Fyra (First Draft)

Seven

Cirian coughed and sputtered as his face met an unexpected stream of freezing water. His eyes shot opened and spots danced in front of him. His head pounded and he felt sick to the stomach. As the details of the room came into focus, he realized that he was most definitely not in his chambers. So where was he?

Then he saw her. Fyra was standing across the room, a cup at her feet, her hands on her hips, and a smirk on her face.

He stood out up from the bed and asked indignantly,"What in hell was that for? You couldn't wake me like a normal person? Had to ruin my clothes--"

She snorted, interrupting him in mid sentence. "Of course I tried to wake you 'like a normal person'. You were sleeping like a rock, and you snoozed on when I clapped in your ear. Do you remember anything from last night? Your shirt is covered in your own vomit. Water smells better than vomit." She wrinkled her nose.

He looked down. She was, as usual, accurate. He didn't need to worry about the water. He smelled his clothes. Sour wine and vomit.

He gagged and she snapped,"Don't you dare vomit again. It's disgusting. But you know what is more disgusting? Dragging a half-conscious prince through a hallway when he reeks of vomit and wine. I swear, the stench radiated off of you." She glared daggers at him, but the corners of her lips tugged up.

"Are you done?" He asked. She nodded.

"I am a fool for getting drunk. Is that what you need to hear?" Cirian sighed.

She smirked. He could be so dense. "I didn't need to hear anything from you. I just want to make sure you don't do it again. You could get into trouble. You are the Prince, as you so eloquently reminded me when we first met." He sighed once more because she was right. Again.

Cirian apologized profusely and left. When he stepped outside, Fyra laughed. He was piece of work.

As he stepped outside, Cirian cursed himself and his still aching head. He heard her bell-like laugh ring through her rooms. He was so stupid. He always botched everything up. Fyra was a wonderful friend, and he had made a fool of himself in front of her, not to mention those silly bachelorettes whom Queen Isabella insisted stayed in the castle.

He marveled at Fyra's loyalty and easy laughter. If he was any judge, she has gone through a lot more than she had said, and yet she still had the ability to smile and maintain friendships.

She tried to blend in to the background, but was unique. At times she looked so delicate she might break, and she could become so lost in her memories that she looked like she may float away.

When she was happy, her smile was contagious. And gods, when she was angry, she became a whole different person. She was a complete mystery, but also an open book. He was a fool. And she probably thought so too.

•••

Fyra's hands shook as she paced her room. She had remained in Bluedale for much too long. And now it was time to leave.

She had realized it was time to disappear when she had received a note from Cirian this morning, a week from when he had made a fool of himself while intoxicated. Cirian had formally requested her presence at the annual Harvest Ball three weeks time. she would meet his family, the royal family of Aceria and socialize with all the snobbish upper class noble ladies who obsessed over Cirian and backstabbed each other to reach their goals.

She could not attend a ball. She would never be able to pose as a proper lady of society. She would slip up, break down, reveal her gift, or say something wrong. What seemed like an ordinary social event could be a battle to keep her head on her shoulders. Literally.

She had gone too far by even convincing herself she could stay two days, let alone a fortnight. She was absolutely insane for even looking at the Crown Prince of Aceria, whom she now spoke to on a first name basis.

Her only regret would be not saying goodbye to Cirian, her only friend after the death of her most beloved one. Not that Cirian even knew about Athan, or any of her dark past. She had hated lying to him, skirting around the truth, but she couldn't tell him. Even he would revile her if she told him.

She felt trapped. She was happy here, and even if it was only temporary, she wanted to make it last as long as possible. But that's what she told herself every time. Every time she felt even the slightest possibility of stability in her shipwreck of a life, she ran. Ran before it all came crashing down.

Crashing down like it did with Athan. She had told herself, just one more second, one more minute, one more hour, one more day...and then it was too late. He was gone, and with him, her heart.

She would leave soon. Before she brought her own destruction. Fyra knew she was a coward, but it didn't matter much to her, not anymore.

Fyra sighed. Leaving tonight would be impossible. She would have to delay her dissapearing act for at least two more nights in order to gather supplies without raising suspision. But for now, it would be useful to scout the armory and storerooms.

After debating her options, Fyra's decided to go for a jog around the guards' training area. She dressed in a simple tan tunic and dark trousers.

The training grounds were visible from her balcony, and she could see different groups of men sparring and wresting. There was only one minor problem. She had no idea how to get there from her rooms.

I could jump, she thought, peering over the edge to another balcony on the second floor. Fyra hadn't made a jump like this in a long while, but it shouldn't be too difficult. Making up her mind, Fyra hauled herself over the edge of the balcony and reached for the carved stone close to the wall below. She hung for a second then let go, hoping she landed on her feet. When she did, she smiled, and hopped over the second balcony. She again landed on her feet, but the jarring impact caused her to fall back onto her rear.

She scowled, realizing how out of practice she was. A moon ago, that would have been absolutely effortless. She stood, dusting her trousers off, then started at a slow jog. In no time, she was at the training grounds, and slowed to spectate one of the spars taking place.

There were two men, shirtless, performing an graceful yet deadly dance of blades. She was surprised when she noticed one was Cirian. Both men seemed evenly matched, and the result of the spar would probably depend more on chance than skill.

Sweat glistened on their skin, and as Fyra observed the other man, there was a little tug at the back of her mind. The swank in his step and black brown hair that looked vaguely familiar.

As the two men circled each other, Fyra finally got a clear view of Cirian's opponent.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Fyra felt every drop of blood drain from her face.

Her chest tightened.

Her hands shook.

No.

Impossible.

He's dead.

I held him as his heart stopped beating.

But he's right there.

A/N:

*dramatic gasp* Who could it be?

(It's actually kind of obvious guys)

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