Princess on Fire

1

They were still coming. Frida felt it as she sprinted through the thicket of kapok trees. Her blood roared in her ears as her blurred vision focused on darkness before her. The clopping of hooves was low and constant, a painful drone. The only thoughts whizzing through her head were prayers of staying alive tonight. She carried nothing but her clothes and the dagger she'd snagged from a guard who now lie deep in his own blood, slowly cooling and rotting on the floor miles from her. She'd hoped that at least. In the frenzy, there was no time to check if he was actually dead, only that he couldn't follow her.

She was still too far from the skiff she'd arranged for herself. When planning her escape, the forest seemed far less thick and vast. She knew what she had to do.

Her heels dug into the moist earth to slow herself as she spun her hands in a circle. Within moments, a ring of sparks manifested several meters before her, electricity thrumming from it. The sparks encircled a reflection of her surroundings, the image rippling like a drop of water being dripped onto a lake. She sprinted toward it and sucked a breath between her teeth as body temporarily escaped the world.

She existed and then she didn't. This magic always made her stomach turn, scattering the atoms of her being and then pulling them together as it shot her to the shoreline. Frida landed on the white sand with a thud, clinging tightly to her abdomen. Bile rose her throat—far too quickly for her liking—and she mustered every ounce of her focus to shove her queasiness back down. Teleportation was still a new magic for her, but she couldn't afford to be slowed down by her body.

The skiff now rocked against the shore in front of her. A painful cry escaped her lips as she ran toward it. She made it. Now, all that was left was to get in and face the next beast: the ocean. The sky was blanketed with grey; Frida was sure that meant she'd have more trouble with sailing than she'd hoped. She had little idea what she was doing as she rapidly untied the ropes from their positions. The sail opened itself wholly by chance, and Frida silently congratulated herself. The skiff was moving further into the ocean, Frida's entire body electrified by the adrenaline coursing through her veins while she frantically worked the boat. She adjusted the sail with the wind and slid the rudder to adjust to the current. The waves were beginning to become choppier, violent. They were fighting her. Even the water, it seems, didn't appreciate her departure. Waves tickled the small craft. Why must the sea god taunt her? She'd run this far, reached this point. She couldn't die alone in a boat just after she'd fought like hell for her freedom. This was not how she was meant to go; there had to be more. Frida reached her hand to the surface of the water and breathed. Calm, she thought. Warmth dripped down her arm and into the waves. As she felt the heat leave her body, the waters reduced to a sleepy lull. Frida smiled as her body collapsed on to the floor of the skiff, welcoming the blanket of darkness that consumed her.

Frida had not intended on being at sea for more than two weeks. Her waning supply of food attested to that. And her energy being consumed by her magic calming the waves certainly didn't help the situation. She was constantly hungry, forcing herself to ration her food and groan as her stomach growled in her sleep. Frida couldn't remember at what point she'd lost her grip on the waves.

The ocean was battling her insignificant boat once more. This time, the well of Frida's magic had run so dry she was dry heaving over the edge of her boat. Her arms shook terribly, straining to keep from tumbling into the dark abyss below her. With the sky shrouded in a thick fog, there was no determining how close she was to land, or if she was at all. Her only indication was the crash of her boat. The last thing Frida saw was the wood of the mast as her face collided with it.

She awoke briefly, lightning firing through her torso. Tears stung her eyes as the feeling consumed her. At some point, she'd hoped she would just die. A hand lifted her head and tilted a small bowl to her lips, filling her mouth with a bitter liquid that she struggled to swallow before being pulled back into the depths, this time feeling comfort in the dark that surrounded her.

This occurred several times more before she was pulled out of her slumber, the contents of the bitter liquid finally subsiding. There was a crackling of a fire rumbled nearby—in the same room? Beneath her was the silkiness of fur pelts, pelts that also cocooned her. Then her eyes strained to open, seeing that she was in a small room. No, a cottage. She couldn't recall finding a cottage, or even reaching land. Memories evaded her as she felt a dull throbbing in her stomach. Then, an uncomfortably loud grumble. Despite being alone in the cottage, heat rose up her neck and ears up to her cheeks.

She had to try to get up. The warmth of the furs was intoxicating, but she knew she couldn't be in this bed forever. The realization hit: she was in a bed. Whose bed was this?

As she used her arms to support herself, a low grunt escaped from the back of her throat. Beads of sweat slid down her cheek as she finally sat up. Dark spots littered her vision; maybe she shouldn't have sat up quite yet. Before she could move more, the door creaked open. With no other choice, she froze, her gaze locked on the cottage entrance as a person—a man—emerged, a bundle of chopped wood cradled in his arms. It took him a moment to notice her, but when he did, he merely blinked before nodding once. Setting the wood beside the fire, he turned to face her.

She took the moment of silence between them to observe him: tall and muscular were the first things she'd noticed. Next were the eyes, which felt like looking at ice, clear and bright blue. One part of his dark hair was braided back, falling slightly past his shoulders as the other part lay free against his head.

"You're awake," his voice was a deep, clear rumble. The language he spoke was not hers, but she'd remembered studying it, the lilting accent from a region her family couldn't care less about. She learned the tongue to spite them. And now this knowledge would save her. 

Her words were slow and shaky as she calculated the sentence. "How long have I..."

"Two days."

"Did you—" She starts.

"Yes." There is a long pause, another silencing filling the space between them until she peers down at the bandaging on her chest peeking out from beneath her tunic.

"Thank you," Her voice is small as the words leave her lips. But her gaze returns to him and sees a small smile on his face.

"You are welcome." He walks to a table by the window and unsheathes his seax before slicing some bread and cheese and carefully placing them onto a plate. "You must be hungry," he states as he places the plate on the bed beside her. Without a word, she shoves the bread and cheese into her mouth, hunger throwing any etiquette out the window. A small chuckle, deep and clear, rumbles from him as he watches her. Swallowing her shame, she continues to eat, choosing to disregard him.

"What is your name?" she suddenly asks, gulping on the last bite of food. She'd grown more confident in her accent by this point.

"Sune, and yours?" Another pause.

"Frida."