Chapter 3 - The Rescue of Martin

This takes place when Desiree slips away after the dinner where Cymnea appears and the truth about Thomas is discovered.

In the darkness of Martin's cell, the awaited contact finally came, strong and focused, like the icy tip of a long finger pressing upon the center of his forehead.

It was Desiree, and his first perception of her was of the thin hand she brought to her lips in a call for absolute silence.

The soft chill of the Trump contact spilled over her as Martin accepted the connection. He smiled weakly, lying on a clean cot. His throat was bandaged, the faint stains of crimson outlining the wound beneath.

His eyes glowed warmly as he whispered, "My dearest Desiree. I thought you had forgotten me."

The left side of her mouth quirked up attractively, and she produced something from her gown. Pushing it into his hand, she motioned for him to leave it behind in his cell

...tiny, odd-shaped pieces of cloth...

...something-- ferrous upon them...

He could smell the blood.

He took her offering into his clawed as gently as he could, setting them upon his chest rather than the simple nightstand beside him. The smell of blood gave him a hint of energy, but he still appeared as helpless as a lamb. Every movement he made was a triumph against pain. The strain etched across his worn features, until finally he laid back and enjoyed some simple relief.

Desiree extended her hand to him from the depths of some shadowy thoroughfare... beyond her laid the mossy banks of a river, the glassy surface of the water darkened by the branches of overhanging chestnuts, heavy laden with flowers.

His long fingers wrapped around hers, enjoying the warmth of them against his cold skin. His eyes brimmed with affection, that tender smile parting his bruised lips. Now in better focus, Desiree could see that a dark shadow clung to his eye; another bruise. At least the swelling had gone down considerably, so he could look out of it.

Once the physical contact was made, his perception of the forest was magnified, while the fetid dungeon faded.

The bits of cloth he laid upon his chest fluttered to the floor of his cell as he moved through the trump, and Desiree smiled. She, pale; the blossoms, pale; and all beyond was dank and black and sylvan.

"Oh, poor Martin," she said softly when the Trump contact had completely broken. "What has he done to you?"

As if he were a child seeking protection, Martin curled into Desiree. His hand never parted from hers, holding on with a deep need. His breathing was shallow and labored. It took him some time to gain the strength to speak again. His voice was a broken road, all gravel and pain.
"Desiree? What have you done? Won't they punish you for freeing me?"

She shook her head no, her eyes reflecting some sort of odd, dark humor. "I hope they won't find out," she said, and added, teasing him, "You won't tell them, will you?"

"Never," he whispered, reaching up to weakly touch her cheek. His eyes brimmed with emotion for a moment, but he kept his feelings held close as much as he could.

She felt a surge of guilt for what she was to do, but she merely stroked his hair softly. "I didn't forget you," she said. "I only had to get away, first..."

For a moment, he shivered beneath her touch. Finally, as she removed some of the emerald tangles, he calmed down and smiled. His voice remained raspy and painful due to the neck wound. "I knew you wouldn't forget. I had hoped my plan would work. It seems my gamble paid off. Thank you for confirming my faith."

She regarded him rather curiously, but said nothing. ~'Thought I'd forgotten" ... "Knew I wouldn't forget" ... which is it... or is it both...?~

He winked at her coyly, that coyote-grin playing across his features. "Benedict helped me, albeit unknowingly. I had to find someway out of my chains so I could be pulled through a Trump. Even our uncle wouldn't keep a wounded man chained up." Leaning in, he kissed her fingers and sighed thankfully. "I owe you everything," he whispered.

~Yes,~ she thought with some nervousness. ~Very clever...~

He gazed up at her lovingly, a weak laugh rippling through his body. It hurt him, but he couldn't help his mirth. "Beauty and the Beast. I wonder if the hunters will put this beast down. Perhaps they should."

"Beauty and the Beast," she repeated, and her mouth drew up into a dreamy, faraway smile. "I always liked that one," she whispered.

She looked at him with that same sort of... hero worship she had for him when she was a child.

"Listen," she said after a moment. "We've got time, here, at any rate, you know... so you can get better before we start out. Things move here-- really, really fast."

