Saturday, December 27, 2008

Don't let me die

Both of their battles had been hard fought and even harder won; battles physical, spiritual, mental and emotional had taken their toll on their minds, hearts and bodies. Rysa held Valente in her arms, cradling his battered and broken body while the world burned around them. His plate armor was scarred and bent, his life’s blood seeping from the seams to soak the blue and white carpet under their knees.

She had lost him five years before when her father had discovered they were lovers, her heir to the throne of Etana and he the son of a fish monger. The King had burst into Rysa’s room, his guards ripping him from her arms and taking him away into the darkness. She hadn’t seen him since that night.

For five years she had played the good daughter, courting the men her father pushed her way in an attempt to pacify him, while focusing all her energy on finding Valente and honing her magical skills. She snuck into the darkest corners of Etana, talked to the seediest scoundrels and villains, and paid them all for information that may lead her to him.

In the beginning many saw her as an easy mark, a pampered Princess who could easily be ransomed back to the King for a quick bit of gold, but those who underestimated her ended up dead. It wasn’t long before she had a reputation of swiftly meting out retribution on those who betrayed her, and the lowest echelon of miscreant no longer dared cross her.

As the years passed her magic grew, filling her tall frame until she vibrated with it, releasing it with her mind and letting it blossom into a the hammer of destruction she intended it to be. She had gathered enough information about Valente’s whereabouts to know where she would most likely find him, and she was ready to set her carefully detailed plan into motion.

She dressed in her finest gown; the filmy white layers of silk encasing her body like spun air, and her silver crown perched atop her head like an exotic bird’s crest. Her pale hair hung loose, and flowed like satin to her hips, shimmering frosted water as she walked into the throne room.

Her father looked up when she entered; waiving away the advisor he had been speaking with a casual flick of his fingers. “Daughter,” he said, leaning back and resting his arms along the carved frame of his throne.

“Father,” she replied, dipping in a small curtsey. “May I speak with you in private?”

“Of course,” The King raised one hand and again flicked his fingers in a shoo-ing motion, and Rysa watched in silence as the dozen people who had been milling around the room, filed out through the finely carved doors. “Now Daughter, what is it?”

Rysa was silent a moment, closing her blue eyes and focusing her mind on gathering her power. Looking up she locked gazes with her father, the man who swore he loved her and yet had torn out her heart the day he had taken Valente away, and she knew the look she gave him wasn’t friendly. The King flinched.

“Rysa?” he said, his voice carrying a current of confusion.

“Never again father,” she began, the low volume of her voice belying the sharp tone,

“Never again will you control me, and never again will you hurt those I love.”

The King stood slowly, his face wary as he descended the dais and moved toward her,

“Daughter, I act in your best interest –“

“Lies!” Rysa’s voice snapped like a whip, and blue lightning crackled along its waves, stopping the King in his tracks.

“Is this about that boy?” The King asked, and his disgusted tone launched Rysa across the room, her long fingers clutching his soft throat, her nails drawing blood.

“Valente! His name is Valente, and you will do well to remember that, Father, as he is the reason I am going to kill you.”

The King smiled, a sinister curving of the lips that made Rysa’s skin go cold. “Do you really believe that I have been completely unaware of your nocturnal excursions into Etana? Do you think me so dim that I wouldn’t know who you talk to, and I know what they tell you?” Rysa’s grip tightened and her father clutched at her wrist. “I am not as simple as you may think, Daughter. The information you have is outdated. Three weeks ago I ordered the fish monger spawn that defiled you be brought here for execution; after all if I simply told you he’d been killed, you’d have thought me a liar; better you see for yourself.”

Rysa felt her power waiver in the wake of this news, and it felt as though her heart stopped. Sounds of fighting filtered through the walls and distracted her enough for her father to reach for his sword, his beefy fingers barely on the weapon before the door splintered into the room.

A tall knight stumbled into the room, his armor that of the King’s Guard, and Rysa felt her vengeance slipping from her grasp. The Knight staggered forward, one hand clutching his side, while the other dragged a blood-stained broadsword behind him. He stopped six feet away and stared at the King and his daughter, his breathing labored as he reached up and pulled his helmet off, dropping it to the carpeted stone floor.

Rysa’s gaze locked on the green eyes she thought she’d never see again, and her heart gave a hopeful lurch against her sternum. Valente shifted his attention, his green gaze locking with the cold blue of the King’s, and he drew himself up to his full six and a half feet with visible effort.

“I need to thank you, Your Majesty, without your order of execution I never would have escaped from the hell hole you sent me to,” he said, and without another moment’s hesitation he lunged forward, piercing the King’s chest with his sword. Rysa gripped the hilt and channeled her stored power into the blade, bringing it to life with blue fire that seared and burned her father from the inside out.

She released her hold on her father’s neck at the same moment the sword slipped from Valente’s fingers and the King fell to the floor, a charred husk that filled the air with the stench of burnt flesh.

Valente staggered and fell to his knees, Rysa catching him in her arms and kneeling on the floor with his armored body weighing on her bones, as the sight of his battered face weighed on her heart. His blood soaked the white of her gown, its heat warming her skin even while her soul felt cold with fear.

He grasped her free hand, squeezing his eyes shut against what she could only imagine was excruciating agony, his voice a pain-filled whisper when he spoke, “Don’t let me die, not now...”

Rysa gathered every last spark of magic that remained in her body, drawing from her very core, and even reaching out into the ether to take more. Reaching up she cradled his head against her breast, lacing her fingers into his black hair that was sticky with blood, and she opened the barrier within herself that kept her magic in check.

The power flowed through her and into him, gently mending him and making him whole, and when he next opened his eyes there was no pain there, only hope fulfilled.

*Artwork by http://ertacaltinoz.deviantart.com/