Blood and Fire

PART ONE: HUMAN

He had not spent the last six years trapped in a mortal body to die like this.

The white lights flickered above him as he thrashed within his own skin. Every part of him burned, inside and out. His instincts raged for him to get out of this damned body, this frail, breakable body. But he had committed to this so much that he had trapped himself, ensured his own damned demise.

The lights continued to flicker, and the voices of the doctors turned panicked. He was dying, and they all knew it. Part of him wanted to yell at them to leave him be, to let his magic do what they would take hours to. The other part of him—the part that he had let take control in order to use this fragile body—wanted to scream for their help, to make them hurry up so that he wouldn't bleed out and die.

He was moving. Being moved, more like. The bed he lay on had wheels—by the gods, did humans have to put wheels on everything?—and they were transporting him to a new location. Hopefully to actually start doing their jobs and save his damned life.

If only he had not cut off his magic. If only he still had his wings. If only his damned brother had stayed dead.

If only's wouldn't get him anywhere, he told himself. He was dying, and these humans were his only hope. At least for another few hours. Then, oath or no, he would leave this realm and return home.

His blood raged at that thought. A dark part of him chuckled at it, the defiance of his own blood against his will. An oath, performed and sealed in the Old Ways, to force him to do the woman's bidding. He had let himself be shackled to this task for so long that he wondered whether it was even worth it anymore. The girl would be an adult by now, fully matured into womanhood. She did not need his protection anymore.

Still, that oath burned through him, branding him with its existence. Oh, that old woman was clever. Binding someone like him was smart, but binding him was genius.

His eyelids drooped as his heart weakened.

This was it, he thought. This was how he would die. Not in battle, wielding his sword and his magic. That death would be worthy of a song, of a legend. No, he was to die as a mortal, slain by the hand of someone he had believed to be dead for centuries. This death was not even worthy of being remembered. This was the death of an underling, of a slave or a mere worm of a man. Not for a prince. Not for him.

And then there was something pulling at him. Not the beckoning of death, not even one of the humans injecting him with adrenaline or whatever chemical he needed to keep his heart working. It was that thing in his blood, that oath he had sworn. Tugging at him, yanking on his leash. Urging him to open his eyes, to see.

Through half-closed eyes, he found her immediately. She was nothing like he had expected, not with everything that old woman had told him. But he had found her. Through some twisted, dark luck, he had been brought to her. Perhaps he would one day thank his brother for choosing a battlefield so close to where she was. If he decided not to kill him.

She barely looked at him, not while she was barking orders at the people fussing around him. She rubbed at her temples, and finally met his stare. He expected her to hold it, to somehow know that he was not of her world. But she simply blinked and left the room.

Still, he thought as he let his eyes close again, he had found her. Six years, and he had finally found her.