A/N: Thanks to those of you who reviewed, you really make my life. I love you all -squeezes-. So I wrote this, and it turned out /really/ chaotic and scatterbrained. So I had to do one of the heaviest revisions since the first chapter, which I really didn't want to do. But I'm much happier with how this turned out now. Thanks to Yumishun for the LJ help. No thanks to LJ for breaking all week -.-;; Thanks for beta'ing (twice), Z, you're the best.
Oh, and if you couldn't tell, Katerina is Ukraine, and Katya is a diminutive of Katerina.
Warnings: violence and death
Chapter Eight
The day started out normally enough: the sun woke Alfred too early for his liking and he dragged himself out to meet Gilbert for combat practice. Arlya still forbade him anything more than two hunting daggers, but with practice, Alfred was becoming rather skilled with them for Gilbert was an effective teacher and now much more friendly after Daka's return. The goddess was still bedridden, and would be so for at least another week, and she wouldn't be at her full strength for a long time. However, even drained and injured, her skill would make her formidable in the Daemon War.
Gilbert and Alfred were sitting in the shade of the mountain hollow where they practiced when Pakram appeared, flanked by Francis and the grey, stern god of the household, Vahnic. The sun god was clad in bright plate armor with a gleaming broadsword at his belt. He also seemed to shine with an inner light as his power waxed with the lengthening days. Vahnic wore similar, though his armor was a more utilitarian grey-silver, a match to his his rough, lined face, than the shining gold of the sun god. Francis was as ostentatious as ever: a bright blue cape hung over his glittering mail, and one hand was one his gold-hilted sword, which upon examination was closer to a foil than the heavy sabers the other gods carried.
"The time has come for organized offensive measures," said Pakram while Gilbert and Alfred rose to their feet. "Today we mean to eliminate one of the High Daemons and claim the first victory of the war. Our power grows, and now is the time to end this series of stalemates."
"Who are we going after?" asked Gilbert. "I don't think it's a good idea to go after the stronger High Daemons quite yet. At least, not until Daka can fight with us."
"Agreed, Gilbert," said Pakram, beginning to pace. "Though there are merits to going after Ivan or Arthur and eliminating them, I think without a plan to keep them in place, they'd flee rather than fight."
Vahnic muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "cowards" and earned a glare from Pakram.
"It is not cowardice on their part but merely survival instinct, though it is frustrating to us," Pakram reasoned. "No, I think our best chance is to ambush the most powerful when they come to the aid of another. However, today we desire a clear victory, as much a symbolic victory as anything else. I've heard stories that the High Daemon of the southern forests is weak from a cruel winter and a dry spring."
Gilbert stood and flicked out his hunting daggers, flipping them with practiced hands. "Katerina?" he asked. "She's always been weak, though she is close with Ivan and Natalia, so I suppose her death could help undermine them emotionally. Though even weakened, High Daemons are hard to kill. How are we supposed to stop her from calling for help?"
"We'll have to deal with that as if comes. But she's our best choice for a relatively easy victory." The sun god turned to Alfred, who had sat, listening to the conversation with a mixture of exhilaration but mostly queasiness. "We could use your skills, Alfred. Do you wish to accompany us?"
Alfred jerked slightly upon address. His initial gut reaction was a firm "no," as no matter how they phrased or justified it, they were planning murder. It rubbed Alfred the wrong way. He cleared his throat and said in an unsteady voice, "I don't know. This Daemon, Katerina, hasn't really done anything, has she?"
His statement caused all four gods to stare at him, bafflement in all their eyes, whether because of his statement or that he had voiced dissent it was hard to tell. Alfred looked as his feet and shuffled until Vahnic's nervous laugh broke the silence.
"Come on, stupid boy; sure, she hasn't done anything, but that doesn't mean she won't. We need that forest for land and timber, and her death will be a blow against the Daemons, which is more important than whether or not she herself is an actual threat."
Alfred wasn't convinced and looked to Francis for help, but the god was staring straight in front of him, expression indiscernible. A different hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up at Gilbert, who was smiling down at him.
"Come on Alfred," he said. "This will be our first real victory. You want to be a part of it, don't you? Just think: Alfred, the warrior of the gods, respected and loved. Don't you want to be a hero?" Alfred found himself nodding slowly. Maybe if he could be a hero now, he might finally prove himself worthy to live among the gods. That would be worth the sickness in his stomach, he told himself.
