Blood and burnt flesh plastered Dillon's arm to his black tunic. He sat hunched over, his last ounce of strength devoted to remaining more or less upright; the reins hung loose around the neck of Perisseus, the only living being he trusted. The black horse snorted and his breath formed cones of billowing steam against the chill of the night. The quick, even hoofbeats filled the air and belied the anxiety Dillon's wound had instilled in his mount.
From the tips of his fingers reaching across the length of his right forearm, no fleshtone could be seen. It was now a twisted mess of blood and charred skin, leaving what flesh was left clinging to muscle and bone pitifully against the tide of lifeblood. Dillon could feel the fire's poison spreading from his mangled arm: carving through his shoulder; seizing up his neck; pounding through his skull. Silent and deadly it crept in, with a penetrating blackness to obliterate any night to swallow his vision. He felt his body give in to the agony as his strength deserted him. At last, the blackness stole his consciousness.
He strained to get out of the dark prison. He beat his fists viciously against the thick walls, but every blow only caused him further agony. As his dungeon lightened he began to realize that he was only a captive of his own pain-racked body. The pounding in his head wouldn't stop, and the light seared his very soul through his eyelids. He'd never thought that being dead would be painful. But then, being dead didn't generally involve light, either. At least, not to his knowledge.
Though the light burned like lightning through his head, Dillon tried to open his eyes. His chest tightened and was surprised not only to feel as though he was breathing, but to hear himself emit a groan. Perhaps the grave wasn't so silent, after all. He gave up on opening his eyes against the onslaught of light, and let out a stale breath. The sound of movement nearby made the breath stick in his throat.
"Gerard, close the window, please."
It was a woman's voice; soft and sweet, smooth as the blade of a sword and comforting as the contented coo of a dove.
The shutters were pulled closed with a squeak that bounced around Dillon's head like a dog after table scraps, but the light faded. He opened his eyes slowly, already grateful to the woman who had ordered the burning light away. Perhaps she was an angel.
Dillon's eyes were drawn right to the face of the speaker, a face even more beautiful than the voice. The pale of her skin was only outdone by the near silvery sheen of her long hair that fell in loose curls past her shoulders. Even her skin seemed to have a metallic shine, or at least an angelic glow. Her features were fine: her eyes, dark.
"Am I dead, then?" Dillon had never noticed how rough his own voice sounded until he heard it beside hers.
The angel smiled. "Not quite. You're lucky Gerard found you when he did." She stood to fill a wooden cup with what appeared to be water. "And perhaps, luckier still that I chose to aid you: your sword bears the royal crest. So either you stole it..." She turned to eye him curiously. "Or you are the prince."
"What is it to you, either way?" Dillon gingerly pushed himself up onto his elbows, where he was met by a battering ram that sent his head spinning. His arms gave out and he fell back; the woman was at his side in an instant.
"Careful, I should think you'll be dizzy for a while yet. Here, drink this. It will help." A slender white hand helped lift Dillon's head as the other pressed the cup to his lips.
The liquid was slightly bitter, but very cold. Dillon drank every drop, and the woman lay his head down once more. The bitterness of the brew seemed to go straight to his head, stilling the whirlpool within his head and bringing everything into focus as though cleaning cobwebs from his brain. The dizziness subsided and Dillon was finally able to look around.
It was a small house, if one could call it such: a single room with a floor of earth. The abode was round, but that was not half as odd as what it seemed to be made from. Though made entirely of wood, the only thing that seemed to have been carved or chopped were the shutters on the only small window. Like the matted tangle of a dog's coat, thick peices of wood seemed to come together from every angle to make up the walls. They parted conveniently for a doorway, and happened to overlook the hole that served as the window. All the strands became one towards the ceiling, which was solid. It appeared that a very large tree had simply grown up around the living space, and the roots had obliged to make it habitable. Even the small bed on which Dillon lay was only woody roots covered with a thin straw mattress.
Dillon saw his sword leaning between two roots of the wall not far from his cot. His shirt hung across the back of a chair made of many thin branches that seemed to be still living: its thriving green leaves nearly matched the green of the young wood itself. The silver-haired woman returned from putting the cup on the chair's matching table and sat, facing Dillon.
"What of my horse, Perisseus?" Dillon inquired.
"The fine beast is eating his fill of grass in the meadow. But don't worry, the grasses said they didn't mind." That was when Dillon saw the small green man who had been standing hidden behind the folds of the woman's long flowing dress.
Dillon frowned and sat up slightly. "What is that?"
Dillon's frown deepened as he watched the creature warily. The woman, however, only smiled. "Gerard is half human, half wood nymph, and completely ridiculous, but quite entertaining. Because of his... rather unique race, he was accepted neither by wood nymphs or humans." Her smile faded and her expression turned cold. "Of course, there are few wood nymphs now. Not in this kingdom. Maizus and his puppet Willian have seen to that."
The stickly man held up a long, bony finger. "I prefer to be called a who, sir. Although I suppose men don't come in my color where you are from. Blue and orange, are they? Yellow, perhaps? Oh, I would so love to meet a purple fellow!"
