Fyra (First Draft)

Eight

Her world was falling. The pieces she had so crudely glued back together after her everything shattered were breaking again. Fyra turned and ran, not thinking about where she was going, who would see her. Tears clouded her vision, and every step was heavy, as if her feet were carved from stone. She prayed to the gods that neither Cirian or the soldier who wore her dead friend's face had noticed her.

She wasn't sure she could take it if either saw her in her broken state.

•••

Cirian had seen a glimpse of familiar long red hair in the corner of his eye.

At the moment he was distracted, his opponent lunged for his left side. Cirian cursed, stepping back to avoid the blunted blade.

His father was always telling him he left his left side unprotected. Cirian swung with the broadsword, and his sparring partner, one of his father's favorite soldiers, parried the strike with his sword.

Suddenly, his opponent dropped the sword and rushed at Cirian, aiming for his stomach with a shoulder. Grunting as he hit the ground, Cirian was not surprised to see the knife at his throat.

Cirian scowled. Fighting dirty was no way to win. He looked to the edge of the ring, hoping to see Fyra, but was confused when he saw her running in the opposite direction. Her hair was tied back in a long braid, and it swayed back and forth as she jogged with long strides. Fyra ran down the path into the gardens.

Spotting his father, King Henry, among the men spectating the spar, Cirian tensed. The King's face was a mask, but his eyes showed bitter disappointment.

Mustering up his dignity, he took the hand that was offered to him. He stood, saying, "Good fight."

His opponent nodded and replied, "My name is Athan, pleasure to meet you, Crown Prince. Your swordplay is good, but you leave your left side unprotected."

Cirian gritted his teeth and nodded in acknowledgement. Leaving the training grounds, he jogged after his fleeing friend. He wondered if something was wrong.

He sighed as he heard the thump of another pair of feet behind him. It was Athan.

"Something wrong mate?" He asked. "Too embarrassed to go another round?"

Cirian grit his teeth. Honestly, who was he? He had come into the army five weeks ago and his father seemed to favor him. The king had fought with and trained the new recruit himself. Henry hadn't invested that much in any other solider, or his own son. And his arrogance was almost too much to bear. Cirian hadn't been formally introduced to him until today, but Cirian had spoken to him before. Before today, Athan hadn't even bothered to introduce himself, only acted as if Cirian should already know who he was.

"Just going to see a friend." Cirian replied. "Wanted to make sure she's alright."

"A lady friend, eh?" Said Athan, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I'll leave you to it then." Athan turned to jog in the other direction, assuring himself that there were plenty of girls with firey red hair. Just because the retreating figure looked vaguely like Fyra didn't mean it was. Plenty of red-haired beauties jogged in plain tunics and trousers.

Cirian watched in awe as Fyra effortlessly pulled herself up onto her balcony. He could have sworn he saw a glistening wetness on her cheeks as she turned to close the glass doors. Wondering what on earth could have upset her so, he called her name, but the she didn't seem to hear him, drawing the drapes and turning away.

•••

Fyra tucked herself into a ball, rocking back and forth, trying to calm her mind. The soft mattress of her bed comforted her slightly, allowing her body to relax.

But her restless mind plagued her with unreasonable thoughts and doubts. Athan's supposed return wasn't necromancy, she knew the risen dead were branded with dark runes on pale, unhealthy skin. But Athan looked the same as she remembered him.

As if he had never even died.

Did he die? Was this all just some elaborate plot that she was waist deep in? If she was pulled under anymore she was sure to drown.

Had she made a mistake? Had he not really been dead?

But she had seen the ever present light leave his eyes, the insufferable yet endearing smirk fade from his face as his skin grew cold under her touch. He had been gone. He was gone.

Fyra had seen enough loss, watched to so many die. She knew what a corpse looked like. Felt like.

It had to be some kind of spell, trick, illusion. If he was truly alive, he wasn't the Athan she knew.

If brought back by some unheard of dark spell, he would be bound to a master, the one who rose him, unable to have a single disloyal thought.

If he had never been dead, everything she thought she knew about him was a lie.

She didn't know what was worse.

Fyra felt her resolve leave her as her weary body finally made the journey into the land of sleep.

•••

Fyra thrashed, trying to escape the steel grip holding her hands behind her back. She tried to focus her anger, her pain, and channel it into the weapon she knew it could be, but nothing happened. She was helpless.

She attempted once more to unleash the rage pent up in her soul, and she felt a spark, a fleeting spark that could grow into an inferno to punish the people who were dragging her to her death, but she felt her magic burn out as something cold, so cold it burned, clamp around her wrists. Fyra shivered as the cold burning sensation whipped down her spine and throughout her entire body, leaving numbness along with the lingering feeling of being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles at once.

Panic seized her heart as she felt her energy drain and her knees buckle.

Only death awaited her.

Fyra jerked up, hearing a knock and her name being called. Cirian. So he did see me, Fyra thought, not wanting to face him. Footsteps in the next room made her tense, and before the door to the bedroom opened, she sprawled across the mattress, pretending to sleep.

•••

Cirian knocked, but there was no answer. after nocking twice more and calling her name, he decided it would be best to check on her. She had looked rather distraught as she hauled herself onto the balcony.

Easing the door opened slowly, he walked into the bedroom. "Fyra?" He called softly, seeing her lying across her bed. She was asleep.

She appeared rather peaceful. Her cheeks gleamed with tears past shed, and her face looked was relaxed. He had hardly seen her face without a smile or a scowl, and somehow this peaceful nothing was beautiful. Her long, slender limbs sprawled across the crimson mattress, still, unmoving. He had never before noticed how on edge she was. She didn't like questions, had tried to drive him away with her frankness and sharp tongue. She always was moving, wether it be tapping her foot or wringing her hands. She was never as relaxed as now.

Realizing that watching her sleep was improper, and somewhat creepy, he left.

Fyra sighed, as new resolve brought strength to her soul. There was no way she would be leaving now, not without answers.

A/N: I just want to thank my readers. All of you are so amazing, especially the voters and commenters. Getting feedback on this story had boosted my confidence and motivation to write so much. Every time someone votes or leaves a comment my heart lifts, and it improves my day. Love you all!

Sorry for the sort of late update. I don't really have a schedule for updates but it felt like a while! I've been a tad busy with summer school and whatnot, I will try to update soon!

:3)  (<--that's my happy mustache man face)