"You're right, Gilbert. I'll come," he said, though his voice was still soft and unsure. Vahnic snorted. Alfred bristled at the dismissive gesture. He wouldn't be weak, not now.
His mind made up, he tried to force a confident grin and a nod, though it came out as more of a twitch. Alfred walked to Pakram, who would take him to their destination. He completely missed the furious and betrayed glare Francis sent Gilbert.
Alfred landed with a small crunch of fallen leaves. He looked around the sun-dappled forest. It was different than the other forest he'd been in around Aenea. Rather than made up of dark, shadowy evergreens, this forest was thick with great oak and birch trees, their long-stemmed leaves rustling in the summer breeze and dull green moss hanging off their branches like shawls. The ground between the trees was thick with shrubby undergrowth, filling the air with their heavy, hazy scent.
The five landed, taking in the scenery. There was no sign of the Daemon. Only a hush that seemed to weigh across their shoulders, making movement sluggish and clumsy.
"She should be nearby," Pakram said, looking through the trees. "Split up, and send up a signal if you find her. A whistle should do, nothing to startle her. But make it loud."
The four gods split off through the trees leaving Alfred in the clearing. Not knowing what else to do, he took to the air and headed east, keeping an eye out for the Daemon in the forest below. The sun rose to its zenith and bore down on him, until the heat was too much and he sought some relief down by a little stream that ran through two great granite boulders. As he splashed his face, he heard a muffled voice approaching from the other side of the spring. Panicking, he stumbled backwards into the undergrowth and hid, waiting to see whom it was.
A woman came into view, tall and wearing greyish-blue skirt beneath a white tunic. She swung a basket at her side, filled to the brim with food. Her light hair was cropped short and was pulled back by a leather band. She could have been described as plain except for her feet, which were graceful canine paws the bushy, brownish-grey tail that swept behind her. And her chest. Alfred watched in slight fascination as she bounced along past him, chanting some rhyme to herself.
Alfred knew he should send up the whistle, as here was the High Daemon right in front of him, but curiosity got the better of him. He watched her take a large, sleek fish and a bone knife out of her basket. She cleaned the fish with practiced hands and placed it in a small, clay pot she extracted from the basket before starting on the vegetables she had brought. Once finished, She walked to the river and rinsed her hands off. It was then Alfred caught a glimpse of something on her arms. Craning to get a better view, he spotted a rash of dark blisters running over her hands and up her arms, as if she had been burned.
Whatever it was, if obviously pained her, Alfred noticed as he watched how gingerly she moved, careful not to rub anything too roughly against her skin. As he sat, hidden, it dawned on him that this was the target, the one they were here to get rid of. Murder, Alfred corrected himself, growing nauseous. They were here to murder her.
He wet his lips, trying to muster up the will to summon the others, be a hero like Gilbert had said. But he couldn't do it. He was crouched, rooted between the bushes, staring at his victim. Eventually, he began to back away, leaving the Daemon behind, but froze when he heard a commotion from the woods that didn't come from him. The Daemon heard it too.
"Ivan?" she called. "Natalia? Is that you? You're both a little early, but you can help me with the yushka." When there was no response, she stood and took a step towards the noise. "Ivan?"
A dull grey blur shot out of the trees and knocked the Daemon down. She let out a faint cry as she hit the ground and rolled. A large boot pinned one of her injured wrists to the ground and the other was trapped beneath her. Vahnic stood above her and drew his sword, tilting her head up with its point. Her flesh hissed at the contact.
"Hello Katerina," he said, pleasantly, leaning down over her. "It's been awhile since we've spoken."
Alfred could hear nothing but her heavy panting. He wanted to help her, but couldn't figure out how. The god spoke again.
"I see you've been dealing with the forest fires. I thought even something like you would have sense enough to keep yourself from burning. I guess you're just stupid. The world won't miss you much."
Alfred scooted back, and a branch snapped beneath him. Vahnic spun and without lifting his weight off Katerina's wrist. "Show yourself!" he shouted.
Alfred edged out of the brush, not meeting Vahnic's eyes. "Useless," he muttered and Alfred stiffened and raised his head. He wasn't useless. He opened his mouth to retort when a new voice rang through the clearing.
"Katya?" it called. "Katerina, Natalia and I have arrived. We brought lots of good food with us." A massive figure broke through the trees into the clearing. It was Ivan, standing at his impressive height, though with a sincere, small smile half hidden in his thick, cream-colored coat. He held his own basket in both arms, like a child. Natalia appeared at his side, her face impassive, but lacking the coldness it held during battle.
