Chapter V

The Jabberwock

How long she was held by the trees, Eirika didn't know. Since the sparse bits of sky she could see through the wide canopy above her were still splintered, she had absolutely no way of knowing how many hours had passed. Her body had gone numb quite some time ago, and her vision was fading in and out from blood loss which had long since stopped. All Eirika could do was listen to her pounding headache and try and make sense out of this seemingly senseless place.

She knew Alice was responsible for her being here. The girl had mentioned the name 'Paradise' more then once in their very brief meeting, and whenever Eirika thought of Lyon being responsible for this

. . . She didn't let her mind stray into that area.

"Isn't this fun, misses!" she heard Joshua shout from her left (the tree was holding her so tightly to the trunk that she couldn't turn her head), "I do wonder, wonder where we'll go!"

Eirika inhaled a brief, sharp breath of air and, once again, tried to break the hold this demonic tree had over her. The only thing her struggling succeeded in was weakening herself even further and causing great scratches up and down her legs. It was humiliating that she, who expected to defeat the Demon King Formortiis, was being held at the mercy of trees. Eirika knew that she would never be telling her brother or any soldier in their army about this event.

The tree suddenly dropped its hold upon her, and Eirika felt her left ankle twist underneath her as she fell to the leafless ground in a heap. At the pain in her ankle, she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out; then stood up as quickly as she could, looking around with as much courage and pride as she could muster in her condition.

She and Joshua were now in an odd, almost ritual-like clearing in the forest. A perfect ring of trees – holly trees, she noticed, with white berries instead of red – surrounded them and springy, vibrant green grass was planted beneath Eirika's feet.

The clearing stood out so vividly in the forest because its trees and its grass were so very much alive when everything else in the woods had been dead. Several small lines of flowers crisscrossed in the circle of grass and Eirika felt a bizarre mixture of paranoia, hatred, and adrenaline rush through her veins upon recognizing what type of flowered plant was growing.

Belladonna; arranged in lines similar to a five-point star.

"I'd prefer hemlock myself, but Miss. Bella asked that Miss. Donna be planted and not Mr. Hem and Mr. Lock," a voice, perhaps that of a little girl, echoed in the clearing.

Reflexively, Eirika reached at her side again for the absent rapier that was not there and looked around for the person who had just spoken. It sounded like a little girl had just talked, but she was quickly realized and reminded herself that this was a so-called 'Paradise' and nothing in it had made logical sense so far.

The voice giggled obnoxiously; a sound akin to the bells that Eirika kept hearing, though at the same time similar to a banshee's screech of joy.

"My, my, my, my, my. Aren't you a funny one Miss. Lady? I like funny people, but I'm afraid there aren't any around anymore. The funniest I've met is Miss. March and Miss. White and Miss. Mad."

"Show yourself, ghost!" Eirika shouted, braver then she felt.

She heard the giggling voice give a long, low sigh and spotted someone jumped down from one of the holly trees; she didn't see which particular one, however. At first, she thought that it was a small girl, no older than five or six years old, but a closer look revealed the child to be, not a girl, but, in fact, a boy.

The boy very small and slim, with a round face and long hair tied back with a very large bow. He wore a stiff uniform and long coat Eirika had never seen before, and his almost feline green eyes were obscured by a large hat. What really caught Eirika's attention was not his feminine appearance or odd clothing, but that in his hands he held a very familiar sword to Eirika; the Sieglinde.

"My name's not Ghost, Miss. Lady," the boy said hotly, though his voice was that of the taunting little girl, "Its . . . stupid, I forgot it!"

"That's a funny name!" Joshua shouted, causing Eirika to jump and turn around to spot the Prince of Jehanna sitting cross-legged in one of the holly trees, looking down upon the princess and the boy with wide, glazed over eyes and a delusional smile upon his face.

"Little boy," Eirika said, very stiffly and formally, as she turned round to face the boy again, "Please give me the sword. It's mine, and I lost it some time ago."

She wasn't surprised when the boy laughed loudly in his girlish way and shook his head.