She was evidently trying to communicate that this was a fast-time shadow, in her way.

He simply nodded to her description of the Shadow, as if sensing it himself.

"... and I've got you something, too," she said, then she stopped, and ran a hand lightly over his hair again. "It's steak, Martin. It's in my pack"

She looked over to a little copse of trees by the river, from whence a hiccoughing croak sounded.

She clicked her tongue, and the noise of rustling underbrush, intermingled with wet sort-of flapping sounds swiftly proceeded the appearance of a rather amphibious-looking horse, pale and spotted, with finned, froggy legs and bulging eyes.

With surprising speed and smoothness for the strangeness of its gait, it approached, round eyes looking at them in comical surprise while strands of green algae still hung from its mouth where it had been grazing by the water-side.

It gave another, questioning, half-whinny before it sat down on its haunches. She reached over with her free hand and gave its wet hide a good pat, turning smiling eyes back to Martin to gauge his reaction.

"I made it up, or found it, or whatever," she said with distinct indifference as to which philosophy of shadow shifting she chose to believe.

The young prince chuckled, then coughed as the laughter in his chest strained his injury. After a moment, he grinned once more. "A very noble steed, my angel. Your skills over Shadow have increased considerably, I see," he managed.

"No thanks to Mother," she interjected. "She's only ever let me go into shadow once."

"We will have to remedy that once I've healed and this is over."

She gave him an attractively grateful smile.

My, how much quicker she was to smile when someone treated her as if she were a real person.

"And it shows your good judgement as well." He patted her knee lightly, trying not to show his aching hunger.

It was quite hard for him to hide his need.

He grinned, the tip of his fingers softly moving down to touch the curl of her lips. "It's very nice to see your smile, Desiree." His hand hovered there for a moment, just long enough for the tingle of warmth to pass between them. Then it fell to his side, becoming leaden.

His eyes betrayed the pride he held for her. "Well done," he whispered.

"Let me get into my pack; you must be famished," she said.

He waited patiently, just watching her with those strange eyes of his. The smile upon his thin lips faltered for a moment, as if a question had come to him. He did not ask it however, remaining silent.

The horse, if horse it could truly be called, was laden with packs and bags. It sat, placidly chewing its greens, while Desiree rummaged about in a saddlebag.

Reluctant to let her go, he remained close to her. His body occasionally shivered as a jolt of pain flooded through him. Keeping her eyes, he grinned, as if knowing her thoughts.

After all, he has always been treated in much the same way and was empathic to her lot in life. Martin, the pawn. Martin, the unwanted. Martin, the ignored. How easy it was to elicit affection from one disregarded for so long.

She removed a canteen and handed it to Martin, without looking back. "It's just some water," she mumbled, as she dug further. "But the river is clean, too. Probably not so stale... ah."

She may as well have given him fine champagne for the excitement the water provided him. He drank with relish, even though it obviously pained him to do so.

Finally, he laid back, panting like a sated dog. He held the canteen to his chest as if it were a lover, and closed his eyes.

Desiree brought out a rather large, leather-bound book, and laying it aside, followed it with a hefty package tied in white paper and butcher's string.

It took him a moment to notice the book, but when he opened his eyes again, it summoned bright curiosity in him. He appeared ready to question Desiree about it, but then all was forgotten when the blood-scent hit him. A feral growl echoed from deep inside his chest, his eyes flashing brightly.

"Well... it's not cooked," she said, unsure of whether to be apologetic or not. "But I didn't think you really wanted a cooked one," she finished, shrugging, and handed it to him.

"There's probably some more," she said vaguely. "I haven't looked in all my packs; I don't really want to know what's there for sure, until I need something."

She smiled at him quirkily, and cocked her head to the side. "Schroedinger's cat, you know."

Yes, it was quite raw. Very bloody: There were around a dozen nice-sized fillets, which were -- rather unfortunately-- quite a bit colder than body temperature.

But... cold or not, it was blood and raw flesh. All the things a growing boy/wolf could want.

