Fyra (First Draft)

Twenty Nine

Though her determination to do something was filling her to the brim, Fyra hadn't the faintest idea where to start. She had two goals fighting for priority within her mind. The game of tug of war found no resolution as she changed out of her bedclothes and began the walk through the barracks.

Athan had been a friend to which she could divulge almost anything, and she had told him so much more about herself than she had anyone else. More than once, they had been mistaken as a couple as they made their way through city streets, and in truth, Fyra did love him. He was her brother, her confidant, her best friend.

At least, he had been. His "death" had shaken her to the core, and though it was but a month or so she was without his presence, Fyra had felt the gaping hole he and her other beloved dead had left grow a bit every day.  Finding out he had't been dead at all had ripped the healing wound raw. The sting of betrayal was almost worse than the original loss.

Cirian had been a light when she could see nothing but the dark. Despite her shell of harsh words and obstruction, he had reached through and folded himself into the corners of her heart. She wanted to see him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, but did he want to see her? Sure, he had come looking for her, but people changed their minds. Why would a prince bother with a flame spewing thief?

She would scarce admit it, but she didn't know what she would do if he hated her as she feared. In all honesty, she wouldn't know what to do if he didn't hate her either. He was far from perfect, but his flaws only pulled her deeper into the quicksand they were sinking in together. She couldn't put a name to it, but something had kept her here, next to him, when every instinct was screaming at her to flee.

When that ice arrow had rushed towards him, she had felt a bolt of fear, and saved him out of instinct without a thought for her own well being. Shock and nausea had filled her system at the split second though of losing him, and it still did.

Two impossible people, so alike and yet worlds apart. Which did she want to see? The old friend or the new? Did she want resolution for the past or possibility for the future?

Her indecisiveness was quelled when one of the roots of her problem made an appearance in her line of vision.

Strengthening her resolve, she quelled the whip of anger that threatened to overtake her. Her hands trembled, palms glazed with sweat. Nausea rose like a wave, but she shoved it down. This barrage of emotion and physical nonsense wouldn't keep her down. If there was ever a time to be stubborn, now was it.

Athan stood, not knowing that she had fixed her gaze on him. Other people shuffled about, moving in the background. As he let out a puff of air through his mouth, it rose up in a cloud of fog, a tribute to the cool morning. He looked tense, arms crossed and head angled up as if he were searching the clear sky for answers.

Determination fueling each step, Fyra clenched her fists at each side.

"Athan," she said, willing her voice to remain steady. "We need to talk."

Athan turned, not showing his surprise. It was almost as if he had expected her. He met her eye, trying to gauge the flames flickering beneath the surface of the deathly calm upon her face. They stood little over arm length apart, the tension between taut as a bowstring.

"Of course." Athan attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. What he would tell her he hadn't yet the faintest clue. The truth would be his best option if he ever wanted her trust back, but he was hesitant to reveal it.

Fyra nodded, unsure if she really wanted to hear his explanation. He had manipulated her very mind in the worst way. She had been deceived into seeing his death before her eyes, and yet the reality was that it had all been an illusion, despite the fact she could remember the event with vivid clarity.