kind of crest. Hawkke, curiously, alarmed, pulled his horse toward them, and suddenly, like thunderstruck, he noticed the long curtain of silky raven hair on the black back.

With a gasp, he jumped from his horse, and knelt next to the two bodies. He glanced at the arrow, took it sharply out of the lifeless body. He bit his lip when he recognized the famous Snake's Poison arrow, known in all the GreenLands for their cruelty and uniqueness. He tossed it aside, and pulled Arach's body off the man's. The tunic was ripped at her shoulder, revealing a clean, sharp cut, ruby red against the snow of her skin. A slow stream of blood was flowing down in to her corset, and his gaze rested for a moment on the birthing of her breasts, and then flew to her ghostly face. Her eyes were closed, and two bright pink pools were growing darker and wider every minute on her cheeks. She was badly poisoned, and would certainly never get out with it; the Snake's poison known to be mortal. He bit his lip again, to blood, fighting the howls of sorrow and pain that were creeping up his throat, hugging her hard against his chest, and burying his face in her hair. He clasped the hand that wasn't holding her on to her bleeding shoulder, and felt the hot blood under his gloved hand, soaking the silk. He stood still for a few minutes, wanting her more than ever, desperate to know that she would die, and that he would never have had her. Then he thought about the Alchematoria of Nariee. They knew everything, and she was one of them, they would probably be able to do something. Then he thought about the half dozen little bottles and vials he had stole from her cloak, and that perhaps he would find a remedy in them. He wished he would have the power to give life, he wished he had never give her over to Drymarchon, he wished he had never see her at all.

He stood up on his feet, shaking slightly, and lifted her thin, weak body. He took her to his horse, a magnificent night-black beast, with a silky black mane, and hauled her on its back. Then he sat behind her, clutching her close so that she couldn't fall, and went away from Drymarchon's fortress, the powerful, black Night-Speed galloping through the fields with all the power of its long legs. They crossed the distance between Serpent Stone and Predator's Lair as quick as thunder light, and it was with surprise that his men and people looked at him loom in the courtyard, holding a thin black shape in the crook of one arm.

After he had sent a man to look after the warrior that he had found under the girl and had barely looked at, Hawkke nearly threw Arach in the arms of Blackwing, who said:

'S'light as a feather, t'li'l kid,' he said, looking down at her deathly pale face fondly, 'Ain't sweet, for a kid, but ain't bad, too.'

'Just shut up your mouth, and bring her to my bedchamber,' snapped Hawkke, running in his caves with a whirl of his gold and black cloaks.

He jostled everyone until he had reached his secret study. It was a dark, windowless room, lit by flaming torches at the dark stoned wall, and furnished with a narrow bed in a corner, a long dark wooden table on which were heaped piles of parchments, tall, glittering jars with strange things in them, little wood and metal boxes, and things he probably didn't even knew what was in. Piles of books were creeping on the cold stone floor, and he had to jump over them to reach his work-table, before which he heavily sat on a high-backed chair. Then he started to fumble through all his boxes, until he found the one in which he had stuffed all the bottles he had been able to find in the pockets of the assassin. He pulled the little chest on his knees, and started to inspect each of the little bottles and tiny jars and vials. Three were labeled: 'Mortal Poison (Night Art)', two were 'Cures for Nearly Everything (Not to fell in a victims hand, nor in the Gold's), and then they were a half dozen of varied ones: 'Confusion (for the guards if the Vic. is Tall)', 'Might Death Strike Them All (careful, that one's precious, might need it for the BBA.)', 'Last Cure (definitely not to fell under Vic.'s hand, mustn't use for I either.)'.

Hawkke stopped at that one. So Arach was ready to die rather than use a stolen cure, even if she lived with the money she drew from the murders? He thought that one would probably help, and glanced at the inside of the small bottle. It was a pure, color-less liquid, transparent as crystal, fragranced with a mix of snow-scent and a sharp, strange perfume. The flask was filled to the brim, and on the bottom of it he found another little label: 'One drop heals a drop, two heals two, death goes away when the drop strikes, and never comes back till…' It was a stupid label; Hawkke decided to try three. He stormed out of the caves, crossed the yard, the hall, climbed the stairs, and burst in his room. Arach was lying on her back, still, and her hair had been delicately pulled behind her head, so that her pale face seemed sharply neat white against the shadow of her hair.

