Thanks to all those who favorited this story! I greatly appreciate the time everyone took to read and add…I'd love you even more if you reviewed and told me if there's anything in particular you do or don't like ;)

I scrapped this chapter and just started anew, it's shorter than I wanted but my regimen of Nyquil for the flu and hydrocodone for my recent hand surgery keep me pretty much too sedated to write more than segmented drabbley things. Sorry. Amazing what a flu will do.

It resounded like thunder, a ball of seismic energy in Abigail's stomach. Rolling and turning, she could feel the bile at war with her insides, rising in her throat. Distantly, she could make out words; chanting. Warmth, alien, oozing through her veins, marching in time to the steady beat being chanted.

It was somewhere near her.

It flashed behind her eyes before burning her throat, spilling from her mouth. It tasted of acid, it smelled of fire. Sweat beaded on fevered skin. The incantation gained a counter rhythm, uneven in tempo and pitch. Another wretch, flowing like lava.

Something was above her.

It was cool, running over her face and washing away the sick. The voice was closer, the concord timbre chasing away the pain like the morning sun broke through the night. It was familiar, she now noticed. From where, she could not place. It was shaken. It was smooth.

Eyes opened wide, wild and unfocused. Shadowy figures looked over her, but all she could see was blonde hair and angular jaw. Blue eyes like the sapphires that had adorned her mother's elaborate rings. His mouth was still moving, but she could barely make out anything. Her heavy lids drifted shut, only a few of his words making it to her ears.

"…thank Avo you're awa…"

"…to drink some water, Princess…"

"…maker, can you hear…"

When her eyes opened again, she found herself again looking into that familiar stare, though it was uncharacteristically soft. Lips curled to a small smile as his hand brushed a lock of hair from her face.

"I was wondering when you would grace us with your consciousness," he chided. "To think I thought I would have to take over this rebellion of yours."

"Shut up, Captain Finn." Voice eroded by the bile, she cringed.

For a moment, an inscrutable look passed over his face, however he was quick to recover. "I wanted to apologize. For what I said before-"

"Don't," she whispered. "It doesn't matter. What happened, happened."

His fingers worked gently through her hair, absently as he pieced his thoughts together. "It does matter."

"I harbor no animosity, Captain. I assure you." Her hand raised to press against the cut on his neck. "You are not the only one with regrets." He looked as if he was ready to argue his point, but stopped when he saw her eyes welling slowly. "Now tell me Walter is safe."

The soldier's shoulder's sagged. "Safe? Indeed he is. He is, however, in far worse shape than you, my dear Princess. The Auroran's finest healers are with him," his fingers to her shoulders kept her prone. "The best thing you can do for him is rest. Working yourself up will only make him kill me after he awakes."

She couldn't take it anymore. Brief flirtations had gone on much too long, slowly growing bolder. Lingering touches, his hands trailing over her shoulder, down her arms and across her knuckles. She couldn't take it any longer. Combined with the insufferable heat and, even worse, the humidity, Abigail was fit to burst.

As she lowered herself into the awaiting bath, warm and scented with honey, she couldn't help but wonder why she had allowed him to get under her skin so. Sure, he was handsome, but she had met dozens of attractive men and women alike in her travels. Ben was brash and harsh in every manor of speaking, his temper hot and his words always walking that thin borderline of appropriate.

Soapy hands scrubbed at the days worth of dirt, blood and grime accumulated in the forsaken desert she now occupied. Salt and sand itched her scalp, leaving it as irritated as she had felt upon entering her temporary chambers. But, finally left to her own devices, the princess found herself becoming less tense. Close to content, even.

Unconsciously, a hand traveled down the porcelain skin of her clavicle, past the shapely curve of her hips and to the sensitive folds between her thighs. A soft sigh escaped chapped lips; nearly a year had gone by since Elliot's death and the last time her body has truly been allowed to relax in such a way.

Dexterous fingers circled and dipped, working a slow counter rhythm around her nub. A choked gasp, eyes drifted closed and head tilted back. Her second finger plunged past the ring of muscle. Her chest heaved. She heard her soft moans, distantly as a second hand joined. Body tense, a name spilled from wanton lips, before shifting hips gave way to quaking thighs.

Her breath was ragged as she wiped her forehead with the back of a hand. Eyes slipped open, the room empty and cold. She hadn't felt so alone before.

Ben.