6.

Elyse gave a cry of alarm as Martimeos slumped and collapsed in the saddle, and she was pulled out of it with him to collapse on the side of the path in a heap, the air driven from her lungs. Bela, pushed beyond the point of reason, continued racing ahead, towards the village, the first house of which was a mere hundred feet away. She landed on top of Martimeos, which broke most of her fall, but she almost wished she hadn’t. She could handle a broken bone right now; she didn’t know if he could.

As soon as they rolled to a stop amongst the rustling leaves on the side of the road, Flit fluttered down around them, chirping frantically, trying to peck at his master. Sore from the impact, Elyse groaned as she sat up, spitting leaves out of her mouth, and then gasped out a curse when she saw Martim's face. By the pale light of the moon, she could see that half of his face was entirely black, the skin freezing cold as she laid a hand against it. It was a miracle that he had been able to remain upright on the horse for so long.

She held his hand in hers, as soon as she could draw breath she screamed for help at the top of her lungs. Thankfully it was not yet too late at night; she could see in the village that villagers were still milling about, and they came running at the sound of her voice, though not nearly quickly enough for her liking. The first to reach her were two grayhairs that she recognized as fishermen, thankfully not too old, and thick with muscle from a lifetime of labor. They looked at her curiously as they approached, slowing down once they noticed her tattered black dress and pointed hat. “Please!” she shouted at them, motioning to Martimeos. “He needs care, he needs to be bought to the apothecary!”

The two grayhairs glanced at each other, but did not question. They immediately hoisted Martimeos up between them, one taking his chest, the other his legs. Flit perched on Martimeos’ chest as they carried him along, chirping uproariously, and Elyse followed, still holding onto his hand, wondering what the cardinal was saying, wondering what his song meant. Wondering if it were a dirge.

Other villagers had caught up with them by now, Ritter among them. The innkeeper stared wide-eyed at the state of Martimeos, looking at her with his eyes full of questions. Fool man, the questions would have to wait. Five other villagers now crowded around as well, and more were approaching, all babbling irrelevant nonsense.

“Aren’t you that young couple? What were you doing out by that way?”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“What is that bird doing?”

They still moved along, however, Elyse ignoring their questions, until one tiny, shrill voice cried out: “She’s a witch!”

Elyse almost howled with frustration as the fishermen carrying Martimeos stopped, glancing about uneasily. A small woman, older even than most of the grayhairs here, hair fine and silver and face wizened with age, but with sharp eyes flashing clear anger, stepped forward from the crowd, jabbing her finger at Elyse. “She’s a witch! I knew she wasn’t a proper young woman! Minerva’s been hiding a witch from us!”

Silence fell among the crowd. The fishermen turned to look at Elyse, their expressions growing dark. Anger flared up in Elyse as the villagers muttered suspiciously amongst themselves. “Ungrateful fools,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes, gesturing to Martimeos. “He and I have just broken your damned curse. And now you’re just going to leave him here to die?!”

Astonished murmurs broke out among the crowd, skeptical mutters of ‘The curse is broken’? Then one loud, authoritative voice rang out, clear as a bell. “Alright, you louts,” and everyone suddenly jumped to turn to its source. Ritter had his chest puffed out, his hand on his sword, glaring at the crowd. “You heard the young lady! Get him to Minerva’s shop, quick now, move your pathetic old bones! No questions!” he roared, as someone tried to speak up. “You’ll get your answers later! Well, what are you waiting for, you scum? MOVE!”

That last shout carried so much force and authority that the entire crowd jumped, and the fishermen began practically running with Martimeos between them. Elyse flashed Ritter an appreciative smile as the innkeep jogged alongside them. He just nodded at her in return, keeping his hand on his sword, sharp eyes watching the villagers trailing after them, his mouth a thin line.

Minerva, her gray hair in a tight bun, puffing and frowning, rushed out of her shop as the crowd approached it. The stout old woman's eyes were wide and curious as she stepped out the door, wiping her hands on a rag. “Someone told me I was needed,” she huffed, “What...” and then she saw Martimeos, and her expression went grim and businesslike. “Right. Get him to the bedroom in back. You two!" she roared at some of the approaching villagers. "Grab a tub from ‘round back and fetch me some ice and cold water from the lake.”

Elyse followed Minerva into the shop as the fishermen maneuvered Martimeos’ body around the narrow space, but when another villager tried to follow them in, Minerva spun around and roared at the crowd around the door. “NO! Shop’s not open! Go home now!”