Ivan froze at the sight and his smile dipped into a confused frown. He dropped the basket, its contents spilling out at his feet as he realized what was happening.
Taken by surprise, Vahnic swung his sword to face Ivan. But as his weight shifted, Katerina twisted her free hand under her, grabbing the bone knife she had used to clean the fish and plunging it into Vahnic's ankle. With a cry, he fell back. Ivan threw himself at the god, only to be driven off by the flashing of steal.
Vahnic had an advantage, as he was armed to fight, but he was outnumbered. He'd need the other gods to help if he wanted to complete the goal. "Alfred!" he shouted back to the petrified messenger, "Get the others! Get up, dammit, and whistle for them, you useless boy!"
Alfred was shocked into action by the words. He made a dash past the god towards the boulders lining the stream so he could push off. As he took his first leap towards them, a force slammed into him from behind, sending him head first onto the boulder. He turned upward, blinking away the black specks that swarmed his vision. He saw Natalia regain her balance, then one of her hands reached for her stone dagger. She lunged at him, snarling. Panicking, Alfred rolled off the boulder and fell into the face-first into the stream.
He flailed in the water, trying to find purchase with his hands and feet on the stony riverbed, trying to find anything he could push against. But when his boot finally found a grip, he felt something jagged lodge itself just over his shoulder blade. He gasped, inhaling more water than air, and thrashed against Natalia. She lost her footing, and the knife slipped down Alfred's side, leaving a long but relatively shallow gash. He found the foothold again and threw him into the air, escaping his assailant.
Alfred rose up, and curled into a ball in midair, fingers groping against his side as they tried to staunch the blood that stained his ripped tunic. He tried to focus, fighting through the nausea that accompanied the pain.
Vahnic was down there, he thought. He would be torn to shreds alone. As much as he dislike the god, he couldn't—wouldn't stand by while that happened. He tried to whistle, and thought he might have managed it, though it felt as if cotton had been stuffed in his ears. Worried that he might not have been heard, he flew off in search of the other gods, a steady drip of blood following him.
He flew through the treetops, though his vision swam, and the nausea was becoming too much to bear. He lowered himself onto a branch and clutched the trunk as if his life depended on it. His fingers reached across his back and pressed experimentally against his side. Thankfully, only the stab in his shoulder was deep, though the shallow gash bled freely. He tried moving his shoulder to assess the damage. The first twitch sent him over the edge. He clung to the trunk with his good arm as he emptied his stomach contents onto the ground below.
Bracing himself, he eased himself out of his tunic, not too difficult as it had been slashed along with his side. With trembling hands, he ripped it along the seams until it was just one long strip. He was never sure quite how he managed to fight the smoldering ache in his side long enough to wrap his torso as tightly as he could manage. Though the tunic was already soaked with blood, the pressure took the harshest edge off the pain. When he was finished, he leaned against the tree trunk, panting.
He must dozed off, because awhile later, he awoke horribly disoriented and confused, the memories of the past hours a jumbled blur. There was a commotion in the forest ahead. Piecing together what he could, he realized the gods must still be there, fighting. The fabric was still bound around his torso and showed no sign of slipping as he rose into the air. Nevertheless, as he flew, he was careful to stay as steady as possible.
As he approached the scene, he slowed and stopped, shaking his head. The battle was raging below him. He felt cold dread pool in his gut as he looked on.
Though outnumbered and with no proper weapons, the Daemons were holding their own. They moved with such ease over the land, as if it were a part of them, which the gods simply could not keep up; however, he noticed Katerina had become sluggish and her movements pained. She held only the bone knife in her trembling hands, but she faced the gods nonetheless.
Of the gods, Francis was faring the worst. He was bleeding from a slash across his temple and had to keep wiping the blood from his eyes. Natalia seemed to have sensed his weariness and focused her attacks on him.
She was a flurry of movement, advancing on Francis with the one stone dagger she always kept with her. He lost ground, edging back towards the boulders the stream flowed through. Despite the advantage the metal of the sword gave him, the most he could manage was to keep her from landing a direct hit. Then his back hit the cold stone, and Natalia got under his guard and knocked the sword from his hand, not flinching as it brushed her bare arm.
