Author's Tragically Thick Note: Hem Hem. Well. Here is the next chapter. I still don't get enough reviews though. I should have dropped everything and gone away to die, but, well, I just can't resist giving you my twentieth chapter. So, pur-lease, make and effort and Review!

Chapter Twenty

Volte-face

Beneath the old man's wrinkled, gentle hands, Arach's body softened, and her mind sank into deep, comfortable shadows. Summoning his own will powers, the healer traced her bruises, and slowly, gently rubbed them off; it needed more power than usual, because the bruises were so horrible, and also because she didn't put any will in what he was doing. Healing her against her wish was a horrifyingly terrible thing to do, and he knew it. He looked down at the small, pale face, with the shut eyes, and the sunken cheeks that formed a sharp white angle against the dark veil of her hair, the ruby lips curved as if they would never smile again and the dry faded skin; the child was already half dead.

The Healer summoned even more power, feeling it pour down his fingers, and finished healing the inner wounds, and then he started working at all the physic damage: cuts ran all over her arms, throat and face and she was black and blue with brutal bruises. He traced each single one of them, and slowly rubbed them off, until once again, her skin was smooth and as white as immaculate snow, unblemished by any scar or mark. He then cured the hunger, which devoured her form the inside, and the heart-chilling cold; painfully, slowly pouring down heat and energy into her numb limbs, until her entire body was satiated with it. Then, he jerked his hands abruptly up, breaking all contacts with her with a feeling of relief and weary satisfaction; he had healed her.

When Arach woke up, she was alone in near-total darkness, lying on a deep, comfortable mattress, her head sinking back in clean, perfumed cushions, blankets covering her body and keeping it deliciously warm. She did not move at first, content only to feel the liquid warmth flooding through her limbs, softening them and making them feel exquisitely heavy and numb. Finally, she sat up, straightening slowly, and marveling with a childish joy at the fact that she could do so without any effort. She raised an arm, so that the long, wide sleeves of the dress she was wearing slipped down to the crook of her elbow, and peered closely at the skin, dim white in the darkness, and unblemished by any bruise. It was then that she remembered: Sage, the Prince, and the Healer.

Arach quickly tossed back the covers from her, and threw her legs off the bed on to the rush-covered floor; thinking as quickly as she could through the thick mist of her awakening mind: if she was healed, then she could use her strength to escape. This reasoning was plain and logic enough. She hastily stood up, and looked down at herself, her eyes slowly getting used to the gloom: she was dressed in a long, black dress, with a skirt that trailed to the floor, long sleeves down to her knuckles and a loose bodice. She had a comfortably tight chemise underneath, but nothing else, and it was cold—but for now, her main objective was to find a weapon. Thinking quick again and summoning her latest memories, she lunged for the pillows, and threw them all away: and a smirk stretched her lips, for sure enough, there it was: the long, pale blade glinting like ice-metal in the darkness. Seizing the cold handle in her hand, she clutched it, and slammed her fist to her heart; it had been so long sine she'd hold a dagger in her hand, and it felt so delicious now, to have this cold hilt so securely pressed in her palm.

Clutching it so hard her knuckles went white beneath her long sleeves, Arach slowly made her way to the door, and opened it, little by little, gingerly. The corridor was empty. Arach, flinging caution over her shoulder, picked up her skirt with her free hand, raised the one with the blade higher, and ran down the empty, dark passage. As she turned a corner at full speed, however, she crashed against a tall, solid body. She quickly leapt back, and raised the dagger high. The Prince, clad as usual in black and his slight armor, with his beautiful eyes scintillating like lethal emeralds, smiled down at her a smile that glimmered dangerously in the darkness.

'Ah, the assassin holding up her victim's dagger against her victim,' he said gently, lazy laughter in his young voice.

'He told you, didn't he?' spat Arach, stepping back even though she was the one holding a weapon, 'he told you.'

'Sage?' said the Prince, his smile deepening, widening gleefully.

'Double-Game!' Arach sneered disgustedly.

'Ah, of course, you know him by this name. He is clever. Far too clever for his very own good—'

'But you trust him! What if he'd betrayed you! You shouldn't have trusted him! You should have—'

Arach suddenly stopped; as the Prince's smile softened, and he leaned his head on one side, staring down at her.

'I tortured you for days, I starved you, locked you up, beat you to unconsciousness, and you reproach me to be careful enough of my own security?'

'No! that's not what I meant!' Arach said hastily, and then, she advanced, carelessly, holding her blade higher: 'Never mind. Take me out of this castle or I'll kill you.'

'I see that with your health, you have recovered all your spit, fierceness and stupid carelessness,' he said, mockingly, 'pale assassin; I shall not move out of your way, and even less take you out of this castle. You have been brave, incredibly so, and stubborn beyond rationality; but what I want I will never give up wanting until I have.'

'I don't care what you want!' she cried, shaking her weapon at him, 'Come on, move away.'

'If you dare strike me, I promise I shall do whatever you want.'