“Aw, come on, Minerva,” came a voice from the crowd gathering around the shop. Yet more villagers had noticed the commotion, it seemed, and were slowly trickling towards the apothecary, curious and wary. “We wanna know what’s going on.” General rumblings of agreement accompanied this. Ritter, now, was looking decidedly worried; he took up a spot next to the door to the shop, making sure all saw well the sword he was wearing.

“We wanna know what’s going on,” Minerva replied in a mocking voice. “What’s going on is that the shop’s closed, and if you try to take a step in here I’ll beat you bloody. And then I’ll get Ritter to do even worse! Go home!” She slammed the door behind her and bolted it, leaving behind the muffled sounds of angry villagers arguing with Ritter.

The fishermen bought Martimeos to his bed, removing his pack before laying him down on it. When Minerva entered the room, she took one look at the wizard before asking the fishermen to help undress him, as well. They quickly stripped him down, even his underclothes – propriety played second fiddle to necessity, it seemed. Elyse did her best to keep her hands on his. She knew that with this kind of poison, an anchor to the world of the living could mean the difference between life and death.

Martimeos’ body was a horror. A large, bloody wound pulsed in his shoulder, still gouting blood with each heartbeat. While the rest of his body was cold, that wound was scalding hot. But more concerning than that was that tendrils of black skin extended from it, covering his chest, his neck, half his face, running down his leg...it almost seemed as if you could see them spreading with every pulse. Flit, who had come in with them, hopped up and down his master’s body, pecking at the black tendrils as if he could peel them off himself.

Minerva swore, and then ran to the front of the shop to fetch some ingredients. The fishermen answered a knock on the door; it was the tub of ice Minerva had asked for, which they placed in the corner of the bedroom, after which Minerva politely asked them to leave. “Uh, miss,” one of the fishermen said on the way out, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Minerva’s real good, she knows her stuff.” When Elyse didn’t answer, he shrugged, and moved out the door, pushing his way past the crowd that still stood there, growing more agitated.

Minerva entered the room again with armfuls of leaves, powders and bottles, dumping them unceremoniously on the bed. As Elyse watched, the apothecary broke off a chunk of ice from the tub, placing it on the wound, and then blew first a yellow, then a green, then a purple powder into it. Elyse knew a bit of the apothecary trade – it had been her mother’s expertise, after all – but she had always been more interested in the Art; she didn’t recognize any of the plants Minerva was using, the flora of this land not as familiar to her as that of her swamp. She had some minor ability to heal with the Art – healing through the Art was very complicated and difficult – but she knew it would be useless here; in cases of poison, healing through the Art actually accelerated it. And the poison was the real danger here, not the flesh wound.

Minerva worked quickly to mash several leaves and berries into a mortar and pestle and smear the paste over the wound, tying it down with a leaf. Then she uncorked a bottle of blue liquid and poured it into Martimeos’ mouth, pinching his nose and rubbing his throat until he swallowed. Then she waited. And watched.

After a while, it seemed like some color returned to Martimeos. His hand in Elyse’s grew warmer, the black tendrils stopped spreading, and even retreated a bit, Flit following their retreat and chirping as if they were fleeing his intimidation – but only by an inch or so before they stopped. Minerva uncorked the bottle of blue liquid and forced some down Martimeos throat yet again; but this time if they moved, it was imperceptible. Finally, Minerva shook her head and sighed. “Well,” she said, “That’s that, then.”

“What do you mean, that’s that?” Elyse snapped. Minerva just gave her a pitying look. “What! Get some more of that blue stuff! Do you need ingredients? Tell me what they are, and I will go fetch-”

But Minerva shook her head. “No, girl. Any more and it would be the antidote that killed him, not the poison.” She sighed again, collecting the empty bottles and her mortar and pestle. “We can wait until the morning. Perhaps he’ll recover. But if not….” she paused, becoming quiet. “I...have some ingredients that can give him a peaceful, painless death…”

“What nonsense!” Elyse finally released Martimeos’ hand – it seemed he would be good for now – and stood, hands on her hips defiantly. “Living in this sleepy village must have addled your brains. He’s strong, he rode all the way here after being poisoned. He can make it, he just needs a little guidance.”

Minerva did not snap at her, or scold her. She just looked at Elyse sadly, shaking her head as she walked back up to the front of the shop, slowly placing the bottles and mortar and pestle back in their place. Elyse was about to snap at the apothecary again when the alarming sound of shouts and yells came from outside the shop's front door.

Elyse accompanied Minerva, peering over the stout old woman's shoulder as the shopkeep went and cautiously opened the door, and gasped at the sight that greeted her.