Alfred looked on from above as the sword clattered to the ground. Natalia struck with purpose and cold, hollow fury. Alfred didn't know if she could actually kill a god, but she certainly could maim him, for a long time if not permanently. One thought broke his frantic, confused mind. Francis was about to be hurt; Francis who was his friend. He remembered Gilbert saying something about heroes earlier. He wanted to be a hero.
As Natalia raised her dagger, Alfred dropped from the sky between her and Francis. She was knocked off balance and her strike went wild, finding only air. As Alfred hit the ground, he overbalanced and toppled over, away from Natalia.
"Alfred!" shouted Francis kneeling beside him. "What happened to you?"
Before Alfred could respond, Natalia regained her footing and lunged knocking Francis aside as she made for Alfred. The god let out a startled yelp and skidded across the ground, dazed. Natalia crouched beside Alfred, her eyes full of icy fury. She grabbed his injured arm and yanked him up. Alfred cried out as he felt the muscle rip, flooding him with a sharp, insistent pain that overwhelmed the dull, pulsing pain for before. His legs gave out under him and he dangled from her grasp, not noticing as she raised her dagger in her free hand. She swung it down when her own wrist was caught.
"How dare you touch him, you filth," growled Arlya, her white, braided hair glowing in the sunlight. Alfred stared up at her, uncomprehending. Arlya? How did she—?
Natalia struggled and managed to shove herself away from Arlya's grasp, dropping Alfred, who lay where he fell, staring out into the clearing. Natalia readjusted her grip on the dagger before leaping forward at the unarmed goddess. Arlya tried to dodge but Natalia spun at the last second and threw Arlya into the rocks. She landed with a heavy crunch and crack of her head as it snapped against the granite.
From across the clearing, Pakram saw his wife appear, then fall. He roared, abandoning his duel with Ivan, leaving him to Gilbert, and ran at Natalia brandishing his sword. She had ducked out of his path and was about to strike in retaliation when Vahnic gave a triumphant shout. He had his sword pressed into Katerina's neck.
"Got you now," he said.
Ivan flung Gilbert to the side, ignoring his sword and raced at Vahnic. "Katya!" he shouted. "Don't worry, Katya, I'll get you free." He had almost reached her when Natalia screeched as Francis recovered himself, crept up from behind, and caught her around the waist.
"Ivan, stop," the Francis warned, containing the thrashing Daemon with his arm and sword. "Hurt anyone else and she dies."
Ivan froze, trying to find a way out. He looked between Katerina and Natalia, wanting to save them both.
"Yes, that's right. Attack one of us, the other dies."
"Ivan," Katerina shouted, "Get Natalia and leave."
Ivan shook his head. "No!" he shouted. "I won't leave you here."
"Ivan, escape. I am too weary to flee, for I do not think I can manage to Alter or vanish. But you can and must get away."
Ivan's eyes began to water. "No! Katya—"
Katerina tilted towards Natalia.
"Natalia, vanish! You are strong yet."
"If she vanishes, Katerina will be killed, Ivan. You leave her to die."
"Natalia, do it!" Katerina shouted.
Natalia's eyes glittered, unsure and frightened.
"Please…"
Natalia vanished from Francis' grasp, reappearing behind Ivan who stared at Katerina with horror. With the heel of her dagger, Natalia landed a well-aimed blow on the back of his neck. She caught him as he crumpled into a heap and shifted him onto her rapidly changing body. With a final snarl she Altered her form into that of her lower Daemons. She stood, a shadowy Wolf-Daemon, and then leapt into the woods, Ivan on her back.
Pakram glared at the retreating shape, fuming. He turned to Vahnic, who held still held Katerina.
"We must amke good on our word then," he whispered, and with a soft swish, lifted his sword and faced Katerina. He examined her, panting and bloody. Vahnic's sword had branded her across the throat, but though her eyes watered, she did not weep. He raised the sword above him, bringing with down over her head, where it lodged in her skull. Vahnic released her, and she fell to the ground with a dull thud. Pakram jerked the sword from her body then turned from the body as it gave a last shuddering breath. She lay on her back, eyes hollow but open, tears held in to the last.
The sun god sheathed his bloody sword and found Arlya where she had fallen. She breathed too shallowly, and blood trickled through her hair and down her neck, staining her silver shift. He scooped her up and vanished, Vahnic and Gilbert following.