She stepped back, taken off-balanced, not knowing what to do. Damn him to eternal abomination, anyone in his place would have already been running away screaming. Arach then did something bold and stupid; she ran up to him, and thrust the dagger in his hands. Surprised as much as herself for what she had done, he took it, but she had had time to toss herself past him, and dart down the corridor.

She had the advantage of surprise; but he had the advantage of being quicker, and knowing the place like his palm. She ran down a narrow staircase, jumped over the barrister, her legs flinching under her as she landed on the floor, and dashed down yet another corridor. After a while, she stopped; he was not following her anymore. Arach didn't take the time to sigh with relief, and ran down the corridor in which she was, opening the first door, then blindly tossing herself down steep stairs, then opening yet another door, crossing an empty chamber, and then bursting in a room hung with deep velvets and filled withhold men gravely talking under the purplish lights of the torches. Arach, as she tore for the opposite door, yelled, on the off chance:

'The Prince is hurt! He needs help.'

She crashed through the next door, crossed yet another empty corridor, and ran down yet another staircase. She stopped, catching her breath in a long, sharp hiss, and clutching her hand to her chest. This passageway was empty, dark and narrow, and lined with narrow doors. Arach ran to each of the doors, and found, with increasing rage and chagrin that they were all soundly locked. Finally, she reached the end of the corridor, found a dead-end, and whipped around back towards the stairs, running right into the Prince's arms.

Arach gasped, and grabbed his tunic, pushing herself away, but he held her tight. He hugged her, and kissed her hair, laughing in a way she could not have believed possible from the man who'd starved her till she could not move and beat her into unconsciousness. It was a laughter filled with amusement, pleasure, good-humor.

'I gave you the dagger!' wailed Arach, 'I could have killed you and I didn't!'

'Yes!' he said, stroking her hair and laughing in triumph, 'You could have, but you didn't; but that was for the simple reason that you couldn't.'

'Liar! You know I could have killed you as easily as snap my fingers!' she cried furiously, struggling against him with all her might, 'Let me go!'

'No. I'll never let you go.'

'You'll have to! Either when you'll be tired of beating me for nothing, or when you'll finally kill me!' she cried, with a raging jubilation in her voice.

'Shut your mouth,' he told her, 'I won't beat you anymore. You proved me you were stronger than strength. No. I'll try to seduce you.'

'Ha!' she cried with magnificent scorn, 'we'll both be dead by the time your seduction will have any effect.'

'Do you think so?' he said brightly.

He took her back up the top floors of the palace; pushing her in front of him through the dark, torch-lit corridors, steering her with his two hands on her waist. She spat and snarled, she howled and menaced, she screamed, stormed and raged; but he nonetheless succeeded in taking her where he wished to take her.

It was a large room: comfortable, of a luxurious simplicity: white walls covered by heavy emerald-green and sapphire-blue velvets, stone floor covered by white rushes, two tall, narrow, diamond-paneled windows framed by thick ruby-red curtains and screened by heavy, trailing white layers of muslin. In the middle of the room, a large canopy bed, hung with crimson curtains and covered by a large satin, cream-colored counterpoint and similar cushions. Wardrobes, bookcases and desk where of polished ebony, the fireplace was carved, with a mantel-piece covered in a long collection of thick books, two large easy-chairs in front of the hearth, a table holding a bowl of tiny scarlet berries, and a tall, large mirror was standing next to the bed, reflecting the dancing light form the fire.

'What is all this about?' said aggressively Arach, stopping abruptly so that the prince bumped into her, which he did with an evident pleasure, 'I don't like this at all. Where are the brands to burn me into submission? Where are the knives to cut my flesh until—'

'Will you be quiet, for once!' said the Prince.

He pushed her lightly in.

'You know what? You go to sleep. Do not worry,' he said, loudly and rising a hand when he saw her open her mouth, 'I won't come and visit you during your slumber. Here,' he added, 'is the key of your room. You can lock yourself in if you wish.'

'Oh,' said Arach, low and furiously, 'and what about the other one you keep with yourself?'

'Remarkable child,' said the Prince, cheerfully.

He grabbed her by the sides of her face, kissed her full on the mouth, his lips lingering upon hers as he pressed the silver key into her hand; and stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Furiously, Arach threw the key to the door; it clinked against it, and fell on the floor clattering sweetly. How dared he kiss her like this, as if he had never tortured her as he had done! How dared he act as if he was merely her host, courteous and loveable.

'Curse you!' she screamed at the door.

She ran to it then, and tried to open it; but it didn't move one hair-breadth. He had locked it from the outside, and with another lock than the one for which she had the key. Arach cursed luridly, and kicked the door, hurting her knee and bare toes. She screamed, raged, hammered the door with helplessly small fists, and finally ended by flinging herself on the bed, falling asleep alarmingly quickly in the scented satin pillows.

She woke up with bright grey light streaming from the windows, making sleep not anymore possible. Cursing, she sat up, and drew the skirt of her gown back down her legs. She sat up, heavily, and looked around, still unable to believe that she wasn't either in her dungeon or in the Prince's bed-chamber. Loyal to herself, she decided to look for a weapon.

