Away with the Faeries

Chapter Sixteen

 Damn this dress. Bitter wind cut at my skin, easily blowing through the fabric as if I wore nothing at all. By the way, the two Bloed officials continued to eye me it was beginning to feel that way. Marcel's large wool-lined cloak that trailed behind on the snow-powdered dirt road brought me little comfort. Frozen rope bound my hands, the coarse material rubbing my wrists raw. Mrs. Benett's leather boots had long soaked through. I haven't felt my feet in a while now.

My only comfort came from Marcel who stalked silently beside me, wrists bound in rope. Which looked like a pathetic piece of string binding him. It was a lame attempt, by looking at him it was clear he could easily snap the rope before moving on to our captors' necks. A caged beast and now a betrayed one.

Ahead of us, the Bloed officials had already started celebrating. Passing back and forth a flask and toasting to their accomplishment. They swayed lazily on their horses, setting a steady pace as the sun set slowly in the distance. Had Aera double-crossed us? Were we marching to our death sentences, was this how I go out; by hypothermia in a slutty outfit bound by the wrist as I marched to the death. If this all was a dream it was a really crappy one. You're supposed to dream of rainbows and talking fish not freezing to death.

I glanced at Marcel; "We are so screwed," I mumbled, my words sliding straight through him. "Marcel," I said, nudging him in an attempt to get his attention. Nothing. Casting a quick glance at the Bloed men to ensure they weren't paying attention I leaned in; "Did you know Queen Aera was going to do that," I asked, my French rapid and hushed.

Only then did Marcel turn to meet my eyes, brows drawn tight; "No," he murmured.

Swallowing the lump that climbed up my throat, my stomach twisted at the realization. We were betrayed. Now what? I had worked too hard to turn back now. Erde needed someone to fight for them. If their own monarchs weren't willing to do as much then I would.

"I'm going through with the plan," I mumbled under my breath.

Marcel was silent a moment before nodding; "I thought you would say that," he whispered, the words a faint chuckle; "why do you think I haven't left yet?"

Hah, I knew it.

"You can leave, go home," I told him, though the words weren't entirely honest, "I can do this myself. Go home, Marcel."

But it wasn't entirely dishonest either; I could do this on my own, that was the plan from the beginning. I also wanted Marcel far away from this kingdom. I don't know what happened to him here but it couldn't have been anything nice. It was unfair to ask him to relive that. But a selfish part of me was scared that I wouldn't make it without him. Marcel's eyes narrowed on the tipsy men that swayed on their horses before us, his long hair falling past his shoulders in a dark halo.

"Sorry love. I'm harder to get rid of than that," he grumbled before adding to himself; "you'd think I would've learned by now."

I was afraid he'd say that. As the sun sank lower, cresting the horizon the tipsy Bloed officials decided that here, in the middle of nowhere, would be a good place to camp.

"What are your names," I sweetly asked, wrestling the fake smile onto my face.

Shorty gathered up a bundle of damp kindling, placing it in a meticulous pile. Removing his gloves he fished out a hand knife and a jagged piece of flint. Ignoring my question he proceeded to hit the flint with the kife, tiny sparks of iron flying to the damp sticks. Watching the scene for a moment I sighed, it didn't take a girl scout to know that the kindling he was attempting to light would never catch.

Stinky came up to his friend after he finished tying a canopy between the few trees that surrounded us, creating a cover of sorts. The heavy snowfall had already begun steadily collecting in the middle, weighing it down.

Stinky grinned proudly up at his work; "I'm Donovan but you can call me Don if you'd like," he said before looking down at his friend, "this one here is Mac. But I'm sure your knight doesn't need the acquainting."

Don sauntered up to Marcel with a cocky smile, "Good to see you old friend," he said, patting him on the shoulder.

Inwardly I cringed at the sight but to my surprise, Marcel smiled. Don's face paled at the sight as he stumbled back.

"Touch me again and I'll cut off your hand, old friend," Marcel said, the French falling from his lips like a curse.

Don nodded as if he understood before hurrying away to help Mac light the fire. Stifling the laugh that threatened to expose me I shot Marcel a knowing look. He only grinned.

"Moron," he muttered.

By the time the sun had dipped and the stars took to their dance in the sky the fire was still not lit. Both Mac and Don had vehemently given up, shouting strings of profanities into the heavens, kicking the pile of wet sticks, and chucking the small flint and knife far into the endless woodland. As the night grew colder both our captors turned in, wrapping themselves in heavy wool furs. Mac fell asleep propped against the base of a tree, Don with his face to the dirt beside him.

The number of times we've had to escape was becoming slightly alarming. It lead me to wonder if all Bloed warriors were so thick-skulled and if so how were the last assailants caught? These two didn't look like they could catch a dead bird if they tried. I wasn't going to lower my guard that easily. This could have been a ploy; sending in the dumb to lower our defenses. Bloed may have had two bad apples but that didn't make the whole lot rotten.

When Don and Mac began to snore and whisper things to each other in their sleep Marcel stood. Swinging his arms out then back towards himself he snapped the rope. He gathered the frozen rope into his hands, bringing it to his lips. Smoke steadily trailed from the gaps in his interwoven fingers growing darker and thicker until flames rose, replacing the once-thick smog.

Opening his hands a bright flame burned away at the charred rope. My eyes flew wide as my lips parted in shock. To think I thought I was the one with the fancy parlor trick. With a nurturing touch, Marcel carefully set the hungry flame under the damp kindling allowing it to lick at the dry side of the bark.

"Where'd you learn how to do that," I asked, watching astounded as the small flame began to spread over the logs.

Reaching into a pocket Marcel produced a dagger; "An Elf taught me," he said holding out his hand for me.

I shouldn't have laughed. I tried so hard not to but I couldn't help the snicker that escaped. He had said it so seriously.

"An Elf," I echoed, close to hysterics.

Marcel's eyes narrowed; "I don't know what world you come from love, but it sounds a little too homogenous for my taste," he said, motioning once more for my bound wrists.

Shoving my wrists to Marel I settled my laughter; "Oh yeah," I grinned, "I'm the one from the homogenous world but you guys are the ones that separate species by Kingdom."

Marcel only shook his head so I turned my attention then upon the scenery around us. The woodlands seemed to stretch on forever, everything buried in a thick layer of snow. Winter flora bloomed through the harsh conditions, swaying softly in the night's wind. The only noise was of the mumbling guards and cracking fire. Marcel fed the rope into the growing flames before sitting down, hands stretched out to feel the warmth.

"You know it wasn't all that bad," I mumbled, rubbing my sore wrists, and moving closer in towards the fire.

Yes, we were all Human and stereotypes were a power to be feared. Society as a whole was a bitch because only skinny girls got the pretty guys. But there were good parts tucked deep away that demanded an audience, a voice. Those were the parts that lay colored in diversity and it was real. I felt my chest tighten.

"That homogenous place was my home," I muttered staring blankly into the fire. At least I thought it was.

Marcel was quiet a moment; "What was it like?"