What was not privy to his knowledge, however, was that the man was also drugged. He was immune to hanging after all. He would seemingly die in the traditional way, but it was the poison that would really do him in.

Dmitri lay in a pit of snakes. They hissed in incomprehensible tongues that slithered and squirmed like their shapeless bodies of string. Snakes, had of course been extinct for several years, replaced by a strange new flying creature, but that did not ease his nightmares. The serpents were biting, tearing, his back burned in new raw pain and his hands became entangled in the mass of their coiled bodies until one had secured itself around his neck.

It was like swimming in an ocean forever but not drowning. He simply lived in the perpetual state of drowning but not drowning. In the snake den there emerged a pig. He thought the snakes would engulf him as they would surely do to him, but the pig was crueler than any serpent. It hacked at him with a terrible ignorance in his eyes where the snakes killed with a keen intelligence and a desperate need. Again and again the biting paint of flesh and metal came together, and he felt streams of wetness everywhere until his body became a chain of unceasing rivers. The snakes did not stop to help him, or attack the pig. It seemed that their leering changed rhythms into a crescendo of strained noises that seemed oddly ritualistic.

“Thy kingdom come, accept thy heathen!” the pleaded. They prayed for his soul that upon being born could never really be saved, but they tried in vain, yelling their prayers to Him. “Bless him lord! They shouted, “Hallelujah!” when he stopped moving. Until the rope, so frayed and worn gave out unexpectedly. His arms struck out. Kill the pig! He thought. Surely He would also want to receive him. The pig was as unclean as he. Down went his fists in a rhythmic motion that could only be described as a tempo, evenly spaced in what in his mind was a common 4/4 time frame, and out from his demonic throat came the humming of a song none had heard in centuries. It was a fitting piece, the death of Don Giovanni, the father that haunted his son till he went insane. The Father had surely haunted them all. They were, in all accounts of decency, as insane as one can get.

And then the pig lay dead, his head ripped from his body, mounted on the very stick he had been using on the man that would be hung.

He felt the bite of the snake upon his flesh again, and then he closed his eyes.

Out from the forests had come men, dressed as apes. They swarmed the one they were to hang, surrounding him in a cocoon of steel and nail. None would come near them. For all their righteous furry the citizens of Alatra would never attack when they could be harmed. In the hand of one of the apes, the largest, there was a syringe that he had applied to the would be dead man.

“I hope whatever poison they used on him was a common one.” He spoke to one of the group. “The serum works on most poisons, but not all.” The large ape slung the man over his shoulder.

“Should we kill them?” one of the, the shortest asked. There was something universal about those whose stature made them appear weaker. They always tried to compensate with unneeded brutality.

“We are no barbarians,” the ape scolded, angry even at the proposition. The others seemed to agree, nodding deathly in an unhealthy unison, and vaulted over the wall which once the people of Alatra found impregnable, now they considered heightening, as the man they had rescued repeated in a voice almost inaudible, “I do not wish to be seen.”

King Dmitri, now crowned twice over, vomited for the fifth time that day. A large man with rough hands and a kind face held his hair back as he did so. In contrast to a profile that seemed both docile and angelic, his body was massive and muscular to a point of excess. Dmitri Grigoriev looked up to the giant with a face that was even paler than usual. His body, though almost excessively tall, was thin and wiry, his muscles barely existent. All in all, he appeared no better that a bird, whose bones would easily break, and whose wings had been pruned one time too many.

Still, what he lacked in domineering he made up for in arrogance. With what was left of his wedding feast still clinging to his slightly too long hair, he glared at the hulking giant.

“I expressly forbid anyone from entering my tent.”

“I expect you will find that men do not follow orders from a drug induced princling.”

“King”

“Two weeks does not cement your title enough to be taken seriously.” Dmitri seemed in a mood to argue, when he began to dry heave once more; only a transparent liquid came from him this time.

“I require water, and a riding expedition.” He demanded once the wave of nausea had subsided. His general looked at him with what could only be described as puzzlement.

“I was married before discovery and my wife lies in the forest somewhere. If she is not already dead, we must rescue her. I am honor bound.”