Francis returned to Alfred's side, fearing the worst. But although he lay still, his eyes were open and his breath came in ragged gasps. Sighing with relief, Francis picked him up, a bit of a struggle as Alfred was almost as big as he was, and took him back to Caelei where he could be properly attended to.
Alfred passed days and days in a dark haze between sleep and waking, only really aware of the pain that grew and faded in a seemingly endless cycle. Finally the haze began to clear, and Alfred awoke into full consciousness for the first time. He rolled over with a moan.
"Alfred?" came a voice from beside his bed. Francis was sitting, a book in hand. He looked tired, a bit battered, and very relieved to see Alfred awake.
"Francis? What day am I?" he asked, words horribly slurred.
"… Pardon?"
"Day?"
"You have been unconscious for over a week, if that's what you're asking. Nine days to be precise."
Alfred groaned. His tunic was gone but his entire chest was wrapped in white cloth bandages. The wounds on his back still hurt, but had faded enough to be bearable. His head hurt like nothing he'd ever felt before, a dull, persistent pain that pulsed in time with his heart.
Apparently, he mentioned the pain out loud. Francis offered him a cup of water and said, "I'm not surprised. You had one of the worst concussions I've seen. You and Arlya both. Natalia will pay for this."
"Arlya?" Alfred asked, trying to remember.
"She saved you. I don't know how she knew to find you at that moment, but I'm glad she did."
"Francis?"
"What is it?"
"Hungry. Really hungry."
Francis rolled his eyes and stood to fetch something. "I'm glad to see you are getting back to yourself, Alfred, but when I return, I expect complete sentences."
Alfred hummed in response and took in his surroundings. He was in his room, satchel and lyre at the foot of the bed where he had left them. He pulled his lyre close to him and strummed it. His fingers trembled, and he wondered if he'd be able to play for Arthur their next meeting.
Next time. Alfred's heart skipped a beat. How many days had he been unconscious? Francis had said nine days, so when would he have to go back?
A cold chill crept down his spine. The battle had been five days after his visit with Arthur. It had been two weeks, to the day. He needed to get there, now. If he didn't, he would face the consequences. he opened his palm and saw the scarred-over slash that marked his blood oath. If he didn't fulfill it, he would die. He rolled out of the bed and grabbed his lyre. His head swam again as he stood. Pulling on his boots, he flew to the gates of Caelei, leaving the room empty for when Francis returned.
Alfred stopped before the gates, landing and walking through it, making sure to keep the clear image of the hilltop where he and Arthur met. As he passed through, the warmth of Caelei was instantly sapped from him as he emerged into a cool, heavy rain. He looked around, though the persistent rain made it hard to see. The broken hills of the moor surrounded him, soil turning to deep brown sludge.
He felt the muscles in his back twitch and protest to their brief exercise, and the slash along his side had opened and was seeping through the bandages. Soon he was soaked and shivering as scarlet bled into the bandages and dripped onto the ground.
The wind whipped around him, plastering his hair to his face as he sunk to his knees, one hand groping to try to keep pressure on his shoulder. His heart hammered. Arthur had to come, had to be expecting him. It had been two weeks, if he didn't play today, he would die as the blood oath demanded.
Panic raced through him as he hugged himself, convinced that Arthur would not come for him. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the voice from behind him.
"You're late. I was worried you wouldn't show," said Arthur playfully. "It's rude to keep people waiting."
He received no response.
"Alfred?" He approached the kneeling human, who was soaked in rain and blood and mouthing something to himself while shaking uncontrollably. "Alfred!" Arthur cried, dropping down to his knees and unfastened his cloak. "Why are you bleeding? What the hell happened?"
Alfred jumped when he felt a warm pressure around him. He stared at Arthur, who was wrapping him in his cloak.
"You came," Alfred whispered.
Arthur looked truly frightened. "Of course I did. I've always come."
"I didn't want to die."
Arthur was now soaked to the skin himself, but hardly cared. "You're not dead. You're not going to be dead, either." He finished tying the cloak around Alfred's shoulders then took his hand and pulled him as quickly as he dared to find some shelter.
They came to a cliff that tapered back into the hillside, so that the ground was dry and sheltered from the wind. Arthur guided Alfred to the back wall and eased him down. Alfred clung to the cloak, still shaking. Arthur would have to start a fire, something to warm him.
Arthur took Alfred's cheek in his hand, tilting his head toward him. Once he had Alfred's eyes he said, "I'm going to get something to warm us up, so I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't you dare move, understand me?" Alfred nodded. "Good," Arthur said, standing. "Just sit still for awhile." He vanished.
