A HENRY STORY 1: Memories Of The Fallen Prince

III. Death

It was then that something smacked the back of Henry's head. The blow had so much force that it sent him flying into the blood puddle.

His upper body plunged face-forward into the sickening liquid, and hadn't his stomach already been empty, Henry would have thrown up again. Snorting and gasping, he lifted himself to all fours and gagged. Cold blood dripped from the tips of his hair; it ran down his chin and the rim of his nose and drenched his clothes, making him shiver.

The metallic stench and taste and the overwhelming disgust smothered Henry; it clogged his pores and drowned him from within. His head spun, and he thought he would pass out any second.

"What was that?!"

"I don't know. It came from the direction of that fire. I thought one of us had lit that!"

Through the spinning and pounding of his head, Henry managed to process that the noises must have attracted the attention of the gnawers; their voices were so distant that he almost couldn't make out words.

When he remembered the force that had knocked him into the puddle, he was already yanked up by his leg. Henry dangled upside down in the creature's grip and just about suppressed a scream. He twined and twisted to see who or what was carrying him, but it was too dark, and they moved too quickly.

Before he had time to do or even think anything, they had already disappeared into one of the many openings that led away from the pit. Heartbeats later, Henry was engulfed in darkness again. At least he didn't have to see the gore anymore, he thought. It only made him feel a little better.

***

In retrospect, Henry wouldn't have been able to tell how long they flew, but it couldn't have been long. He quickly discerned that the unknown creature's flight was unstable, nearly falling and dropping him a number of times.

Eventually, he made out the faint glow of water in the distance. As soon as they entered the cave with the river that shone eerily with a kind of bioluminescent algae, the creature released and dropped Henry on the hard floor. He groaned, unable to muster the strength to check whether he was just bruised or seriously injured.

Seconds or days might have passed; Henry could not bring himself to move. Until he caught movement from the corner of his eye, and something stronger than the ache of sore muscles stirred in him—curiosity.

"Not dead yet?" The voice from the shade was barely more than a hoarse whisper, as though its owner hadn't spoken in a while. He thought it was supposed to sound mocking, but there was a different undertone in it too. Something like . . . pain.

Henry pulled himself up and squinted toward the voice, and when he made out who had spoken, his eyes widened in surprise. It wasn't Ares; of course not. No matter how much the dark shape of the flier resembled him at first glance. They had roughly the same size and, from what Henry could tell, the same color, but the voice was not that of his . . . former bond.

The flier did not face his way. He pressed himself against the opposite wall, his wings tightly wrapped around himself.

Henry opened his mouth to fire back but broke into a coughing fit instead. In the soft glow of the algae, he saw that his hands were shaking again. He was scared. Henry hated admitting it, even before himself, but he was terrified out of his mind. Of the gnawers, of this flier, of his own fate—even of his death, which he had so eagerly awaited earlier. Of . . . everything.

Henry cursed the fear. See how far you've fallen, he scolded himself. You said you wouldn't fall, and look at you now. But it didn't help. It only made him feel even worse.