Eli

Eli ran through the dark woods, almost blind but he knew the way by heart; he and Talia had gone there before to train--the "old woman" Talia, at least--and he knew she would be there now. Or maybe he hoped only. Would she really be there? His mind felt sliced in two: one side continued to trust and believe her, and another saw the reality but had no control over his body. So he ran, as fast as he could with his heart pounding in his ears and his breath catching in his throat.

Breaking out of the woods and onto the beach before the gushing waves, he stopped. To his left, the distant fires of the crumbling castle and the black circling creature stood out against the starry horizon; to his right, the stony crag where Talia trained him blocked his view of the setting sun--to this he ran. The surf was boisterous, flooding his ears with so loud a noise that he could not hear his own heart or breath. But in a quiet receding wave, he heard a pained grunt, followed by quick breathing. Eli drew his sword and lunged around the corner... yet stopped short.

Talia, or whoever this was that had been Talia, lay down in the watery crag, soaked, her side bleeding from a ghastly burn over which her arm hovered. She looked up at him, but he focused his eyes on the burn, away from those youthful eyes--so young and vibrant, he had called them "baby eyes" when he first met her, as a helping youth to an elder woman.

She was so different now; how could she have fooled them like this? He knew now that she had magic and was very powerful, but she kept this up for six years. Six years! Had it been so long? How could she do this? To the king? To the princes and the princess? To the kingdom? To him? The one person he thought he knew so well had suddenly morphed into a stranger, a complete stranger: he didn't even know her real name now.

Whatever her name, whatever she had done, he couldn't kill her like this: she was wounded, and, though his one side remembered she was still capable of magic, she was no threat to his other side. Was he spelled? Was his love for her real, or a play on his feelings? Had she taken control of him? Dear God, please don't let it be so!

He sheathed his sword and stepped down to examine her side, knowing without seeing how her fearful eyes calmed to mere tension. He didn't look; he couldn't risk looking right at her--above all things, he feared her eyes to be the source of his enchantment, if it existed. In between gasps of breath, he heard her say, "I'm sorry." Her voice now was clearer, younger, yet not so energetic or charismatic; it sounded honest.

He ignored it, and focused once more on the burn; he wasn't sure of what he could do, but he was going to do it anyway. Her shirt was the first thing to get out of the way. While for the old Talia he would have lifted her shirt or torn away the edges around the wound without hesitation, for the woman lying before him now, he merely folded the edges back from the burn, almost avoiding contact with her skin. He felt himself flinch slightly when his finger brushed against her, but Talia didn't move a muscle; in fact, she felt cold as stone, though her chest still rose and fell in rapid succession.

"I'm sorry," she said again, more forced.

He still didn't reply to or acknowledge her. He stared somewhat blankly at the bleeding burn, unable to think of what to do. Talia would have told him if she was here. But wasn't she? Wasn't this woman still Talia, even if she didn't look like Talia anymore? Yet why wouldn't she have come to them like this in the first place? Why did she hide behind lies and magic?

Wouldn't he do the same in her place? She was a born-mage; magic was not something she practiced, but a part of her--she was magical, and for that, she was hunted and killed nearly on sight in all parts of the kingdom. To make things worse, she might have been one that the guards had found and tried to drown, but she may have escaped. Perhaps she had come for revenge, but then why had she stayed and helped them for so long? And she was so kind, loving even. What was this all about?

Did that mean she hadn't put a spell on him? What point was there to spell him, though? He was a mere soldier, ready to help but incapable of anything worth enchanting him; his captain would have been a better choice. So maybe she didn't... but what if she did?

"Eli," her weak voice gurgled.

As hard as he fought it, his eyes met hers--those blue eyes, so bright in the warm sun of spring but now so dark and wet, pleading with him but just to listen, nothing more. He felt his skin become sticky and goose-bumped, but his face remained blank, stern.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through a blockage in her throat, struggling just to get the words out.

"I heard you before," he answered, and startled himself at the harshness of his tone--he could hear the breaking of his heart... or was that just the surf? A tear, or the spray of the sea, touched his cheek. What could he do now? What could he say to make it up to her? She had always helped him, and how could he repay her?

His crying, or the wind's, came out as he said, "You don't have to be." He bent down and kissed her--she was cold; her eyes did not move. She was gone.

Had she heard him?

Had he meant it?

He covered her eyes with his hand. "God, she is yours. Forgive me."