Princess of Nothing — Chapter 11
A fantasy tale of magic, struggle and survival — Draft 1
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CHAPTER 11
Two stone-faced sentinels haul her back into her cell. She hangs limp between them, one guard holding each arm, with her wings so wilted the tips drag on the ground. A smeared trail of scarlet is left in her wake — there’s something iridescent about it.
The guards don’t even bother to place her on her cot, they unceremoniously dump her on the floor, a heap of body parts and wings and dirt and blood. One resecures the mannicle around her ankle. Both leave without speaking a word, without a single glance in my direction.
The scent of her blood invades my cell, flooding my senses, but thankfully, it does not stir my hunger. There’s a certain sweetness to it that’s not from the lead — I smell the wrongness of it. The gilded fae moans as she tries to push herself up, arms weak and shaking, then collapses onto the floor, her cheek smacking the cold stone in what surely will leave a bruise. Her wings spasm —
Her wings!
One is torn — a deep, bleeding fissure reminiscent of a lightning bolt. At the end of the gruesome tear, I see an area that’s turned a sickly shade of moss green.
She’s — she’s been poisoned!
Panic seizes me. Can a pureblood fae heal from such things!? I scream my thoughts at the mimic.
I’m unsure. His tone is rougher than usual. Quieter.
“Well…” She pants, every word sounding like it requires tremendous effort, “The…good…news…is…I won…”
Gods, this is sad. Is this what I sound like when I try to make light of this wretched situation?
Yes.
I jump when the mimic answers. I wasn’t trying to direct that thought at him.
“The poison’s already working its way into your system. I’m not sure how it’ll affect you specifically, but in most cases, a carnavorses poison is known to weaken and sicken its victim for days.” And that’s if her wounds don’t become infected. Rec would never use a Maester on one who isn’t his.
Finally, she manages to push herself upright into a seated position. I wince when I see her swollen cheek and all the fine cuts and bruises decorating the skin on her arms.
There’s a fair amount of carnavorce blood on her, too. It’s deeper in color and smells like tar.
“Those creatures…are…things of nightmares…” she says.
I don’t tell her I would love to fight a carnavorce instead of what Rec forces me to battle.
“And…what is…wrong with…all those people? Paying money to…see me almost die?” she pants. “Is there…no one decent…outside of…The Seelie Court!?”
I think of the vampire I met who seemed to know me and say, “I think there are some who are. Just not here. Decent people don’t come to places like this.”
I eye her anxiously as beads of sweat dot her brow, dampening her hairline. The long, silken mane has already gone from looking like spun gold to a drab mustard color. “How fast do fae heal?” I ask. “Generally speaking. Without the lead and the carnavorce poison.” Surely her recruiter saw what happened. He wouldn’t let her die back in her cell. She won her match. The fact that he left her alone in her cell means he must believe she’s capable of recovering on her own.
She eyes me with reluctance.
When she doesn’t answer, I say, “I’ve never seen another fae — not that I can remember, anyway, so I truly don’t know how your healing compares to mine.”
Looking away she says, “With magic…we heal quickly. A tear like this…” she gestures to her wing, “should mend…within the hour, but I…I don’t know…how long…” She pauses to gulp another breath. “Without magic…” Another pause. “Most fae…rely heavily upon — ” she leans forward in a sputtering cough, covering her mouth. When she removes her hand from her lips, I see wrong-smelling droplets of shimmering blood staining her fingers, and strange red spots dotting her arms like mosquito bites. The outer corner of her lower lip seems more swollen than before.
I told you she was going to die, half-breed.
She jolts. Her molten eyes widen, the gold flickering like a lit candle as she says, “Who — what was that!?”
“The creature in the cell beside me. Don’t listen to what it says — it’s evil.”
She suddenly doubles over, moaning in pain and gripping her midsection.
Any moment now, it purrs.
What’s happening!? I direct my internal question to the mimic. She’s getting worse, not better!
