Midnight Flight

Chapter 3

They both froze.

Peters' eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, aghast. His eyebrows climbed higher up his forehead, and he let out a small gasp.

On the forest floor, the figure was still, his deep brown eyes holding the gaze steadily, as narrowed as Peters' were wide.

'Y-y-your H-h-highn...'

His words were cut off as the figure raised a finger to his lips.

'Silence. Speak of this to no one.'

Peters' eyes bulged, his eyebrows virtually reaching his hairline and his mouth wide enough to swallow a melon.

If the situation wasn't so dire, he would've looked comical.

'That's an order.'

With these words, the Royal Prince Philip retreated into the darkness.

>>>

His heart pounding, Philip ran through the thick woods, sweat running down his face.

Unlike in his overactive imagination, no guards pursued him, and he reached the dirt path leading to the nearest town without meeting anyone.

Panting, he slowed to a walk, aware of the pounding in his head that had been increasing from the moment the helmet hit him. He pulled the hood on his cloak up to hide his face as he saw lights up ahead.

He heard loud chortles and shouts, accompanied by the pungent smell of alcohol as he passed a tavern. He looked to the ground as he passed it, thankful for the darkness that shrouded his face from suspicion.

Heading on, he reached a quieter area, with narrower streets and small, stone cottages. He could hear the sounds of a distant dog barking, and the chatter of conversation from open windows and doorways.

The street was relatively quiet, with only a few people passing him.

Suddenly, he was shoved from the side, causing him to land on his knees, his face hitting the gravel path.

He groaned as he felt the tiny stones cut into his cheek, digging into the already bruised skin.

'Oh, I'm so sorry!' It was a girl's voice, tainted by the accent of commoners that he'd heard from some of the servants and labourers in the castle.

'S'okay,' Philip mumbled, trying to mask his own, distinctive and very much upper class accent. He hadn't thought about this when planning for tonight, but it stuck out amongst the paupers and beggars like a sore thumb.

Out of the corner of his eye he was surprised to see the girl walking briskly away from him, her red cloak streaming out in her wake.

'Thanks for the help,' he muttered irritably. He hadn't realised that commoners were so rude.

He stayed, kneeling, where he was for a few minutes, trying to suppress the waves of what felt like fire washing over his face.

'Are you alright?'

The voice took him by surprise- for a moment he thought it was the same girl as before, but he realised that her voice was different- it was higher and less gruff.

He made no response, trying to gather enough energy to get up.

'Let me help you up.'

Continuing to look down so as to hide his face, he pushed himself up off the floor, with help from the girl.

'But seriously, are you alright?'

The girl's voice sounded full of concern, and her kind words seemed to encourage the waves of pain that he'd been trying to ignore.

'I'm alr- ahh'

He bit back a curse as she reached out towards his face, and still looking down, he stumbled back; he couldn't let her see his face and recognise him.

She continued reaching towards him, and he fell back once more- until he was backed up into a wall. This girl- whoever she was- seemed undeterred.

'Let me have a look at that- your face hit the floor didn't it?

'I uh- it's alright.'

'No, it's not. Let me help you.'

She reached for his hood, pushing it back to reveal his face. Grimacing with pain, he resigned himself to his fate. He'd be recognised and probably escorted back to the castle by a regiment of soldiers.

Maybe she won't recognise me? That seemed unlikely.

Philip couldn't help but feel frustrated; all he'd wanted was independence- a chance to be free.

For the second time that evening, he lifted his head, and locked eyes with another.

The girl let out a gasp

Shoot!

°°°

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