Hawkke strode toward his bed and sat at the edge. He stared at her motionless face for a long time, and then he started to examine her wound. It was incredibly clean, but the cloth around it was soaked with blood. Gently, the hunter eased the cold white arm out of the shirt, and cut the corset laces open with his dagger. He slipped it away, opened the chemise in the same way, and took it away too. He threw both clothing articles on the floor, and when he turned back at her, he found her impossibly alluring, with her bare shoulders and throat, dressed only with a piece of black silk she wore around her chest to flatten her already so small breasts. Sighing slowly, catching his breath, he loosened the cloth, and bend to kiss the birthing of the breast, just under the collarbone; abandoning his lips against the soft white flesh. She smelled of chalk, and of sweet mountain flower, an oddly feminine kind of fragrance, that he would never be able to forget. He sighed again, and took a damp sheet of silk he had prepared, and washed the wound, until there was no more blood on the white skin. The cut had stopped bleeding, but instead of being a good new, Hawkke thought it was probably a bad one, and he bent over her, the little bottle in his hand. Slowly, infinitely delicately, he tipped the bottle, and let one drop fell on the wound, then another, and a third. Then he sat back, put the bottle on his table, and sighed heavily.

He waited next to her for two hours, then he had to go down to eat, even though he didn't fell like leaving her. He left her with a last glance to her white body and wondering painfully whether she would survive or not.

When she woke up, Arach was first conscious of a throbbing pain at her shoulder. She opened her eyes, sighing faintly. She was in a large, cold chamber, with drawn black silk curtains at the window, and lit with torches and a feeble fire in the hearth. She was lying in a large, black marble bed, with thick, soft black furs all around her, feeling secure, yet disagreeably hot and cold at the same time. She knew she was in Hawkke's bedchamber, and she was enraged by this. Had he not poisoned her life badly enough? She sat up, clutching her wound, snarling:

'He's going to pay. Ach yes. I'm going to stick a dagger in his ribs and make him regret…'

'All you shall do will never make me regret more than I already regret.'

She nearly jumped, and turned her head sharply. He was sitting next to her on the bed, looking pale in the faint light. She felt hate, at the memory of him playing with her, and giving her over to Drymarchon.

'Kill me, hunter, kill me while I can't do anything to you. Or else you'll regret it.'

He said nothing, just gazed forlornly at her pure throat. She lowered her eyes to the subject of his wistful stare, and blushed furiously, the dark pink spreading over her ghastly pale cheeks. She crossed her valid arm, gathering her black silks to her high, white chest, and said:

'You're going to pay.'

He said nothing, still staring at her, until finally, she couldn't bear his silence anymore. She tried to stand up, but too harshly, too quickly; she fell heavily sitting on the bed. She turned her exasperated look at Hawkke.

'You nearly died…' he whispered sorrowfully.

He pulled her against him, with one hand lustfully caressing her burning wound.

'Let me go! I hate you…'

'What can all your hate do against my love…' he whispered against her hair.

She said nothing, fought him with all the might she could muster—which was miserably little. His chest was firm, and muscled, and he held her hard. She couldn't resist him. He gently pulled her on her back, and stroked her lips with his fingers, then he bent and kissed her. She felt good, incredibly good underneath him, and she slowly opened her mouth when his tongue caressed the bloody red lips. He remained over her, kissing her gently, leaving all his love and desire, his sharp need for her, go in this kiss she had let him take, in spite of her own burning, consuming hate. Suddenly, he stopped. Stuffing both his hands in her hair, he raised himself slightly, and looked down at her. There were tears in her narrow black eyes.

'Leave me alone…'

She touched a trembling hand over his mouth.

'I hate you…'

He pulled away from her, took away his cloak and tunic, and stretched next to her, gathering a thick, large fur over their two bodies. Still crying, she snuggled against his warm, bare chest, and closed her eyes. She fell asleep immediately, but he stayed awake for a long time, his eyes wide open in the darkness, caressing the white, soft shoulder of the beloved whop would never be his…

Author's Spell-Breaking After-note: I know, this note is not fit for this chapter—but what do you want: I must write it. I love this chapter, especially the second paragraph, which was splendid. I hope you enjoyed reading—do review, and if you do, well, I'll remember you when I'll become the new J.K.Rowling. So, I warned you. Review mates!