"Nope, nope, nope!" he said, waving a finger hypnotically, "I want to play a game with you for three prizes!" He held up four fingers, and suddenly snapped two of them. "Jabberwock! That's me name, can't believe I forgot!" He laughed again, and Eirika could feel a headache forming in her temples from the giggling laughter.

"Please," she said again, "Just give me the sword."

The boy narrowed his brilliantly blue eyes, which made Eirika frown. Had they not been green a moment before?

"Not until we play a game," he said, so icily that the hairs on Eirika's neck stood on end, "It's going to be a 'game called guess' the number. I have a number in my head between one and one hundred, not one-o-one and not zero; nope, nope!" he tapped his temple with the hilt of Eirika's sword, which she was amazed he could lift, "If you guess the number correct, I give you two prizes. If you're up to five numbers below, I give you this thingamajig," – he held out the Sieglinde tauntingly – "And if you're up to five numbers above, I give you the other prize. If you're not any of them, I get to pick my prize." He tapped his chest importantly and nodded his head, so that slivers of his blonde hair fell across his tan face.

Eirika tried to think clearly. She needed the Sieglinde desperately if she had any hope of protection, for she was defenseless and Joshua (never mind his bewitchment) was likewise in lack of a weapon, but she was so poor at games of chance that she could not possibly hope to win, even with the odds Jabberwock proposed.

Inhaling deeply and speaking only to give her more time to think, she asked of the boy, "What is the other prize?"

"A friend of yours methinks and me believes," Jabberwock replied, nodding his head rapidly and resting the Sieglinde on his shoulder, "We can have another game to guess his name, since I know you won't recognize him!"

"Tell me his name," Eirika said in a hurry, balling her gloved hands into fists and speaking through clenched teeth. Her heart was pounding in her ears and fear was beginning to settle into her stomach. Why, oh Saint Latona why could nothing make sense in this evil place?

"We'll play a game to guess!" Jabberwock said firmly, his eyes – which were brown now – narrowing darkly, "A riddle guessing game." He snapped his heels together and cleared his throat.

"Opposite to dawn when Mr. Sun rises, a wee bit earlier then dusk. Not quiet that, my friend, my friend, for another letter follows what the sun does, eighteenth from the final letter and eighth from which we begin again! Can you guess the star night's name?"

. . . It made absolutely no sense, no sense whatsoever. However, Eirika mused, that was quickly becoming the norm for Paradise, so she resumed her thinking. What was she to do? She could guess a number and either claim her sword, claim one of her soldiers, claim both, or allow Jabberwock to claim a prize, which she felt might be her life?

Eirika sighed heavily and inhaled deeply, turning to the holly tree where the Prince of Jehanna was still sitting.

"Joshua, may I talk with you for a moment?" she asked quietly and quickly, trying to ignore the sound of her heart beating in her ears along with the sound of bells that she still kept hearing.

He snapped his eyes open so quickly that she jumped slightly and he leapt down from the tree with reflexes she was quite sure had nothing to do with his physique.

"But of course, misses!" he yelled obnoxiously, still smiling madly and still smelling strongly of belladonna. Eirika inhaled deeply to calm herself and grabbed his wrist tightly, staring deep into his glassy eyes.

"Please listen to me Joshua," she said, desperately, "I need my sword, and we need to rescue whoever this boy has captured. You're a fine gambler; I really need you to guess the number he's thinking of."

Joshua he blinked his clouded eyes and tilted his head on an angle. "You sound scared, misses!" he said.

"I am!" confessed Eirika, ashamed to hear a bit of hysteria creep into her words, "Joshua, please snap out of this! Don't you remember me? I'm Princess Eirika of Renais, from Serafew remember? Remember our army, our mission to kill the Demon King? . . . By Saint Latona, Joshua, remember your mother and snap out of this!"

Something flickered behind his glazed eyes, a shadow of panic and fear that made the hysteria and paranoia screech inside Eirika's heart. Her hands were beginning to shake and she gripped the swordsman's wrists tightly.

He was trying to fight whatever was manipulating his thoughts and actions, whatever spell that Alice had brought upon him, but Eirika's heart sank as the misted look reentered his burgundy glare. Was she supposed to guess herself and fail miserably?

