2-24-2009

Author's Note: In honor of Fat Tuesday and Baroness Orc's request, I have posted more. Unfortunately, I will be in a coma-like state of half-hiatus, so don't expect updates for a few weeks.... Alas! Enjoy the cliffie, and as always, please review! (Hint: the more reviews, the sooner I will find it in my heart to update.) Pip, pip, cheerio!

Chapter 13

Two boys, barely in their teens, were standing on the road, having been told to keep watch. In reality, they were doing more pretend sword fighting and sorcerer slaying than actual watching. When the short, pudgy boy parried at his scrawny friend's knees, he was dazed when a wolf came running up and barreled into him. Of course he stabbed it before it could get away. Then, for good measure, the scrawny boy stabbed it again, right in the ribs.

Isabelle was sprinting so fast that she slammed into two boys, knocking them over. A sharp pain split her side; it became strangely wet. Isabelle was dazed for a moment, her world spinning around her. This gave one of the boys enough time to catch hold of her neck. She felt another, smaller pain in her side and bit back a scream.

"Halloo," the scrawny boy called to the mob, "I've caught the wolf."

"Yesh," the pudgy boy lisped, "We've got 'ther."

Isabelle strained, trying to bite the boys and break free, but they held her fast. Isabelle barked, trying to get Trestan's attention. The battle, however, was not going well for Trestan. The mob had forced him out of the trees by setting them ablaze. They were fighting now, trying to surround Trestan, who was struggling with the strength of a bear.

The mob's leader flung a rope at the two boys. "Good work," he called. "Take it back to the village. We shall be along shortly."

"Aye, sir," the scrawny boy replied.

They tied Isabelle's legs together impossibly tight and drug her on the snowy road behind them. Isabelle's side burned as she was moved. She whimpered, but the boys ignored her. They walked leisurely, chattering about how they would be known in their village as the ones who had captured the wolf.

Isabelle began to cry. She would be killed in the village, as Trestan would be killed in the brush-filled hills. Trestan deserved better than that; he would have made a good and noble king. Isabelle only wished that she had been able to break his curse and hear his secret before she died.

Isabelle was afraid, not of death, but of the judgment which came after. She had done nothing great or kind in her life; too many regrets flooded her consciousness at that moment. Isabelle wished that she had been kinder to Trestan, if she had been, he would not have left, and they would not be killed now. The guilt for all of the sins she had committed and for everything she had left undone flooded her soul.

Time was precious, or, at least, what was left of it. Isabelle sifted through her memories, savoring the ones of Trestan, her parents, Antoine, Marie, and any of the times she had ever felt joy. These were what life was about, why it had any meaning, Isabelle realized. This was what God had intended when he had made the world.

The boys stopped for a moment to rest. Isabelle was thrown into the snow for a moment before they took off again. Isabelle shivered; the cold was wonderfully intense—definitely better than the alternative of feeling nothing. But the only part of her that was warm was the burning pain in her side. Soon that too would become cold.

The hours spent going back to the village went by quickly. Soon they were back to the place where Trestan had confronted Isabelle right outside the village. Isabelle could hear someone approaching from the direction of the copse. She shuddered, trying to be brave, now that the time had come. Isabelle could not see anything; she was facing toward the village, unable to move.

"Who ith there?" they pudgy boy said, alarmed.

"Only me," a familiar voice answered, half-disguised by the local accent. Isabelle knew that she was deceiving herself by allowing herself to believe that it was Trestan.

"What do you want?" the scrawny boy drawled.

"To tell you that I will watch the wolf, while you two go and help fight," the voice offered. "The attacker got away. They are in need of two brave boys like you to go and help them track him down to kill him."

"All right," one of the boys replied. "As long as you don't tell the rest that you captured the wolf. "

"You have my word," the voice promised solemnly. "Go on now. The sooner you go out and help, the better."

With shouts of excitement, the boys handed the stranger the rope and went off into the night. Isabelle was dragged along for a few more minutes, and then the stranger stopped abruptly. Although the rope holding her legs together was removed, Isabelle remained where she was, partially out of fear, partly because her side burned if she moved.

"Isabelle," Trestan whispered, torn between urgency and joy, "we have to go now. Come on, get up."

"I cannot," Isabelle choked. Isabelle's side burned. She didn't want to move, even though she knew that it was urgent.

"Come on…" Trestan urged. "You're bleeding," Trestan gasped in disbelief. Although the night was bitterly cold, he ripped apart the hem of his shirt and wrapped the makeshift bandage around her side. "That should help stay the bleeding," Trestan said, mostly to comfort himself. "Do you think you can move?"

"Do I look like I can?" Isabelle asked sharply. Her side hurt her more when she spoke. "Sorry," Isabelle whimpered.

Trestan smirked despite himself. "I will carry you, then." He carefully scooped her up in his arms. Isabelle, head against his chest, had forgotten how large Trestan was. His arms felt strong enough to circle the whole world; if Trestan could do that, he could certainly keep Isabelle safe. There was a jolt as Trestan started to move. Isabelle bit her tongue to keep from crying out; she stiffened. Trestan slowed down, moving as if Isabelle was made of glass. Isabelle was grateful when she drifted off to sleep or unconsciousness, she couldn't decide which.

Time was a blur for Isabelle. She slept, barely acknowledging the world outside of her own consciousness or whether she was a wolf or a maiden. She remembered being so cold that she thought she was dead, and then so warm that she believed she was in Hades. The worst part of those days was the dreams. Always in her dreams were mobs of villagers, angry faces leering at her in the firelight. They were always too many for Trestan. Even if he tried to run, he could never get far. In the end the gangs always found their quarry.