Note: This is still very much a work-in-progress, so there will likely be long gaps between posting new chapters. I humbly request your patience—I'll do my absolute best to make the wait worth it. And while I'm making requests, I will also not-so-humbly beg for comments as well (however brief they may be). They really are fuel for the creative fire and deeply, deeply appreciated. You never know when just a scrap of discussion with a fellow Chronicles fan will spark a new and wonderful idea!
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Stinging gashes. Bramble-torn skin. Fiery bolts of pain with every other step, and bruised ribs stabbing through each shallow breath. Parched tongue like dusty leather… Every wound screamed to Gwydion of his folly, louder even than the pulse that pounded in his ears as he struggled vainly to run.
He ought to have known better—ought to have chosen his risks better, anyway. Why had he gone scouting alone near Annuvin without even the sharp, swift hooves of Melyngar for support? Why had he believed the additional stealth would be worth the added danger? Madness, wearing a guise so logical… Yet he'd followed it, recklessly. And now Arawn's Huntsmen followed him.
How long had he been tearing through forest and field? How long since he'd lost sight of his pursuers? How much farther until he found shelter? Or until he simply collapsed? Put to flight like a terrified hare—it pained him like yet another wound. But he had no alternative. Even if he stood his ground and managed to slay a few Huntsmen, it would only increase the strength of the others by an equal measure, thanks to Arawn's fell magic.
Suddenly, an errant stone wrenched Gwydion's ankle sideways and he fell heavily, choking back a shout. For some time, he remained on hands and knees, panting through dizzying pain. Not yet. He could not stop yet. He'd not narrowly escaped death on the battlefield only to fall now, here, on some nameless scrap of land, food for ravens… Spitting a curse at his unaccustomed clumsiness, Gwydion dragged himself to his feet and staggered on—only to fall again. This time, cold dread began to seep through his waves of pain. He was spent. He'd lost too much blood, had too little water, been running too long. The Huntsmen had not caught up to him yet, but his own limits had.
With great difficulty, he rose once more and desperately scanned the area for shelter. Some time ago, he'd passed from ancient forest into the riotous tangle of abandoned farmland: a patchwork of grasses, clambering shrubs, and spindly saplings reaching for the sun. The denser thickets could lend some cover, but the terrain itself was much too flat to shield him well. Gwydion felt both his strength and his hope draining away rapidly. The land seemed to spin around him; he wavered on his feet, and bent to brace his hands against his thighs. At that low angle, he looked once more to his left—and spotted the trace of a long gouge in the earth, mostly overgrown. An old water ditch? It must be. So be it, if that was the best at hand. He could go no further. He stumbled toward it like a wounded wolf to its den, doing what little he could along the way to obscure his tracks. At last he reached its edge, crawled through the shrubs that flanked it, and collapsed into its earthy hollow.
Lying on his back, he stared up numbly through the shimmering canopy. The smell of damp soil and musty leaves filled his nostrils. The sound of his own breath rattled in his ears. His wounds throbbed in time with his pulse. First, rest. Then, water. Then, more running… if he didn't fall into the arms of death first. Already, the earth seemed to be enfolding him like a shroud, dark and silent. Already, sleep was overtaking his limbs and eyelids, rendering them heavy as lead. Perhaps, he thought hazily, this ditch was fated to become his barrow… and perhaps… perhaps, that would be a blessing, to merely slip into death through the gates of sleep… With a faint groan, he curled on his side, burrowing deeper into the past year's leaves, surrendering to his exhaustion.
The shriek of a hawk jolted him awake not long thereafter. Fear flooded his veins. The false bird-cry of a Huntsmen? Had they caught up with him so soon? But no… a real hawk, circling overhead, signaling his presence. For a moment, he thought they might be a dream, or a vision conjured by blood-loss. Yet, muffled hoof beats followed close behind. Not Huntsmen, then, but ordinary hunters out for small game—potential enemies, nonetheless; the lands around Annuvin were no bastions of loyalty to the House of Don.
Gwydion sought to drag himself deeper into the thicket, but his weary limbs failed his will. The riders drew closer—neither fast nor slow—and closer still, until he could hear the puffs of air from the horse's nostrils. He reached for the hilt of his sword…
With a swish of wings, the hawk swept back to its master. The riders drew up their mounts at the brink of the ditch. After a few moments' scrutiny, one dark figure swung down from its steed and strode forward. It slipped between the overhanging branches as quietly and smoothly as a shadow, descending the shallow embankment. At last, it loomed over him—cloaked in midnight, with glossy, blue-black feathers layered upon its shoulders. Slender white fingers threw back its hood…
An incomparable beauty stood over him: a lady as moon-pale as her mantle was dark, with glistening silver hair framing a face still smooth and young. Her icy eyes gazed down at him appraisingly, taking in every detail of his own appearance: the gashes and scrapes across his face and forearms; his tattered, begrimed, and blood-stained attire; the finely-wrought sword clutched in his hands; the sunburst emblem upon his belt.
Her eyes narrowed. "Strange quarry we have found," she mused, then bent low to look still more closely at Gwydion. With a guttural snarl, he fought weakly to scrabble backward out of reach. A glint of amusement flashed across her countenance. "There is no need to fear me, warrior," she said with a shake of her head. "It is not your kind I hunt today. By the look of you, though, someone else has tried to make you their meal."
She closed the meager distance between them, then crouched at his side. This time, for all his distrust, Gwydion did not even attempt to evade her—his strength was too far gone. It was all he could do to force one ragged breath after another through his lungs and will his eyes to focus; already, the woman's edges were beginning to blur in his vision.
As she gingerly examined his many dripping wounds, her wry expression turned grave. Abruptly, she shouted over her shoulder to one of her hunting party. "You! Come! Lift him from here and give him your horse; get him onto its back. Now, you fool!"
Gwydion summoned the dregs of his strength, and kicked himself backward one more pitiful pace. "Leave me," he ground out in protest.
"If I leave you, you will die," she stated frankly.
Better death than capture. If she learned who he was… If she proved to be a foe…
"You wish to bleed your life out in a ditch?" she asked. "It would not be a fitting death for a man such as you." So saying, she crept forward, resting her weight upon one milky white hand, and laying the other across his brow.
In an instant, Gwydion's searing pain faded to a dull, barely perceptible ache. Warmth flowed deep into every bone and his tortured breathing eased into a sigh.
"There… You see?" she murmured. "Fate has smiled upon you; your plight is ended." Gently, she stroked Gwydion's head, teasing her fingers through his matted hair. The soothing heat continued to pulse through his skin, his veins, his very soul, embracing him as tenderly as a lover, and slowing his racing heart to a steady thump. Was this enchantment? Or was it merely death, claiming him with a kiss rather than a vicious bite?
The blue heaven of the woman's eyes hovered before him, drawing him in, promising respite. They were the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled back and unconsciousness dragged him into its uncharted depths.