Alfred sat alone under the cliff-side in the gathering dark. Five minutes passed, then ten. Alfred fidgeted, worried that he'd been forgotten. After half of an hour passed, he got to his feet in hopes he could find Arthur out in the rain, but before he could make it out from his shelter, he was startled by a shout and the sound of wood clattering to the ground.
"What are you doing?" Arthur shouted, grabbing Alfred's shoulders and herding him to the back to the cliff wall. "I told you to stay still, and you were about to go out into the rain again!"
"You didn't come back."
"Yes I did, you idiot; I'm right here," he said as he picked up a basket beside the wood and took out a covered clay pot, only big enough to hold a single serving. "I admit it took a bit longer than I expected, but not much. Really, Alfred, what the hell happened to you? I've never seen you like this."
Alfred shook his head and refused to answer.
Sighing, Arthur set the pot down beside Alfred and began kindling the fire, which he got burning rather well despite the weather. Once it was crackling, Arthur opened the lid of the pot, revealing a steaming, red stew.
"Eat some of this. It's hot and will warm you up," he said, forcing a spoon towards Alfred, who shook his head and turned away.
"Oh, come now, I didn't make it, if that's what you're worried about. It's good."
Alfred tried a bite and was rewarded with a bright, fruity flavor. Realizing how hungry he was, he took the spoon from Arthur and ate the stew himself. He watched Arthur warm himself by the fire, and felt its heat sink into him too, making him more lucid than he had been for many days.
"What is this?" he asked, indicating the stew. "It's really good."
"It's made from something called a 'tomato,' a fruit that grows in the south. The stew was made by an acquaintance from a nearby town. That was the reason I took a little longer than I expected to get back."
"You have human acquaintances?"
"Of course. Most Daemons do."
Alfred stared into the fire as he finished. After a moment, he said, "I don't suppose you have any more?"
Alfred was surprised when a small, relieved smile broke Arthur's expression. "No, sorry, but you obviously feel better."
"Much."
"Then tell me what happened?" he asked, almost pleadingly.
Alfred was surprised by the question, but, setting the empty pot aside, he recounted what he could remember of the fight in the forest. When he came to Katerina's murder he stopped, feeling sick.
"And…" Arthur prompted, pale and wide-eyed.
"He killed her," Alfred whispered, hugging himself. "She wasn't even a threat, and she was already hurt."
Arthur nodded. "Yes, I've heard that the lower forests have been ravished by fire this summer," he trailed off into silence for a moment. "I can't believe it. Katerina, dead. They've done it. They finally killed one of us. But Katerina? Of all the Daemons…"
"You knew her?"
"Of course, all High Daemons know each other. She never has been—was," he corrected himself with a grimace, "very strong, and I'll admit I've liked others better than her, but she did not deserve to be slaughtered in such a manner. Natalia and Ivan must be heartbroken."
Alfred nodded. He was shaking again. "I can't believe Pakram would do that," he said. "I mean, I knew that's what we were there to do, but I never actually believed someone would die. Or maybe I thought she would deserve to die." Tears leaked out of his eyes. "But she didn't and I couldn't stop it. I was involved! If I hadn't been there, maybe—"
"Stop," Arthur ordered, glaring at Alfred. "Do you really think that the gods wouldn't have managed without you? You may be convenient, but you're not that important to their cause."
Alfred hesitated. "I'm not sure if I should be relieved or insulted."
Arthur chuckled, stood, and joined Alfred against the cliff wall. "Sorry, that was supposed to reassure you. Not that it's very reassuring to be helpless." Alfred nodded, his eyes closing.
They stayed in silence for a long time, listening to the rain that splashed just a little distance away. Suddenly, Alfred sat up with a jerk and pulled out his lyre.
"I've got to play."
"No, not tonight. You're hurt. Just sleep."
"No, I have to play," Alfred insisted. "If I don't the blood oath will kill—"
Arthur turned to Alfred and placed two fingers on his lips silencing him. He seemed to be fighting with himself. After a moment, he looked into Alfred's eyes, his own shining with conflict.
"I…" he began, the halted, as if trying to dislodge something from his throat, "I release you from your oath, Alfred," he said, voice trembling.
"What?"
"I release you. You don't have to play for me tonight, or any night hereafter," said Arthur as he turned his back to Alfred. "I could have killed you tonight," he said, almost to himself. "I won't risk that again. Not for something like this."
