Fyra (First Draft)

Nineteen

Cirian's mind was frantic, not allowing one moment without the memory her face invading his thoughts. Sleep evaded him still, and though he knew Fyra was safe for the time being, he couldn't help but wonder how he could prevent, or at least stall his father's wrath.

The king was currently placating the nobility in whatever way he could, and that would occupy his time, giving Fyra time to find refuge. His father would never expect her to return to the rooms she had been staying. He would expect her to try and flee the castle, or hide within its walls. Cirian didn't understand why she had stayed, though he had seen the weariness that had dragged her down. It seemed almost as if she had given up. A wave of regret crashed into him, whispering that all of this was his fault. She had saved his life-- and for that the cost was her own.

Cirian stilled as he heard the slight creak of his door opening. Suddenly he was grateful for his stepmother, who had told the servants to oil the door hinges less frequently. While he had thought her paranoid at the time, he realized it would be prudent to receive warning when an uninvited guest was disinclined to knock.

Wondering what someone could be doing at his door at this hour, he didn't dare call out in case the intruder's intent was hostility. There were no weapons in vicinity, but a small butterknife lay at his bedside table. One of the servants had probably accidentally left it behind when he or she had brought a meal up from the kitchens.

He grabbed the knife, holding it at his side as he crept into the next room. A man clad in black stood at in the doorway, looking down so that his face was shrouded by shadow. Through the dim lamplight, it was impossible to make out individual features, but the man's face and build held an echo of familiarity. Cirian said nothing, and the intruder faced him, the silhouette of the man tugging at his memory.

When he spoke, Cirian nearly lunged at him. "Gonna skewer me with a toothpick, eh?"

It is was Athan. Athan the soldier, the man who Cirian couldn't figure out. The person who knew Fyra, who had caused her so much pain. Why on earth was he here?

"Calm down, mate. I just want to talk." Athan took slow, deliberate steps, plopping in a chair as if he owned the room. He met Cirian's eyes with a humorless smirk.

Cirian managed to get a few words out, masking both his confusion and lurking anger. "Talk about what?"

Athan lounged on the chair near the fireplace, his manner casual but the look in his eyes as hard as stone. "What the hell do you think, you plum?" The same bitter half smile he had seen not hours earlier replacing the arrogant smirk.

Cirian said nothing, knowing he was here about Fyra. She seemed to be waist deep in a web of lies and mystery, and Athan, as it seemed, was only one thread of her dark past.

"You saw what she did. What she is. Bit of a nasty surprise when I found out as well." The tone of his voice implied that he hadn't found out tonight. Though Cirian couldn't tell if he was letting it through intentionally, but a varnish of resentment coated Athan's words. Cirian couldn't quite tell of that echo of bitterness was aimed at him or at Fyra. "I'm supposed to make you forget."

Cirian suddenly found his voice. "What?" He mentally slapped himself, knowing he must sound like a fool. Making him forget? Athan was a soldier who served under his fathers's command, and unless Athan had other allegiance or some twisted hidden agenda, his father had access to magic. And contrary to his alleged facade of magic-hatred, he was putting it to use. Paranoia crept up his spine, and he wondered if he had ever "forgotten" anything before. If anyone has ever made him forget.

"Forget about her saving you, and maybe even forget her altogether." That smirk was back, along with a glimmer of malice that shone in the corners of his eyes. "I suppose I needn't tell you of whom I speak."

His blatant arrogance and air of superiority made Cirian want to punch something. Who is as he to slink in his room, acting as if he owned it. Cirian itched to throw the useless butterknife at his smarmy little face.

"You aren't going to make me forget anything." Cirian made his voice confident, as if he actually had a method of deflecting the memory loss.

"You're right. I'm not." Athan smiled, and Cirian only blinked in surprise. His voice had lost the touch of condescension, and the smirk had fallen from his face. "And before you ask why, I'm doing it for her."

Cirian opened his mouth to speak, but before incredulous words left his lips, Athan cut him off.

"She needs someone like you. As much as I hate to say it, she won't let me be there for her. She needs a friend she can trust."

"Why--"

"It's none of your concern why she won't trust me."

"Then--"

"All you have to do is pretend like you don't remember." Athan's eyes held a deadly seriousness, and Cirian realized that Athan's intent was true. Athan cared about Fyra, and though questions and seeds of doubt grew in the back of his mind, Cirian knew he truly wished the best for her, despite the appearance that he was nothing but a pretentious ass of a soldier.

"Stop cutting me off, damn it." Cirian said. "Is she safe? My father will go after her, but if he sent you to erase my memory, he plans on using her, doesn't he?"

"You aren't as dim as I thought, are you?"

"Just answer the question."

"She's safe enough."

Without another word, Athan stood and left, leaving Cirian to ponder all that he had learned in the conversation that changed everything. Secrets ran deeper than he had ever thought, about his father, about magic, something he had thought extinct, but was now unmasked. Magic that was at work in the shadows of his life, a force that could manipulate his very thoughts.

Athan hadn't answered his second question, if the king planned on using her as it appeared he used Athan. Cirian couldn't shake the sneaking suspicion that there were others under his father's thumb, just waiting for his command to unleash the gifts that could bring hell to earth. And he didn't doubt that Henry would exploit her gifts, use that broken red-haired girl as the weapon he now knew she could be.

His heart heavy with the thoughts swirling in his head, Cirian set down the knife that he hadn't realized he had been clenching hard in his hand. He made his way to his bed, despite the knowledge he would never find sleep, not with the worry and fear embedded in his mind.

•••

A/N: I am so sorry for the late update... sorry if there are mistakes, this chapter is unedited. Feel free to point out any blunders.

What did you think of Cirian's encounter with Athan?

Thanks for reading! :)