"Is the number seven!" called Joshua, standing on tip-toes to exaggeratedly look over Eirika's shoulder. Her heart clenched with fear and she turned to watch Jabberwock's face, gripping Joshua's wrists tightly to stop herself from shaking with panic, though her eyes constantly traveled from the boy's face to that of the Sieglinde's sheath.

Finally, the riddler spoke.

"It was four. You win your friend, Miss. Lady."

His eyes sparkled with an emerald malice, and his voice suddenly changed. It was no longer the high-pitched and girlish one he had thus far used. It was a cold, fully mature female voice, slick and pitilessly empty. Eirika listened as, suddenly, the music of the bells died in her ears and her heart seemed to stop beating.

"But with every victory there is a price, and I hope you can pay it, my dear one, my dear one." He tapped the grass beneath them three times with his left heel and marched away, apparently disappearing beyond the holly trees. Eirika broke away from Joshua to stand just where Jabberwock had been, her teeth clamped tight together as she wondered where one of her companions was.

"Ooh, that doesn't look pretty . . ."

At Joshua's childish remark, Eirika turned around and felt the blood in her veins turn to ice. Her eyes widened violently and she felt bile rise in her throat as her knees buckled beneath her.

The proud Princess of Renais, who had killed so many to save her country and her continent, battled demons and survived the deaths of both her parents, could not quite stomach what lay before her, even though the figure was clearly alive and simply asleep.

Her hands shaking, she stared at the body of her soldier and uttered out the only words she could muster.

"By Saint Latona and Grado . . . By . . . Oh Seth, no . . .!"

How long he had been sitting by the well, Ephraim knew not. The sky never changed as the time passed, and thus he had no way of tracking the time. It took a long time for him to snap out of the stupor Cat had left him in, and when he did so it was only just to stand and slip the knife the half-demon (for that was all he could call Cat at the time, considering that he had assumed a human appearance) had given him into his belt.

Myrrh had headed north when he had told her to run, and Ephraim had to make sure the Manakete had not gotten herself into any trouble. A small smile lit up his face at the care and attention he gave to the indigo-haired dragon of Darkling Woods, rather like he cared for Eirika. Despite the impressive age she had once told him was her own, he still inclined to think of her only as a little girl.

Bracing himself for pain, Ephraim hobbled north on his broken foot, wincing whenever he had to put weight upon it. Although he was skilled at many things – fighting, strategy, geography – medical aide was not amongst those skills. Eirika had been the one to learn how to dress a wound, and Lyon the one to know how to mend broken bones via magic, so he had paid great head to learning the skill.

Something caught his attention to his left and he turned quickly, grabbing the knife he had so recently slipped into his belt and feeling paranoia flood his veins again when it had so recently left. However, nothing was there.

"Don't go mad," he told himself firmly, still holding onto the knife but continuing onward. Finding Myrrh was the only thing occupying his thoughts now, which made Ephraim's heart sink several notches as a realization dawned on him. Did he care more for Myrrh's safety then he did for Eirika's? His own flesh and blood – his twin for Saint Latona's sake! Ephraim paused for a moment to think, closing his eyes to do so.

What was most important to him? A great many things collided with his conscious mind at once. There was Eirika's well-being, the security of his army, the fate of his homeland, Myrrh's well-being, his country's legendary lance which he did not have in his possession. . . Where was his safety concerned?

"Far near the bottom, probably," he told himself, and suddenly realized he was speaking to himself, "Damnit, now you really are going mad."

Ephraim opened his eyes and let out a soft yell of mingled surprise and alarm, his grip tightening on the knife in his hand.

He was no longer in those empty hills, but in a vast plane of white snow and gnarled holly trees. The sky was no longer pitch black and empty, but a space of white without the faintest hint of weather or of sun or moon. There was nothing – save for him and trees – there to even mark the place as reality.

Ephraim knelt down into the snow, tearing off a glove to grab a handful of the white powder and make sure it was real and that he was not hallucinating or insane.

It was real, numbing his skin in a second. However, there was something beneath the snow that felt slick and smooth to the touch, and as Ephraim quickly cleared away an area he found it was ice.

. . . And somebody was beneath that ice.