With trembling hands, he took the fillets and sat up. Setting them in his lap, his entire being tensed in keen anticipation of the feed. But just as he began slicing juicy strips of meat with his claws, he stopped.

Shameful eyes regarded Desiree for a time, his lips quivering with guilt and hunger. "Please. Don't.watch me. One so beautiful should not have to endure such ugliness." His dreadfully long fangs shined in the faint light.

Indeed, she had been watching with with something of curiosity, but at his request she merely gave her chin a diffident, feminine toss. "It wouldn't have bothered me," she said. "But if it worries you, I'll read."

With a bashful smile, he whispered, "Angel. I simply do not wish you to think less of me for what I have become. Thank you for your kindness and understanding."

His claws trembled noticeably as he held in the urge to feed. Every line on his features betrayed the conflict brewing beneath the surface. Even so, he refused this nature in the face of offending Desiree.

She reached over, and opening her book, angled away from him so she wouldn't be able to see.

He could resist his hunger no more. The moment her head was turned, the young prince fed. He tried to mask the inhuman sounds, but so close together, such a task was impossible. It did not appear that he desired the flesh so much as the blood. He could be heard suckling the crimson juices as noisily as a babe. Finally, Martin breathed a deep sigh of relief, then fell silent.

For a moment, Desiree could hear the faintest of sounds come from him. A low, aching noise; one of unknowable grief. Then it was gone like a wisp of smoke on the breeze.

"I am forever in your debt, Desiree," he whispered.

"Someday, perhaps, you will tell me why you have shown me such kindness. A thing such as I doesn't deserve it." He laid back on the ground, and closed his eyes to the pain.

Her brows drew together in concern, and she laid the large book aside for the moment. "Don't let them convince you of that," she said softly. "They're terrible, the lot of them. You were right all along about them. Terrible, and fools to boot."

The canine eyes opened once more, flickering with unnatural light. He regarded her almost sadly, then nodded his head. "It is a lesson one can only learn first hand. Our family is its own worst enemy. I had wished to change that, but.alas. that was not to be I suppose." His finger caressed the bandage about his lean neck as he listens to her next words.

She rose to her knees, and continued earnestly, "Some of them were even considering destroying the Pattern and doing Fiona's work for her -- can you believe it?"

The danger of whiich Cymnea had warned them they took to be a warning against the Pattern itself, as if not conceiving that this danger could come from some other quarter beneath the castle.

Martin, perhaps.

Or the one who would be his master.

A weak chuckle escaped him and he rolled his eyes up in frustration. "Didn't they learn /anything/ from Brand's botched attempt?" he hissed. "Ah, but there is the rub. Our family lives in a static world, and their mindset is no more likely to change than Amber. I should have killed Fiona when I had the chance."

She smiled at his words, but tried to discern the motives behind the sentiment. Did he despise Fiona, or was it merely an act? Was he allied with her and merely angry that she had left him to rot, imprisoned?

... or was it as she hoped, that Martin had somehow truly retained his character, and he sought to slay Fiona to protect Rebma and Amber from her scheming?

With a great deal of effort, he shifted onto his side, using his elbow to prop him up. Some color had returned to his features, but even so his skin was like ash. He reached out for her hand, smiling.

"So," he said carefully. "Why did you rescue me?"

She acted as if she were a trifle hurt by the question; her smile went convincingly stiff. "That you should have to ask!" she exclaimed, simulating covering her feelings with a laugh.

To this Martin frowned slightly, and nodded. His fingers squeezed her, pulling her closer to him. With his other hand, he lightly stroked her wrist, eyes cast downward. "Forgive me. I have been used, betrayed, and nearly murdered twice in the past few days. My suspicions have always been my greatest fault."

Again, the guilt racked her, but what could she do? She certainly had no ill intentions toward him, it was only that she suspected. She feared. And she had to act and find out the truth or baseness of the tales of his corruption.

The now silvered glow of his eyes shifted upwards as he gazed into her face. "I shall be honest with you. My feelings for you have been swelling since that day in the library. I have been hurt once by someone I cared for. That is why I have an unerring need to push people away. Especially." he paused. "People I care deeply for. Does that make some sick sense?"