“What will you do with her after now? Surely an alliance with her is no longer of any use to us. We could leave her in the forest. No one would ask, or if you would prefer I could go out and end her suffering quickly. I would never tell. Do not weigh yourself down unnecessarily. There are many girls of our kind that would make quite a suitable bride.” Dmitri’s glare returned with a vengeance.

“I gave my word to protect her to a man that, though I feel should burn in the seven hells, I owe my life to. Besides, she is not completely worthless. Like it or not, as long as I am still alive, I am king of the clan. I feel the title will do something for me in the future.” With this a vengeful gleam entered the blue of his large doe eyes.

“When you look like this, I fear you.” His pale lips split into what could only be described as pure mirth; while he fought to control laughter he feared would come out all too maniacal.

“Either way Anastas, you will in this as in all things, obey me.” A poor excuse for a king, Dmitri had to be carried atop his stallion. It was not the cliché black of pure evil, but a chocolate brown with a single white back leg. Still, he was quite large; one could say to compensate for a bulk his rider had never seemed to attain. Quite fearsome in appearance, the horse was nothing but a bloody traitor that would warm up to anyone with a lump of sugar. Thankfully, no one but Dmitri had found this out. He took two soldiers with him, both barely eighteen, for this was not a particularly dangerous mission.

Most leaders walked with a full guard, but Dmitri refused to be babysat, though some would argue that he severely needed to be. Anastas had asked that he send more than one search party. He claimed that if they had to find her, then they might as well do it right. Dmitri had mysteriously declined. Somehow he knew where he would find his wife. This was not, as most would think of it, a romantic pull at his heart. It was not romantic drivel of two souls twined together so that their souls were one and he could feel her entirely. The truth of the matter was, that even after having known her the short time he did, he knew exactly what she would do once thrown out into the forest. She would be trying to, in vane, climb the walls of Alatra. Sure, with long metal hooks and rope his men could easily climb the ropes, but he could see her now. She was most likely grabbing and scratching at the walls like the wolves that they were meant to keep out.

Sure enough, after half an hour of cantering around the wall, there she was. He had underestimated her. She had apparently been making some sort of makeshift rope from leaves that could never support her weight. At least she was not so stupid as to be trying the same thing over and over; for surely her bloody fingernails were evidence she had tried to climb the wall.

“Do you truly wish to be killed?” her thin neck swiveled so quickly around that, had she been and old woman, it would have caused some serious neck problems.

“Better to be sacrificed to Him than to starve slowly.” Her glare was hateful and condescending. “Thank you for ruining my life, by the way, it was very kind of you. At least I have this.” From her long bony finger she bounced a ruby, so red it was like blood, and as large as a human heart. “This. Of course, I claim from you as restitution for the trouble you have caused me.” She smirked placing the heart of the clan back beneath the skirt of a her ruined bridle gown.

“You must realize of course, that being my wife everything that is your is mine, so keeping it is a futile gesture.”

“I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!” she yelled spinning around in maddening circles until he thought she was insane.

“What are you doing?”

“An ancient tradition, if I say I divorce you three times we are divorced, see? So you may leave me alone.” His wane face broke out into an eager grin.

“I am afraid that is a muslin custom my dear, long dead. Besides, only the man has the right to do that and you are not Muslim.”

“I will convert!”

“That is fine but you still have to get me to say it.”

“I will make you.”

“Never.” All the while he had been drawing closer and closer to her. Right then his horse snorted at her, too close for her comfort.

“You have been feeding the overgrown beast too many sugar cubes.” she snorted. “His intimidating girth, as most would see it, is all fat.” at his appalled look she smirked, even as he reached an arm and pulled her on the overgrown beast.

“I would watch my tongue if I were you.” He sneered. “I am not above beating you.” His voice would almost be intimidation too, if he was not wheezing from the exertion of pulling her on the horse.

“What happened to you to have you all flustered?” if she had been any other woman this comment may have appeared to be a snide mark hiding concern. Because it was Elena, she really was mocking him.

“A snake bit me.” To shut her up he began in a trot, moving so quickly the wind drummed away any attempt at her taunting further.

The squalid tent that Dmitri lived in was not what Elena envisioned as her new home.

“No.”

“Excuse me.”

“No, this is a no.”

“I’m afraid I don’t underrated.”

“If there was a hole in the middle of the dessert filled with animal feces, human corpses, and on fire, it would be preferable than living in this disgusting- tent!” truly an angrier face could not exist.

