Henry

I had to admit that I was less annoyed with Julian than I was curious. My parents had always told me and Pippa that he was the son of a noble that was close to our family who had died, so they took him in like their own. Suddenly I wondered if Arrhenius was even his real name and if that wasn't why he hated being addressed that way. I thought about asking him, but he looked kind of lost in his head, so I decided I'd rather not disturb him. I guessed he was hiding a lot of pain right then, and exhaustion, too, if what he said about the transportation thing was true. It would be awhile before we stopped, though so I hoped he was capable of holding it in a few more hours.

He seemed to know exactly where he was going, so I followed closely, through the woods, mercifully far off from any fighting, along trails that looked like they were only ever used by the blue deer that lived plentiful as fleas in these parts. I caught sight of them a few times, prancing away graceful as you please, like they were just dancing through this world, unlike us on the horses, slogging through it. I don't know, maybe they were right. They sure weren't fighting any wars, after all.

I heard the huge river long before I saw it, mostly because it tapered off to this massive as all get out waterfall not too far from where we were. Then I saw the little orange and gold diamonds dancing off its surface—the reflection of the soon-to-be-setting sun. We rode through the shrubbery, shoving unruly branches out of our way, thorns tearing at my skin. I cried out in surprise as a branch came whistling at my head, thwacking me across the cheek. Julian turned in his saddle and stared, but he didn't apologise.

"Be a little more careful would you, and remember I'm behind you?" He turned right back around and kept riding, ignoring me. Bastard. And in the next few minutes he kept doing it. Again and again. My face stung by the time we reached the river, which looked for all the world like melted copper flowing in the streambed. Mist hung above its surface from the waterfall's spray, and it felt like what riding through a cloud must be like.

After one final smacking by branch, I rode up next to him and leaned over so he could hear me over the waterfall. "Hey! I said watch that I'm behind you and stop knocking me in the head with branches!" He stared at me for a good few moments with utterly blank blue eyes, dark and inscrutable like our ocean.

"If you can't watch where you're going well enough," he said finally, so softly that I wondered how I could hear him over the gushing water, "you're welcome to ride ahead." After I didn't answer him for some time, he cocked an eyebrow, and I felt an almost uncontained desire to slap him. He knew very well I didn't know where we were going. And then, with the all the satisfaction of someone who had just won a battle—one of words, one in which I had no hope of victory—he turned and led his horse right on through the river. I followed well behind, careful not to be caught in the spray his horse's hooves kicked up.

He had just been getting on my good side, too. Or rather, I had been getting on his, if he was telling me about his past, which, from the way he exploded when it was brought up, must not have been too often a thing to happen. And he had smiled. For just about the first time since I found him in the Loqarian cell. He looked nice when he smiled, like he really was capable of affection and not some emotionless devil the likes of which I'd read about when I was a lot younger and believed that kind of crap. Devils and the like. That reminded me of Sven—not the devils, but the affection. I hoped to each and every Lord above that he was all right, that somehow he had escaped. The more I thought on it and the lower the sun set below the horizon, as we dismounted and made a camp in between the massive roots of a tree almost as big around as the size of Julian's room, the more likely it seemed that he couldn't have possibly gotten out alive. He couldn't have gotten away down the stairs for the soldiers, not to the balcony for the fire that even as Julian had ushered me out had been spreading to my rooms.

As my eyes began sting pathetically, I prayed—despite not being all too devout—that he burned to death before he could have been captured. I didn't want to happen to him the likes of what had happened to Julian. A pop from the fire that I hadn't known was started startled me with a choked gasp and I realized that I was crying. While I tried to wipe all the tears away, I caught Julian's eye over the hopping flames between us. He was watching with an expression that seemed more confusion than anything, but containing something else that could have either been worry or irritation. I would bet my last copper dragon it was the latter, but then he got up, firelight glinting off his glasses more eerie-like than you can imagine, and crouched down next to me, just within arm's length.

"Are you all right?" he asked very quietly, and rage surged up in me strong as the fire that blazed on the ground before me.