"Yes..." she murmurred in a strangely guarded way. Then, "...yes," she repeated, but her gaze fell uneasily away from his.

If Dyved had kept his bloody mouth shut, this new behaviour of Martin's would not have been so hard to read. She had such dread that Martin was merely attempting to use her... to play on her emotions, which he must take to be those of some young school-girl.

Surely he thought more of her than that.

Surely, he was merely lonely, for all the love lost in his life, and was flattered to find that he'd had a young admirer all along...

Perhaps, in that case, it would be best to emphasize her youth a bit with him.

"As for my reasons," she said calculatingly, "Well, really... there were lots of them. One is that if they call you 'sick,' you should not be locked up at all." She began listing the reasons on her fingers, charmingly childlike. "Another is that... I always liked you. Also... I didn't want you to lose your faith in people completely. Then... you said you could help save the world, all the worlds, everything. That's four."

She paused. "Well, it seems like there were two more when I was listing them in my head, but I can't think of them right now. I think I must have confused them... maybe I counted the last one as three, the first time..."

~Five is that if you are not corrupted, I want to find and slay Fiona with you, as we planned. Six is that if you are corrupted, I will follow you to your master, just as
Benedict suggested I should.~

Still touching her hand, exploring its curves and angles with his fingers, he listened to her list of reasons. He grinned broadly, enchanted by her innocent manner, and she-- caught between pleasure and guilt at the success of her deception-- merely smiled back.

"They sound like noble reasons, my dear," he said. "And fear not. I am sure you will think of the others soon enough. You have grown so much since I first saw you. I knew you would. I could see the wisdom in your eyes even then."

She looked at him, blinking her long lashes, the cool breeze catching tendrils of her hair so that living, it rose up around her face. "Are you cold?" she asked, concerned.

He shook his head, whispering a faint, "No." He cocked his head, flinching slightly as the motion pulled at his wound. "Are you cold? I could make us a fire or something. I think my strength is returning."

Her expression softened a bit, and she had the sudden urge to tell him who Moire has intended her to marry, to see what reaction he might have, to see if it would clarify anything to her.

"Look," she said, suddenly pleased, half-turning so he could observe the cut of her clothing. "Vincent gave me his cloak."

With profound interest, Martin examined Desiree's appearance. He nodded in approval, smiling up at her. "Very fetching, my dear." His hand shivered for a moment, then he spoke once more.

This time his voice had an edge to it, sadness cloaked behind a veil of cheer. "Are you and Vincent. involved, now?"

She laughed again, and it bore an oddly strained note, but she pushed herself forward with it.

"That would be something, wouldn't it?" she remarked, her eyes masked and distant. Her nerves, which had been thankfully quiet since her mind had been so occupied with the management of this or that detail, suddenly rose in a knot to her throat again.

"No. We've only just met," she said tightly, watching her hand curiously to see if it trembled. ~Why did her body react so when she revealed bits of herself?~ she wondered, not for the first time.

She seemed to be struggling with herself for a moment, when she said in a controlled tone, "They want me to marry the king."

Finally she met his eyes again, and she looked almost as if she dared him to speak. "I have always known that."

~I thought it would be you~ she thought, and though she did not say it, the sentiment was quite obvious.

Instead, she looked away again, back towards the river and the floating petals, drawing lazy circles there. "It would have been Martel, had he not fallen in love with Catriola," she said, her voice leaden.

"As it turns out, it was a good thing I threw such a tantrum about it when they tried to engage us to be married. He will never be king, now. Your father was never crowned, was never even chosen by the unicorn. It will have to be Vincent," she said with the heaviness of finality.

It was all too sad... this young girl: all her romantic notions, all her hopes, all the silly dreams of happiness were for nought, and always had been.

Her destiny was written, and she would have to play it out

She smiled, rather bitterly, and added, "I suppose that will only be if Vincent hasn't fallen in love with Catriola, too."

Suddenly, as she was speaking, there came a strange mist, lifting up from the river. The horse gave a terrified hiccoughing neigh, closer to a scream, and pulled away ...

