The fire had taken down a few of the flood lights, throwing the northern and western sides of the tower into darkness. With the camp still in chaos as they scrambled to dampen the fires and evacuate most of their force out of the valley, no one noticed Flynn repel down the side of the tower, covered by darkness and a hazy cloud of smoke.
He dropped to a crouch on the ground, scanning for any sign of life, any sign he'd been spotted. But the area was deserted, the shouts and running footsteps muffled by distance and blocked by crowded rows of tents and makeshift structures.
Behind him the rope twitched, then began to rise inch by inch as Pascal pulled it back into the tower. Flynn took a moment to thank his lucky stars that the chameleon had listened to him and remembered, and to hope that it didn't get distracted half way through.
Doubled over and low to the ground, he pushed himself forward to cross the short stretch of barren ground between the tower and the camp.
The thick canvas from the tents - once bright purples and pale yellows, cheerful blues and reds – hung in tatters, burnt and crumbling, now in the night the dark colors of war. A wind passed that he could not feel, but he could see the smoke billow past, blotting out shapes not ten feet away. Charred flakes stood out as specks of solid matter in the haze, but these sizzled and disappeared, as ethereal as everything else. And the canvas billowed like a sinking standard as the structures themselves threatened to fold in on themselves in surrender.
One of the lights had fallen onto its side, and with the smoke heavy in the air, the bright, white beam blazed through the camp, forming a tunnel of intense illumination setting off deep black shadows. Flynn squinted from the light, and gave it a wide berth. The next floodlight had exploded, littering the ground with shards of glass that crunched under his boots and dug into the grass.
An orange rolling glow rose up from the valley just ahead lighting the sky and casting the scene into silhouettes. It felt as if the very ground was heating in ominous waves that rose from what was once marshy greenery. He started to sweat in his jacket, the heat irritating his eyes and throat, the smoke groping its way into his lungs to slump into his chest, making him heavy and dizzy. It felt as though people were watching him, blended in with the shadows, watching but unable to touch him as soft, ghostlike fingers brushed the back of his neck.
His instinct was to sneak, to duck into the shadows and move like a phantom so no one would even suspect his presence. But then again, he wanted to be found. He needed to be taken to some higher authority so he could make his bargain and turn himself in.
That's when he realized he had no idea what he was doing.
Okay. Turn himself in. That meant he needed to find some people, and that meant heading towards the shouting.
He threw back his shoulders to make himself look taller, more self assured, more easily noticed and recognized. A smirk he didn't feel slipped onto his face to complete the illusion, and he felt a bit sick at how easily it appeared.
His face had never made him feel sick before.
Maybe it was the smoke and the stench. Choking down a cough, he set out through the camp with determination. He slipped through the narrow spaces between structures, avoiding toppled carts that rose suddenly out of the gloom, running into dead ends and blocked alleys, following voices that rose and fell in volume, that swung from fear to pain to panic, coming first from one way, then from another, turning him about as the space crowded in on him with another roll of smoke, another blast of heat, another surge of dizziness.
The edge of the clearing now devoted to the burning siege towers appeared, seeming far, far away one moment, only to open out before him the next, as if the darkness had broken open to spill a pink sky and roaring flames. Soldiers scrambled, forming lines to pass buckets of water, running with long hoses held by four men, beating at the flames with blankets and long coats and torn swaths of tent canvas.
In the dancing, orange light they could see him more clearly than they would be able to anywhere else in the flaming valley, and he struck a pose, folding his arms across his chest and looking enormously pleased with himself while he waited for someone to spot him.
"Hey! You!"
Flynn grinned, bracing himself to be dragged off and thrown in front of a general.
Someone hit him in the chest with a bucket, knocking the wind from him, sloshing water onto his chest as they thrust the bucket into his arms. "Don't just stand there, man!"
Flynn gaped, and looked up into the man's face, but he had already turned and shot off back to the fire.
And now Flynn had a bucket.
Clearly he didn't stand out as much as he thought he did. He was not an illuminated beacon and with the dark and the smoke and everyone's panic he would have to be more assertive.
He set the bucket down and strode towards the nearest group of men. Before he could reach them, they swerved like a flock of startled geese and disappeared into the night. Someone ran past him, swooping to pick up the bucket before they continued on towards the fire.
Flynn turned to the next closest group, men hauling a limp hose and shouting over their shoulders for someone to turn on the water.
