The Crowned Captive

When Morana had first refused to leave Rowan’s side, Cordan had been proud. She sat silently, watching tight-lipped, as the healers buzzed around him like bees. As he had carried his closest friend through the castle, the animosity between them in the previous week chaffing in his mind, Rowan had slipped from consciousness. By the time Cordan had dumped him on the healer’s bench and stood back, his heartbeat had slowed to the point of near stopping. He knew Morana would be terrified currently, knowing Rowan was in this state from protecting her, but his own worry for his friend addled his mind so thickly that no comforting words came to his lips. She knew that if she was to leave, Cordan would have to as well. So they sat together, Morana tucked under his arm, and watched.

When the first two healers sent for a third, the worry in Cordan’s gut turned to full-fledged fear. The woman had cast her eyes to them, apprehension on her face, as the man turned to gather supplies for the journey ahead of them. That was never a good sign. The fact that not one but two more healers came, as well as a servant to assist them, was also a poor omen. None of them spoke as they worked, simply fluttered around.

When Ilda had walked into the room, eyes wide, Cordan had simply given up hope. She had looked at him, offering a smile he did not have the will to return, and then spoke under her breath to the healers around them. Morana’s arms tightened around him when she swore under her breath. The grip threatened to break a rib with her newfound strength, but he had not the heart to tell her. She needed to hold something, be tethered currently, and the pain helped stave off the advances of despair in his mind.

Light had begun to stream through the windows of the infirmary when Ilda finally stood back, saying something to the man sweating beside her. He nodded, and she stood away, walking towards them. The worry on her face bode of ill news, and Cordan had to fight the urge to simply walk away and not hear it. Not hearing it would not help his friend.

“It is not good news. The arrow was coated in faesbane and powdered iron. It has entered his bloodstream and inhibited his healing. The sword he was cut with, the red one, was iron and had some kind of spell on it meant to sap the strength of its victims. I have tried, but I can’t make odds and ends of the spells afflicting him currently. Vampry magic is different from most elven magic, more primal. I fear some of the gods’ magic lay on the blade too,” she relayed, giving the last details for Morana’s benefit.

“What does it mean? What do we have to do to heal him?” Morana asked whilst the meaning of Ilda’s words still settled on him.

“He is doomed. Every attempt you make at healing him is taken by the spells, isn’t it?” Cordan asked, his voice threatening to break. He had had some close calls previously, but Cordan never imagined Rowan would meet his end like this. He was not favoured by the king for no reason. It should have been an ancient dragon or a god themselves that struck him down, not some pretentious pet of the Rebellion.

"No. No, that isn’t true. It can’t be. There has to be something that can cure him. There has to be,” Morana cried, nearly dropping to the floor. Cordan’s own eyes welled at the pain in her voice.

“I wish I could tell you otherwise, Morana, but the only thing that would cure him now is to kill the wielder of the sword before the night’s end. There is no way you can locate the vampry quick enough, let alone have someone skilled enough kill him.”

“Draigh said that if I joined him of my own free will, the vampry would be mine to command. I promised Rowan I would never try and escape, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t leave with permission. I could save him then.”

Cordan had to step in before Morana said something that would end up with her beheaded. He knew, without doubt, that the king would never let her out of his sight whilst there was any doubt on her intentions. He also had a feeling Morana would do anything to save Rowan right now, both due to her affections and her guilt. If that included attempts at treason, he could not deny she would try it. One dead loved one was enough to worry about tonight, on top of the deaths of so many of his brethren in the guard. He could not take her demise on top of it all.

“Mor, think about it. You don’t even know how to contact him, or if he would still stick to his word after you tried to kill him. I watched you brew that paralytic - it was potent. He may not even be able to speak enough to permit you right now. In the miraculous case that the king allowed you to leave, it still wouldn’t work.”

Cordan cringed then, the wave of dark power rolling off Morana an oppressing force. Even the healers looked up from their work as it crashed over them. There could be no doubt that she was of the royal bloodline, the force so similar to King Victor’s. But death and pain would do them no good here, not in the infirmary surrounded by the only people who may be able to help heal him. Cordan tried to pull Morana close to him, to comfort her despite his own aching heart, but she pushed from his grasp. Despondent, knowing she could not do too much harm, he let her go.

He merely sat and watched, tears running down his face, as Morana stalked over to Rowan. As the healers stood back, he saw just how pale his body was, just how poorly he had managed to heal his wounds. Both of them were angry red marks, the skin closed over yet not finished thickening. His eyes did not flicker, his chest barely rose. He was already one foot in the grave, every shred of the Sorceress’s magic gone from his body. And their final time spent together had been fighting over somebody who had already made her choice. At that moment, Cordan could not have hated himself more.

Morana said nothing as she stood over him, kissing him gently, brushing the hair from his face. Those copper locks had lost their lustre, seeming a shade less red. She brushed her hand along the raised mark along his chest, her face turning from broken sorrow to bitter anger. She looked to the other then, the deep indentation of the arrow’s landing not quite filled in. Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed, fighting against the hopeless tears that streamed down her face. Cordan turned from her, watching his friend’s final breaths, wishing that he was conscious enough to hear an apology, to know how sorry he was. Morana stood there, face to the heavens, anger rolling off her in waves. None of them could help her as she prayed silently.

"Evat," she whispered, and power rolled off of her once more.