Desiree sat up, eyes wide and staring.

Martin turned his head with a start, eyes flashing brightly. He lifted his nose to the air, sniffing it like a wolf. Whatever scent he caught appeared to confound him, as if he were stuck between joy and fear. A low curse escaped his lips. Immediately, he moved to Desiree's side, never letting go of her hand.

And then they saw it. Rising from the river in a long slow swirl, the mists seemed to coalesce into a column of darkness, lifting up, up, up ... till it towered fifty feet above them ... a woman's figure clad in long flowing draperies. All this they could see -and the whole figure was deepest grey.

Desiree was frozen to the spot, and the trembling, which she had fought so recently to control, began again in earnest.

~Continue trembling,~ she instructed herself with the coldness of a clinician. ~Young Desiree would be fearful. Use the fear, and store it away. Don't let it control you...~

Martin smiled to her reassuringly, squeezing her hand. Then his eyes returned to watch this approaching woman. One word was uttered from him, filled with respect and dread. "Deirdre."

The figure moved as though she was bending forward over them, and a little of the mist that was her form drifted away and caressed their upturned faces with a cold so fierce that it burned.

Desiree made some strangled sound, and jerked her face away, looking questioningly toward Martin, the picture of frozen terror.

"It's best if you don't fight her," he said gently. He glanced at her, trying to calm her as best he could. "You have no idea how wonderful things can be. Just you and I, helping to rewrite the world as it should be. How it should have been."

He leaned in, trying to kiss her cheek. She could feel his warm breath upon her cheek as he whispered, "You will be safe with me. I promise. Please don't be afraid."

She remained frozen; it gave her time to think... time to sort out what was going on.

His assurance comforted her. He would be her ally, here... perhaps she could find out... find out what needed to be done in order to eradicate this evil.

Find out who was behind it.

A soft voice, the sighing of the frost as it crept forward on cold winter nights, filled their ears. "Martin ... my servant ... come to me .... "

A long finger of mist moved down and stroked Martin's throat. "Another wound ... delivered by another uncle ... he shall be punished for his cruelty ... my poor Martin, my faithful Martin ... "

Then the bandages about his throat were pulled away -and the terrible wound was healed. Only, in its place, showing clearly on his neck, was the ugliest of black scars, like a brand, in the shape of a black flame.

The young prince shivered beneath his aunt's caress, gazing up at her with adoration. He squeezed Desiree's hand again, while speaking to the dead woman. "You know as well as I the pain our family can inflict, my aunt. Thank you for your healing touch. Thank you for watching over us. Thank you for returning to me. It has been far too long." He pressed his cheek to the woman's glacial fingers and smiled.

The mist descended, surrounding them ... already their faces and forms were growing indistinct to one another unless they moved together ... so close.

Desiree waited, shaking like a leaf, mind turning over a hundred possibilities in the blink of an eye, but one useless thought repeated itself over and over in the front of her mind, refusing to be shut away with the rest of her fear.

~I am going to die. And I am going to die alone...~

Martin pulled Desiree to him, smiling to her with such tender affections. He cupped her chin with his clawed hand, "Erase the fear from your heart, my angel. You are safe with me and always shall be. Your actions have rekindled my faith and trust in you. We are so alike, you and I. How could I ever forsake you? Believe in me and you will never be alone again."

She made some small sound, as if she half-wanted to believe him.

But she thought, ~He is lost; it is true.~

"The time approaches ... the time when we shall be free ... when we shall rule ... the time you desired, Martin, when you called me, when you breached the veil to bring me back ... "

He laughed with joy, "Whatever you require Deirdre, it shall be done. The dream we formed shall become reality. After so long, my mother shall be avenged!"

And suddenly they were both conscious of a breathless whirling senstation as though they were caught up, powerless to resist, spinning ... torn apart ... ripped from each other - and yet each of them cushioned, as though held in the hollow of a gigantic hand.

As suddenly as they were seized, they were released ... to find themselves in a low, dark chamber, smelling pungently of wet, damp clay and ancient rot.

 

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