Before he could make it to them, someone grabbed his arm and his heart leapt, only to fall again when he realized they weren't taking him prisoner. They were a dark shadow without features, and they grabbed two more people from the gloom and dragged them all across the clearing, running and stumbling and gasping through the thin air.
"Hey!" He grabbed at the hand fisted in the sleeve of his jacket. "Let go. What are you doing?" But it seemed that the form dragging him didn't even realize he was doing so. He was too focused on his goal and too frazzled to notice Flynn's words over the shouting, to notice the grip on his wrist over the heat and crackle of the flames.
Flynn was deposited next to a dark siege tower whose fire had been extinguished. In the flutter of light from the other flaming towers, he could barely see how it lay charred and heavy, fallen on its side onto a crate of cannonballs that has escaped to roll and scatter across the ground, to hide dangerously in the dark and send men tumbling as they stepped on them. "I need you to take me to-" A rope was shoved into his hands and whoever had handed it to him disappeared before he could finish speaking.
"Now, men!" came a shout. "Heave!"
The group that had formed around him – a group he hadn't really seen until that moment, and still couldn't really make out now - suddenly strained against the ropes in their hands, tugging the fallen siege tower to haul it back upright. He could only see them in glimpses now, figures with silhouettes blurred from the smoke that rolled across the ground in a new wave and filled his lungs with ash. He could only see them as shapes more solid that the darkness around them. He could only see them because they moved together, and because they made noise as they pulled, groaning and straining and cursing.
Flynn tossed his rope aside with disgust and slipped away.
He made it barely ten paces before someone ran up to him and shoved something heavy into his arms. "Take him to the infirmary!" The weight in his arms groaned, and Flynn balked as he realized it was a man, smelling of blood and ash and barely recognizable.
"Wait. I don't know where-" But the man who had dropped the injured soldier into his arms had disappeared.
Flynn swore, and shifted the body against him, slipping under one of its arms. It moaned again, and Flynn started walking in a random direction, his heart beating far too fast. This man was going to die in his arms and there was nothing he could do. Disgust and irritation warred in his stomach, only just holding back the renewed panic and guilt and helplessness. This man was going to die just like Rapunzel, and both would be entirely his fault.
Oh, God, Rapunzel.
Every moment might be her last and he did not have time for this. His chest grew tight, his pulse speeding faster and faster, and he clenched his jaw into a snarl as the man he carried slowed his pace with his limp, heavy shuffle. Flynn wanted to dump him on the ground and charge off, grab someone and tear the camp apart until someone helped her, until someone fixed her and made her laugh again. He wanted to shout and swear and punch someone, but instead he shifted the soldier's weight, and clenched his fingers tighter around his shoulder.
His free hand darted into the night and he grabbed the next shadow he saw by the back of its collar, causing it to yelp and stumble and nearly drop the bucket of water it carried. "Take this man to the infirmary!" he ordered, his voice ragged from the smoke and commanding from his irritation. He shoved the injured man into the other man's arms, grabbing the bucket and pulling it away.
He caught a glimpse of the man's face as he gaped at the form pressed upon him. Flynn caught a glimpse of the injured man's face too and purposefully looked away.
"Where's the general?" Flynn shouted.
"Where's the infirmary?" the man asked, looking distinctly pale in the orange light.
Neither had any idea. They quickly turned to go their separate ways.
Flynn tossed the bucket aside and grabbed the next figure he saw, growing more desperate and more angry with each second he spent in this hellish chaos. "Who's in charge here?" The figure shook his head, unable to speak from fear of Flynn shouting, and fear of the fire, and a great coughing fit that overcame him.
He slipped away and Flynn spun again, grabbing someone else by the arm. "I need to turn myself-" Again he was brushed off.
He stood there, rage filled and helpless as the smoke billowed past, stinging his eyes and plastering against his skin, growing thicker and thicker and weighing down whatever hope he'd had of saving Rapunzel.
He had to save Rapunzel. It was the only thing he wanted, the only thing he had left, the only thing that would give his life worth.
His muscles wound tight and burning beneath his skin, his fear so strong and sickly he threatened to explode, and he shouted at the sky and the fire and the smoke. "Damn it! Don't any of you know who I am?!"
A thick hand clapped onto his shoulder, sending up a cloud of black ash.
"Rider," a voice growled, and he was spun around before elation could light in his chest.
Above him loomed the Stabbingtons.
And all hope was lost.