Alfred was silent for a moment, Arthur's words sinking in. "Thank you," he whispered. "That means a lot to me."
"I suppose this will be our last meeting then, until the inevitable," Arthur said and smiled sadly to himself.
"What do you mean?"
"We're on opposite sides of a war, Alfred; we'll meet in battle."
"But why is this the last meeting until then?" Alfred asked. Arthur turned back to face him, confused.
"You're released."
"Yes."
Arthur stared at Alfred, trying to understand what he was implying.
"What—?"
"The gods don't have to know that. Goodness, Arthur, just because I don't have to come doesn't mean I won't."
"You mean you want to come?"
"Of course I do," Alfred said, poking Arthur on the nose. "I mean, think about it. Arlya was overprotective before. She'll be a terror now. I'll need this just to escape from Caelei, because you can bet she won't let me out willingly. I'll need this, need you. So don't get killed, alright?" He sighed and sunk to the ground, letting his eyes slip shut. He didn't look up to see Arthur stare down at him, flushed scarlet in the firelight.
For a moment, Arthur thought Alfred had fallen asleep until he opened his eyes and looked up.
"Arthur?" he asked.
"Yes?"
"Tell me another story. You promised."
Arthur hid fond smile behind his hand. "That's the real reason you're coming back isn't it?" he teased. "You greedy child."
"I'm not a child," Alfred whined.
Reaching over, Arthur patted him on the head, sniggering. "Of course you're not, dear."
Alfred squirmed away from his touch. "Story," he demanded. "Who's the Sparrow? You mention it last time."
"Mentioned him," Arthur corrected, drawing his hand back. "It started a few hundred years before Laurel was said to have lived…" he began, launching into another legend of the nomads.
After the Sparrow, Arthur told him of other constellations, though they couldn't see them tonight. When Alfred seemed to have drifted off to sleep, Arthur stood and went to the fire.
As he stoked it, turning the blacked logs so they reignited, Alfred spoke from behind him.
"Don't go tonight," he whispered. Arthur stood, looking at the boy curled in his cloak.
"I won't," he said. "Someone needs to stay and keep the fire burning. I wouldn't want you to die of a chill. That would be unfortunate."
"It would," Alfred agreed. "I wouldn't find out how that last story ended."
"Go to sleep, Alfred."
"Promise you won't leave?"
"I promise."
Alfred woke cold. Rain still poured beyond the cliff face. His heart plummeted, the fire was out, and which meant Arthur must be gone. He shifted, sitting up and Arthur's cloak fell off him. Funny, Arthur always took his cloak with him.
A soft snore caught Alfred's attention. He turned behind him, wincing as his wounded back protested, and saw Arthur right there, leaning against the wall and fast asleep.
He had never seen Arthur asleep before. His face was smooth, if a little smudged by ash from the fire. He was still damp, though even in the chilly morning, he showed no signs of being cold. He wore the frown that was so typical for him, though otherwise he was utterly relaxed. Alfred felt a bit like he was intruding, as he's never seen Arthur so unguarded.
"You didn't go," he said, too quiet to disturb Arthur's sleep.
"Alfred?" a slurred voice asked. Alfred froze. He knew that voice.
He turned to face her. Arlya stood in the rain, eyes red and fever-bright, clutching Pakram's sword.
A/N: Yay! cliffie (kinda). And finally a bit more USUK.
As always, reviews REALLY make my day/week/month/life. So please drop one, especially if you see any errors. I have a bad habit of writing at two in the morning, which is when I'm most creative, but my grammar and coherence sometimes suffers (though I do edit as well as I can).
Reactions to injuries are based off my personal experiences and stuff I've read, so I hope it's believable. I've had a concussion before (twice actually), and let me tell you, they're miserable.
So I don't know if anyone reads my ending A/Ns, but I feel like sharing something funny that happened regarding this chapter. So the battle scene was pretty bad and all over the place the first time I wrote it, so I decided to map it out (which I've done with other battles with good success). My mother comes up and looks at what I'm doing and the following conversation occurred:
Mom: Why do you have your old college essays out?
Me: (flips over paper to show map)
Mom: Why did you scribble all over the back of your old college essays?
Me: That's a map, not scribbles!
Mom: Oh. (walks away)
No, I can't draw. AT ALL.
/awkward anecdote.
~Kittenly