"You," I hissed, lunging at him. Being crouched on his feet, he was easy to knock over, and knock him over I did, pinning him to the cool, mossy ground. "You made me leave him! You made me abandon him to the fire and the army and now he's dead and it's your fault!" I shouted, hitting him over and over and over again. He didn't really fight back, and I wondered if he could see, since I'd knocked his glasses off. The looked like they were made of liquid glass with the reflection of the flames moving fluidly over the lenses.

"How could you ask me to make that choice?" I sobbed, bringing my fist weakly to his shoulder before collapsing on him, crying all over again. Talk about pathetic. I continued to curse him against his shoulder, curse him and his family and the day I met him and everything else that I could think of to blame. The sun, the sky, the earth, my family, for starting the war in the first place, and eventually my "How could you?"s became "How could I?"s, and not once during my long, contemptible breakdown did he tell me to shut up, or try to roll me off of him, or even move at all except to bring his arms around me.

*

I woke up to someone's toes poking me in the ribs, and I tried to swat them away. I must have fallen asleep, because there they were again, poke, poke, poke against my side, until I grabbed the ankle they belonged to and yanked.

Someone swore loudly, and I smiled in satisfaction before rolling over. It wasn't until that someone poured water on my head that I finally sat up and paid them some attention. And there was Julian, standing over me, looking really, really pissed off, holding a dripping container at his side.

"Why did you do that?" I snapped. "I was just about to wake up." He rolled his eyes and moved away, and I saw the fire was out, the horses resaddled, and everything that had been unpacked the night previous packed up again.

"If you keep assaulting me," he drawled lazily, "I will leave you here and find your sister on my own." The pain of remembering Pippa was missing stabbed hard in me; harder than the memory of losing Sven, even, and I curled my hands into fists at my side with a newfound determination—I would find her. And if I had to do it without Julian, I would. I would find her no matter what happened, so that I did not lose two people I loved dearly.

"On your own, huh? How do you propose to defend yourself? You know enough spells to do that? Or do you think you might just end up getting captured by her and broken by torture all over again? Because you seem to be very good at that," I returned, and he didn't even look mad. Not even a little. He looked tired and maybe a little fed up. I could see a dark bruise on his cheekbone that hadn't been there before and felt a tickle of guilt. I suddenly wanted to press my lips to his cheek and make it better like my mother used to—she may have been queen, but even she had been my mother when I needed her to be. I wanted some way of taking back the mark I gave him.

And it occurred to me that Julian hadn't ever had someone to kiss his hurts when he was little, since his parents had died. Had his adoptive family loved him like they would a son? Or did they tolerate him like a family might its bastards? He had always been treated like the son of some noble in my house, by my parents. He would never have known a mother's love, nor a father's guidance. No wonder he was so deranged, having had no one to curb him, to teach him how to be human.

Maybe I felt a little sorry for him right then. But before I could even apologise or anything, he turned away abruptly and mounted. Or, I should say, tried to mount. He was clumsy enough as it was, not being used to riding as I was, but on top of any injuries he had, it couldn't have been easy. So before he could get his other leg up over the saddle, pain must have jabbed him where it really hurt and he tumbled back to the ground, barely staying on his feet.

"Here, lemme—" I knelt next to him, offering help, but he tried again and, even though he nearly fell again, managed it. It was weird looking up at him from the ground. I had a few inches on him, at least, enough, anyway, to never have to look up at him. But from down here, with him on the horse, back stright and head high in spite of whatever was wrong with him, he looked mighty regal. More so than me, I bet. I was practically raised a soldier, not some prince, or anything. Even though, strictly speaking, that's what I was.

Anyway, mildly insulted, I stood and went to my own horse and mounted, because apparently we weren't eating or washing this damp morning. Well if he was gonna be like that, so was I, and I rode ahead. I figured he was capable of following and if not, I didn't give a damn.

I have this problem every single time I create characters befre plot, and it's getting old—this just doesn't feel like The Story for these two. I will continue it because, if I've learned anything it's that one must persevere, and things usually will turn out well. But I may just have to start over at some point and give them a new story in addition. I don't know, it's very frustrating.