There was nothing useful. The wardrobes were filled with luxurious garments of diaphanous silks and rich velvets, and the only things except from clothes in this room were the thick leathered books, the burnished wooden bowl of berries and the fire. In a way, she could make a weapon of all of these: she could strangle anyone with the clothes, she could use the bowl to knock down people, and the fire to draw them away, but it wouldn't be of any use against the Prince; too quick for her, deadly graceful and slender.

'Damn him! Curse him! Be he—'

She was cut in the middle of her sentence by the arrival of the object of her dark maledictions. The Prince, coming bouncily in, dressed as usual with his becoming blacks, looking cheerful and extremely genial, said brightly:

'Ah, I believe you were talking about me, then.'

He grinned a wide, brilliant grin that very nearly made Arach forget all he had done to her.

'What do you want?' she shouted at him.

'Merely to feed myself on the sight of your lovely face.'

'I hate you! Bog off!' she yelled, beside herself, 'give me a weapon! Beat me! Lock me up but just stop acting like this! As if you were some kind of courteous prince!'

'That is what I am,' he said, smiling in an adorably modest fashion.

'Oh no! I don't think so!' she said with fury, 'what about those few last days, eh?'

'You will forget about this incident,' he said airily, dismissing the fact with a wave of his hand.

'Oh, yes, I am obviously going to do this,' she snarled, with an angry snigger.

He majestically ignored the irony, and said:

'Do you intend to spend the day in your nightgown?'

'What are you talking about?' said Arach briskly.

'I thought I was clear enough in formulating my inquiry: Are you going to spend your day in your nightgown?'

'You mean this thing? She said poisonously, tugging at the front of her black silken dress.

'Exactly. This thing. I would prefer that you may dress more properly.'

'I don't care what you would prefer,' she said with the brutality of sheer rebellion, 'I just want you either to let me out of this room, or you to just bog off.'

'Manners manners,' said the Prince, mildly.

He advanced towards her, placidly, shoved her on to the bed, and then steered over to one of the wardrobes.

'I don't know much of women's art of dressing, but I think red and black are your colors. I would never think, for example, to dress you in—' he pulled out a long, silky rosy-pink dress from among the other gowns—'Pink!'

He laughed out loud.

'Imagine! The fierce little assassin in a pink dress!'

The idea seemed to form a very delightful picture in his mind, for he laughed even more, and then tossed the gown away.

Arach, meanwhile, edged, as if nothing, towards the unlocked door, her hands behind her back, and looking at the prince in a way she hoped most charmingly innocent. He was still in the wardrobe when she reached her goal, and she swiftly turned around to open it, but she hadn't even had time to turn the handle that she felt two powerfully fine arms circling her waist, embracing her. The Prince, still laughing, kissed her neck, and she turned around as if he had bitten her.

'Ugh, let me go!' she cried, pulling both hands against his marble chest and pushing.

'Oh, would I?' he said, laughing with his thin lips to her cheek, 'where are you going, assassin?'

'Anywhere, as long as it's far from you.'

'So be it. Kiss me and I'll go.'

'No way!' she yelled, wrathfully indignant.

He released her, with a deep, dramatic sigh, declared:

'Very well. I am afraid your desire is my will, therefore, I shall withdraw. But I shall come back too.'

He pushed her away from the door, and, taking a key from beneath his light black armor, he unlocked the door, and opened it.

'Hey, wait a minute!' cried Arach suddenly, thinking about something, and running to catch his arm.

'Oh, how lovely! You finally realized how much you need my splendid presence to breathe freely,' said the Prince sweetly.

'Dream on!' she said, annoyed, and went on quickly, 'I wanted to know what you have you done with Thunderion?'

'Aah, you just gave me the perfect weapon to blackmail you. A deal, opaline: you dress properly, act politely (I know how those words mean but very little to you,) and in return, I shall tell what I did of your fellow-rebels.'

'I ain't no reb—' started Arach, but he had already walked through the threshold, and shut the door behind him. She heard his key sing in the lock, and then his quick, decided footsteps fading away down the corridor at the same time as his soft, gleeful laughter.

Author's Exceedingly Absurd After-note: So? How do you think I coped with the Prince's whip-around? I don't know if you really say this in English, but well, after all, I daresay all of my readers are clever enough to know what I mean. I mean that if you don't know what I mean, then it means that you don't know anything I mean at all, and then all of this doesn't have any meaning, see what I mean? (Sorry. I know this was a perfect piece of nonsense, but well, anything perfect is perfect, be it perfectly imperfect. Oops, sorry here I go again.)

Aaaaaanyway. I am in a horrendously cheerful mood, as you might well have noticed; and this because…: it's only –7 days till school! I feel I will die before the 8th day finally comes. Aaaanyway. Just review. And I mean it. I mean that I bet lots of people read my story without reviewing it, which is a perfect scandal! Talking of Scandals, I am nearly at the end of the Count of Monte-Cristo, if anyone knows about this book, by A. Dumas father. It is wicked, anyone who knows how to read and what to read should have read it. And I mean it. Neeeever mind. Just and uniquely REVIEW! (you can also e-mail me. I am sooo disappointed when I don't get any e-mail.'