Dillon seemed to bristle at the statement, but remained silent. Watching him closely, the woman continued.
"Which brings us to you. You appear with the royal crest on your hilt and a would-be fatal hellfire wound no your arm. Only a mage can cast hellfire, and Maizus has had all but himself banished. Did he do this to you?"
Ignoring the question, Dillon held up his arm to examine it. The flesh was whole and unscathed save black marks like an ink fire running up his arm. "Only magic can heal magic... Yet, here I am." He raised quizzical eyes to her.
The woman pursed her lips, meeting his gaze with just as much intrigue. The thoughts tumbled around in her head: Yes, he bore the royal crest. But whether thief or noble, a hellfire wound that severe meant he was no friend of Maizus. Finally she conceded, breaking the silence.
"Yes, it was I who healed you. My name is Arabella, and I, like all despised by the crown, have been banished from Willian's kingdom."
Bringing himself from obscurity, Gerard clicked his tongue and shook his head ruefully. Arabella only looked to Dillon once more.
"So now you know who I am. Who are you?"
Dillon's eyes were sparked with a new interest. "It's you, then... You're the one."
Arabella scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No, it is you. Villagers came to the castle bringing stories of a woman who would heal any brought before her. Maizus became distraught. Not long afterwards, my father ordered her and all other magi killed or banished."
Arabella stood abruptly, and Gerard stepped forward as if to protect her, wielding his knobbly fingers as so many swords.
"Your father?" Her voice was nothing but accusing and disgusted, but Dillon thought he saw a flicker of fear in those dark eyes.
"Yes. My father, King Willian. I am Dillon, Prince of Reun and heir to Willian's throne... as long as I'm alive."
"What are you doing here, then? And what of that wound?" She glanced around with caution. "Is it a trap?"
Dillon snorted and rolled his eyes. "Of course it is; I put my neck on the block just to see if I could wander somewhere you could find and heal me. No!"
Arabella narrowed her eyes, and as Dillon caught the glare from the corner of his gaze he let out a breath and pursed his lips.
"I'm... sorry." He forced it out like it was eating a moldy piece of bread. "No. I'm not quite so blind and the people seem to think: I've seen what Maizus has been up to. My father has become just... a puppet, as you say." His strong jaw shifted back and forth as he ground his teeth in anger. "Maizus is leading us to war against those who are our allies simply for the sake of gaining power.
"I'd had enough. I confronted Willian, but Maizus' power is far too strong for any unsuspecting man. Finally I went right to the source. Maizus became angry and tried to kill me himself. When I escaped, he sent the guards after me, claiming I had been possessed of some devil. So I left... and here I am." He watched as he flexed his fingers, remembering the horrific pain he had been in not so very long ago.
Arabella pursed her thin lips and looked away. She may as well have been trying to burn a hole through the heart of the king's mage with her gaze. "I never threatened him, and yet he wanted to be rid of me. He brought soldiers, vile men on horseback, and hunted me down. He found my home. He took my mother captive, and threatened to kill her if I did not come home... Of course, I had to go. But as soon as they had me in chains... he killed her. I'll never forget the evil look in his eyes as he burned her right in front of me, never forget her scream."
A moment of silence put the tears glimmering at the roots of those pale lashes into sharp relief. Suddenly she turned on Dillon. "And you did nothing! Nothing, while he slaughtered anyone he pleased! Nothing!" She spun her back to him as she brushed at a stray tear. She walked silently to the closed window, as Gerard followed, petting at the folds of her dress in an attempt to console.
Dillon stood carefully, his hand on the rough wall to steady himself. "And what should I have done? You know better than I the extent of Maizus' power. It was only chance I escaped his wrath with my lief. But you... you can do something now. How did you escape?"
Arabella drew a long breath. "I don't know, completely. I was so angry, in so much pain after he murdered my mother. I remember an explosion of energy, and then I remember running through the forest. I met Gerard, and we've lived here ever since."
Dillon watched her. "Arabella, Maizus is afraid of you. He fears that you may be more powerful than he."
She scoffed and turned to face him once more. "Maizus is the most powerful mage in existance. They say he's lived for centuries."
Dillon shook his head. "Don't you see? If he did not feel threatened he would never have come to find you himself. The others he merely sends troops after. But you, he led the force himself. And what's more, you escaped!" The spark in his eye had become a blazing inferno. "He was right there, and you escaped his grasp."
Arabella sighed and gestured towards the bed. "You ought to lay down. It will be a few days at the least until you regain your strength completely."
Dillon stared at her for a moment before he consented, slowly moving back towards the humble bed. "Perhaps it's not coincidence I ended up in your care. With you and your power at my side, we could defeat Maizus and regain the kingdom. Reun needs you, Arabella."
Arabella shook her head. "I cannot help you. My life was all about helping people, once. The fool I was for it; it cost me my mother."
"But-"
"Shhh..." Arabella sat lightly on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Dillon's bare chest. Dillon noticed how cool and soothing her fingertips felt as she pushed him down onto the bed.
"Rest now, Prince of Reun," she whispered, and as she waved her hand over Dillon's face, his eyes closed and he fell asleep whether it was his will or not.
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