“Well I suppose the forest floor, with all the man eating wolves, might seem a more favorable option at the moment, but I can assure you my tent is quite comfortable.” Her look was incredulous, and her stance ridged.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get out and don’t come back until I call you.” When she pushed him he could have probably resisted had she not done it so quickly. He was truly in shock at being thrown out of his own home. Disgruntled and angry, he settled down a few feet from the tents to stare at destruction in the making. The first thing that happened was that his tent was completely dismantled. The blankets, roughly patched fur, that held it together were bundled up along with the cushions that made up the floor and the covers that kept him warm. No piece of cloth was spared, from his shirts to his handkerchief, everything was pushed into a large cauldron that he did not know where it came from. The mystery was reveled later as one of the wives of his men came out screaming in an angry roar. There was a fight, short but violent. Finally the woman seemed to have lost and began helping Elena.

They lit a fire and placed the cauldron, now full of water, onto what appeared to be a makeshift cooking fire. They were cooking his tent. He would have nowhere to live once they were done. After what seemed like an hour they began removing the fabrics, throwing out water that had become brown, and placing more water. This time they appeared to be adding all sorts of new liquids to the concoction. They seemed to be pressing the cloth, wringing it then hanging it on long wires. It was time for dinner when they finished, both sipping what had to be tea, and laughing with what in his mind could only be him.

The women then began a series of sowing he could not quite understand. The cut and sewed, cut and sewed. To him it just seemed like they were turning his once serviceable home into scraps. Finally he had had enough. With a soft thud, he was fast asleep.

There was a rude bird pecking at his head. That was the only explanation for the thudding that, despite him having swatted at it twice, would not go away.

“Wake up!” he opened one red irritated eye at her. “Its ready.” He got up with a start, running towards his tent. It would be gone, it would be in rags, and he would have to sleep in the grass. The tent appeared cleaner than usual. It was even a little bigger. Inside he noticed the cushions were less, but more neatly placed.

“I think I can live here now.” He heard Elena say from behind him as she lay on a faded brown cushion.

“It smells like star flowers in here.” He whined laying himself next to her so they were not touching.

“Get used to it.” she yawned turning away from him and falling into what appeared to be a tired slumber. He took a pieced of her ever wild hair between his fingers. It was silky and soft, and he felt, as any man would feel after acquiring a piece of valuable piece of property, proud to own such a pretty wife. She was well bred and intelligent. This was why he had decided to go after her. The women that lived in his camp and it had been given to him upon the death of the previous leader a week ago, were mostly crude, unlearned wenches forever vengeful and bitter at fate. It was fate that had made their blood the inky blue that made it so that they became outcasts. It was not all city states that killed these beings, universally despised, but most did cast them out to create small camps, try to survive the attacks of flesh eating wolves and strange diseases found in the jungle of star flowers.

He looked outside the tent, adjusting his eyes so that they could see in the dark. He knew that they had turned a pure gold, shinning in the darkness like so many suns. He could see others about, all with the same golden eyes, forever seeing in the darkness. Sometimes he thought that these new people, blind with greed, had stolen the light from the sun to place in their eyes. In truth, he found that people had been quite mistaken about them. He did not see the disfigured monsters whose blood made them a horrible disfigurement of nature, but an adaptation to a world of darkness in which human, in the traditional red blooded sense, would in a few generations be extinct or outnumbered. Still, he envied those men in their walled cities and blind ignorance.

This evolution was not without its disadvantages. He did not breathe, which meant that smell eluded him, though for some reason the star flower held a very pungent odor, and though he could not see in the dark, blackness had no color. It was only in light that, the nuances of color made themselves visible to him. Yet sometimes, he would fall so deep into shades of grey that he would forget that blue and the bursting scarlet existed, until the colors made him weep with the beauty of light. He retreated back into the tent, allowing his dull, human vision, the one capable of seeing beauty, to return. Barely, he could make her out, but still he saw the starling contrast of the black hair, like the sky without stars, and her skin as white as a china doll. The lips were parted, a deep pink so they were almost red. What a prize she was, and he so hoped that she would sleep forever so that never again would he have to face her with his sorry, mutated body. In the darkness, where no one watched, his body twisted and the true curse that he had been born with, one which none else had, made itself apparent.