The Many Adventures of Peter and Fi Volume I: Homecoming

Chapter 7- Lecture in the Blood Cell

Peter stumbled as the rough hand pushed him past the iron bars. With a grating screech, the hinges swung shut and the lock clacked in place. The white knight's footsteps echoed through the dungeon hall as he departed. His cell was furnished with a mouldy mattress laid out on the hard stone and a bucket tipped over in the corner. A tiny window sill touching the ceiling revealed he was only just below ground.

How am I getting myself out of this one? He sighed. But first things first.

He brought a hand to his chest, breathing deeply. Massaging his rib cage, he carefully brought the bubble he had formed up his esophagus. Holding his breath, the bubble inched up his throat as he opened his mouth wide. It squeezed past his teeth and fell with a splash to the floor. A puddle of blood spread across the stone, collecting in the grout.

Unsatisfied, Peter dropped to his knees and plunged his fingers down his throat. He vomited. Blood and bile and bits of pastry splattered into the puddle. Heaving and spitting, Peter did his best to clear his mouth before rolling over to lie face up on the dungeon floor.

"What a fucked up little girl," He moaned.

Looking up at the ceiling, he winced as a drop of water fell down onto his cheek. With a grunt he pulled himself up and began scanning the room. Fi's going to kill me. He thought as he ran his fingers along the grooves in the stone wall, not knowing what he was looking for. She's probably sitting in the carriage pouting about how I always leave her behind. He rattled the iron bars of the cell, but each one was screwed tight. This isn't my fault. She's the one who wanted to come to Parsol in the first place. He took a running start and scaled the back wall, fingertips gripping the base of the grated window. If I'm not back soon, she'll end up pulling her ears off out of boredom or worse, go wandering off somewhere. Struggling to pull himself up, he could just make out the tall grass leading to the castle's outer wall before his strength gave way and he dropped to the ground.

Panting, he didn't notice the puddle of blood stir at the centre of the cell. At first, circular ripples formed along the outer edge, coalescing at the puddle's centre. Then it began to bubble, flecks rising up and down as the blood began to beat. Peter's vomit was pushed away as the blood took form, scraping the air as it grew. A misshapen hand with spindly fingers dripped in and out of shape as the puddle clawed its way closer to where he stood.

Rearing up, the fingers spread out and tapped the back of Peter's leg. He whipped around and jumped out of his skin. Recoiling against the back wall, he did his very best to press himself through it. Wide-eyed, he stared in horror at the haunting ghost before him; wild thoughts of retribution for throwing up the blood coursing through his mind. His own hands instinctively welled up, but the blood hand remained in place and simply waved before collapsing to the floor, a normal puddle of blood once again.

A cackling rasp from beyond the cell snapped Peter's attention. A trail of blood withdrew from the puddle, snaking towards a robed figure tapping a brass ring against the grate. The blood coiled up the iron, writhing around the bar until it reached his gnarled fingers, retreating into his palm. The old man's mustard eyes were fixed on Peter. The grin of his yellowed teeth carved deep the wrinkles across his face. His sallow skin hung loose below his chin, yet constricted like shackles to the bones at his wrists. Wisps of hair, long since removed of colour, were combed neatly down his back, covering the Queen's sigil on his scarlet robes.

"As I live and breathe. Lookie what we have here." The hoarse croak of the man's voice made the hairs on Peter's arm stand on end. It was not a voice he ever expected to hear again. "Never thought I'd see you again, Mr. Prescott."