Every person in the room turned to her, eyes heavy on her face in shock as she furrowed her brow. She took a deep breath and another. Her face paled and creased with the force she put into the word, her hand trembling. Against all odds, against the spells that bound his friend, Cordan watched as Morana lifted the iron from his bloodstream, the tiny metal pieces sitting atop his skin. The faesbane came next, and a broken sob left his lips at the sight of it. The green powder sat atop his skin too, right over his heart. It still sizzled against his skin as it worked its way out. She had tried so hard, done the impossible, yet it was not enough. The damage was too far gone, and the spell had not loosened its grips.

Cordan nearly stood to stop her, watching her sway on her feet. At the slight movement, her head snapped to him, her eyes wide. Their rich blue had turned icy white and burned with power unimaginable. Even Ilda, the strongest wielder of magic he had ever known, stood back at that look. Morana swayed once more but showed no sign of stopping as she put her full force into the word. Rise, she had commanded. And when all the toxins had risen from his blood, she still commanded it.

The room was in utter silence as Cordan realised what the strength of her words meant. Unlike anything he had ever seen, runes and lines, pure and primal magic, rose on Rowan’s skin. The red marks spread from the laceration on his chest, wrapping around every single piece of skin visible. How thoroughly the magic had ensnared his friend was unbelievable, a spell of so many levels it was art. When it sat upon his friend’s skin, Morana frowned and took her dagger from where it had been returned to its sheath. Holding on to that power, the tether she had pulling the tendrils from his flesh and to the surface, she took the dagger to her palm and opened a well of blood. Cordan, Ilda and the rest of the healers watched entranced as she dropped that blood onto the wound, marring the source of the runes.

With an audible snap, like a crack of a whip, the spell broke. Rowan’s chest rose in a ragged gasp, and every healer surged forth to assess what had happened. Within seconds, their magic took its effect, the skin healing the rest of the way, the colour returning to his flesh. Cordan stood, unable to believe the sight. And Morana collapsed.

He was not quick enough to stop her fall, her body hitting the ground with a dull thud. He scooped her up as soon as he reached her, assessing where she had hit the ground. Thankfully, he tallied no wounds past a bruise that would hurt later. With a brush of his hand, he healed that, knowing it not worth the healer’s time when Rowan still hovered on the brink. Ilda crouched down beside him, assessing her with those eyes that saw all. However, without any interference at all, Morana awoke once more.

“Did I do it?” Were the first words from her mouth.

“Yes, Mor, you did it. What you did, I have no clue, but he is healing now,” Cordan replied, tears still streaming down his face. He supposed they were happy ones now, or maybe confused ones at his friend’s fate being changed in mere seconds.

“How did you know? I have ever seen somebody do that before,” Ilda asked, her face curious.

“I just... knew. Every other time somebody had used magic, I had seen them use a hand signal or a word of some sort, but Raeth didn’t. If I looked back on his sword, looked really hard, it was as if I could see the runes beneath the metal. That had to be how the spell transferred to Rowan, so I had to try and remove them. I promised to visit Acheros if he helped me, and then he told me how,” she explained, smiling sheepishly at the last part. She seemed to remember she was still cradled in Cordan’s arms then, and hauled herself up, looking over at Rowan.

“You swapped a visit to a god’s temple for a word of the old tongue. Fae have researched for millennia to be gifted a single word, and you swap one for a quick chat,” Ilda said, voice incredulous. Cordan knew she was not angry, just awed. To be honest, he was too.

Morana merely shrugged at the statement, her worry turning back to Rowan once more. His chest rose more evenly now, his hair had returned to its usual fiery red. The healers still worked, but she surely could see he was no longer at risk of death. She had stolen a soul from Acheros that night, all for a “visit”. Cordan snorted at the thought.

“Healers work quicker without onlookers gawking at them you know,” Ilda began, resting a comforting hand on Morana’s shoulder. “I know there is little chance you will return to your rooms without him being conscious, but if you could wait outside that would be greatly appreciated. Cordan can tell you about our past love to pass the time.”

The look Morana gave him was far from an innocent shock, and Cordan turned to scowl at the sorceress. She merely smiled giving him a little wave as he lead Morana from the room.

"You used to be with Ilda?” Morana asked, her concern for Rowan temporarily forgotten.

“I don’t like that you act as if that is so unbelievable. Yes, Ilda and I were together for a time.”

“How? When?”

“Over a century ago now, hence why I never bothered to bring it up. It was not long after I first came to the kingdom, barely more than a prisoner, and decided to start working in Valylianna’s temple as a whore. It was the one thing I knew, and I was good at it, and the pay was excellent. She was just courtesan then, not head of Gwendolyn’s temple like she is now. We disagreed over my change in occupation, so we seperated. It was not long after that she met her now wife and mate, so I guess it was for the best.” Cordan shrugged, trying to play off the fact that it still pained him. She had found happiness from their split, and his mate chased after other men.

“Why was being a whore the only thing you knew?” Morana asked. At least her voice was gentle, seeming to sense the pain behind the question.

“For another time, Mor. I am still too shaken from the night.”

So they sat there together, in silence, in the tiny waiting room outside the infirmary proper. After a time, the pressure from the night grew too great, and Morana fell asleep against Cordan’s arm. He sighed, thankful for her continued presence, and waited for his friend to awaken.