A sickly frail figure, dressed in white clothing that rivaled the snow about him, and with skin to match. A woman with long blonde hair that floated about her oval face in waves, along with a cleric's veil, her blue eyes open wide and glassy, mouth agape and lips blue, starved for air . . .

"NATASHA!" he yelled, recognizing the Grado cleric in an instant.

Going on impulse, he dug the knife deep into the ice, pressing as hard as he could to create a crack with which he could create a large enough opening in the ice that would be wide enough to pull out the young woman. Blood was pounding in his ears, and his efforts turned to vain and the knife's flimsy blade broke to pieces against the ice.

"DAMNIT!"

He looked around. There was nothing he could find around him to use to break the ice; not a club or even a vaguely blunt object. Ephraim shook his head and, preparing himself for the pain, balled his hand to a fist and punched the ice as hard as he could muster. After a moment, he heard a faint cracking noise and saw that he had managed to create spider thin cracks across the surface.

Ignoring the agonizing pain that had blossomed in his knuckles, he continued to pound on the ice as hard as he could for several more minutes, trying to avoid looking at Natasha's ghostly face and deathly wide eyes . . .

There was a sharp cracking noise as a piece of the ice broke and snapped open, and Ephraim clawed the pieces away from the surface as fast as he could, to the point where it cut through his gloves and began to leave deep gashes in his hands.

His only thought was to get Natasha out of the water and not have her die, to not to be the last one to see the cleric in this forsaken nightmare of a place Alice deemed Paradise, not to be the one to cradle her body and give the service for her . . .

Freezing water splashed against his cheek, snapping him out of the ravaging mind Ephraim had fallen into. He plunged his half-gloved hand – for the razor sharp ice had torn the thick leather and fur to shreds – into the water and felt his fingers loose warmth in no more then a second.

He grabbed Natasha's wrist and heaved at her body, pulling her out of the water by the back of her neck. The cleric was still pale as death (the analogy left him feeling ill) as he dragged her out, but her body did not even show the slightest hint that she had been underwater. Her hair was dry, her clothes not the least bit damp or moist, yet Ephraim's hand was very numb with the task of pulling her out of the water.

"Natasha!" he yelled, grabbing her shoulders, the blood from his broken and cut knuckles staining her clerical white dress, "Natasha, please don't be dead! Wake up, please wake up!"

She couldn't be dead. Even though he cared for the cleric purely on a friendly base, Ephraim could not bare it if she were dead. He could not – would not – be the one to bury her and mourn her, not when her true lover was Saint-Latona-knows-where and the only other living thing about was the holly trees – which he wasn't even sure were alive.

"NATASHA, PLEASE WAKE UP!"

Her eyes, which had remained open, fluttered a bit, but she remained motionless otherwise. Panic taking a hold of him, Ephraim began to shake her violently, yelling incoherently at her – his ears had stopped listening to what he said.

Natasha suddenly raised a hand to touch something behind his shoulder, gasping for air as blood – but no water – poured to her lips. Life was flooding back into her pallid cheeks and eyes, but she remained misty and half-focused.

"Wings . . ." she coughed weakly, "I see wings . . . Lord . . . Prince Ephraim, is it . . .?"

"Natasha?" Ephraim asked quickly, and she looked at his face. What little coloring she had in her cheeks seemed to vanish as her eyes widened.

"Your Majesty, is it you?" she gasped, gripping his bloody hand very tightly and digging her nails deep into his calloused palm, "By Grado, please don't let it be you! You can't be . . ." More blood fluttered to her lips as she coughed again.

"Natasha, what's wrong?"

Was she dying?

Please don't let her die . . . Please don't let her die when I'm the only one around to mourn her . . .

"Your Majesty, please don't let it be true . . . Not like . . . Not like . . ." Natasha coughed violently and curled up slightly, still gripping his arm as if it were her last anchor to the world, "Not like Myrrh . . ."

"Myrrh?" Ephraim asked, very confused, "Natasha, what –?"

. . . But her body had suddenly fallen limp in his arms. Ephraim's eyes widened and he felt the color drain from his face as he gripped her shoulders even more tightly.

"NATASHA! NATASHA!"

I do not own Fire Emblem, Nintendo does. I own all original characters.