He steps closer to the bars of his cell, his eyes narrowing on the fae. Her arms — I think those are hives.
“I — you might be allergic to the carnavorce’s poison,” I tell her. When her eyes find mine again, the whites have turned iridescent-red.
My hand shoots through a gap in the bars as I wave her over. I’m careful not to touch the metal. “I have an idea. I think I can help you if you get to this window.” She stares at me — a deep crease between her eyes. I get the feeling it’s difficult for her to focus. “Hurry, please! If you wait too long I won’t be able to help you.”
What will you do? The mimic asks with an air of caution.
The only thing I can.
With agonizing slowness, the fae pushes herself into a standing position, her knees quaking like they’ll give out at any moment. I notice the green on her wings has already branched out in dark, ugly veins, eating up the glimmering gold as she stumbles over to me. “The bars, they’re lead,” I warn. Finally, she gets to the window between our cells. Her fingers splay and her palms firmly press against the mildew-covered wall to help stabilize herself.
“I’m going to give you some of my blood,” I tell her, keeping my voice low and steady to reassure her. Her eyes flare wide. Before she can refuse I add, “It won’t turn you, I promise. That’s a myth. Vampires are born, not — ”
“I. Don’t. Consume. Blood.” Each appalled, edged word sounds like it takes more effort than the last.
I lean closer, going on my tip-toes to reach carefully through the bars to lay my hand atop hers, silently imploring her not to move away from me.
When I do my eyes widen. “Gods, you’re boiling.” The lead from the bars makes my forearm ache, but I ignore the pain. “Vampire blood has powerful healing properties. Drinking some might be the only way to save your life.”
Her eyes narrow. “I have…never heard of this…”
She’s trying to decide if she should trust me. Like perhaps my blood is poisonous. “What would even be the point of me harming you this way? If I truly wanted you dead, all I’d have to do is wait.” I pointedly look at her injured wing, which is now entirely green. At the spots that are creeping up her neck. “From the looks of things, I wouldn’t have to wait very long.”
“Fine,” she breathes, nodding her consent.
Turning away from her, I bring my wrist to my lips and extend my fangs, ensuring I puncture my vein deep enough that it won’t immediately close before she can even drink, and shove my arm back through the window.
Her eyes grow wide as she pales further and she nearly falls over with a look of shock. “Your blood — the scent — ”
I hold in the aggravated groan that tries to escape. “Yes, I smell different — You need to hurry.”
With unbelievably wide eyes, she puts her mouth to my wrist and swallows once. Twice. I make a face when my forearm brushes the lead and shooting pain travels to my elbow, but I keep silent. “That should be enough,” I say, voice raspy as I pull my arm back. The pain begins to subside; the puncture marks are already healed.
“That wasn’t as bad as I expected,” she mutters uncomfortably. I have heard vampire blood tastes different to different people — transforming to suit their preferences. Now and then in the pit, my opponent gets a taste of my blood — and will tell me how much they enjoy it.
When I look at her again, all the burst blood vessels in her eyes are healed. Her bruises have already vanished. The puffiness on her lower lip and cheek are a distant memory, and that sickly shade of green in the membrane of her wing retracts before my eyes like a painting captured in reverse. The dark veins are next to recede. Then, the jagged tear in her wing knits itself back together.
She blinks, her lips parting in awe. “I feel…Wonderful…” She flicks her hand. Flicks it again. At first, I wonder what she’s doing, until she says, “I thought perhaps I had even recovered my magic.” She frowns. “Guess not, since you have to lead in your system too.” Her golden eyes remind me of honey caught in sunlight as she stares at me through the window. “Thank you, Nyxalia.”
Two people using my name in one day?
“I’m known in the courts as Gwyndolyn, but to those close to me I’m Gwyn. You saved my life. You’ve earned the right to call me that,” she says.
An unexpected sensation of warmth seeps into my chest at her words, and I cannot help but smile as I say, “It’s very nice to meet you, Gwyn.”
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