Ritter stood in front of the shop, hand on his sword, the two burly fishermen at his side, glaring defiantly at a crowd of nearly two dozen villagers that had gathered, some of them carrying torches. A babble of arguments rose from the crowd, occasionally boiling over into angry yells. Ritter was yelling back, red-faced and glaring, threatening them, but had not yet drawn his blade. When Minerva opened the door, revealing Elyse peering out curiously behind her, someone in the crowd shouted “There she is!”

Ritter finally drew his sword as the crowd pressed forward, dealing out stinging slaps with the flat of the blade, and Minerva was shouting, and there were angry yells of “Witch! Witch!” and finally Elyse had had enough.

“SILENCE,” she shouted, pushing her way past Minerva, out the door and into the street, stomping furiously towards the gathered villagers. She glared out over the crowd, which took a step back from her in trepidation. “Idiots! Fools! That’s right, I am a witch. The Witch of Rue Ouest. And what’s more, HE-” here, she pointed back into the shop - “is a wizard! Eh? What do you think of that, grayhairs? We have both just done you a huge favor, and broken your curse. That’s right, it’s broken – no, I won’t tell you how right now! Wait until tomorrow! Right now I have to go in there and heal him, since your bumpkin apothecary cannot. And if I hear so much as a mouse’s peep tonight – if any of you dares to enter that shop – I’ll make you rue the day you were born! I’ll hex you ‘til your boils have boils! I’ll wither your crops and poison your lake! I’ll haunt your nightmares! And when HE wakes up, he’ll burn your whole worthless village to cinders! Leave not one stone stacked upon another! You’ll BEG for the days of the old curse…!”

As Elyse spoke, she jabbed her finger at the crowd, stalking forward; despite outnumbering her, and despite her being shorter than all of them, they stepped back with every step forward she took, huddling against each other, their eyes growing wider and wider with fear. She stopped advancing finally, glowering at the villagers from beneath the shadows of her hat, her face a snarl. “So,” she hissed, “Am I going to be left alone to work my healing tonight?”

The crowd murmured, subdued, vague noises of assent.

“Good. So go home.” She glared as the crowd continued to mill about, moving away only slowly. “Go HOME!”

And with that, bats flew from the tatters of her dress; bright venomous swamp-snakes slithered out from beneath it, coursing towards the crowd. They screamed in panic and fled; one man dropped his torch in the street where it hissed dead as it hit a puddle. Of course, only a few feet from her, the bats vanished in a puff of smoke, and the snakes melted into the ground, but she still looked at them approvingly. That was probably the best glamour she had managed so far. Teaching Martimeos had taught her a bit, as well.

She turned back towards the shop, where Ritter and Minerva stood dumbfounded. She glared at them as she stomped back. Minerva, at least, did not say anything about having been called a bumpkin apothecary, which Elyse did feel a bit bad about, but was too mad to care right now. Ritter, however, opened his mouth, and she snapped at him. “Not a mouse’s peep! That means you too! The both of you! Go home!” And with not another word, she slammed the door of the apothecary behind her and bolted it.

Once inside the apothecary, Elyse sighed, leaning with her back against the door, closing her eyes for a moment as she felt the fury drain out of her. A good thing that the villagers were mostly tired old folk, she thought. If they had been younger, they might not have been so easily cowed.

Rising, she took a moment to search the shelves for an ingredient she knew she’d need. She quickly located it – the roots of a flower known as Lover’s Lament. She popped a small portion of the roots into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, ignoring the bitter taste, as she made her way back to the bedroom.

Martimeos was still there on the bed, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, looking the same as she had when she left him. Flit, eyes closed, was nestled on the pillow next to his master’s head; when Elyse opened the door the little cardinal opened one eye and burbled at her, looking annoyed. “Come here, little one,” she said quietly, as she extended a hand. “I promise I will do everything I can to save your master. But you will need to leave us alone.”

Flit cocked his head to the side, looking at her outstretched hand warily for a moment. Then, with a chirp, he fluttered over to it, alighting upon her palm and preening himself. Elyse delicately carried the little bird to a window, and opening the shutters, released him, watching as he fluttered out into the night. Then she turned back to Martimeos and put her hands on her hips, looking at him, frowning.

The creature in the runs, the snake of feathers...Elyse knew what it was. It was a creature called a Mirrit, and it came from the Outside. A specific world of the Outside, one that her mother had called ‘The Land of Death’s Door’. A Mirrit, supposedly, tried to intercept souls on their way to true death, consuming them before they could know peace. But they also did not necessarily stay put. The Land of Death’s Door was….Elyse did not know too much about the Outside, but her mother had said it was ‘close’ to this world. A Mirrit could make its way into this world, particularly in places where people suffered from lingering, wasting deaths. Or, apparently, where there was a glimmerling.

And Elyse knew the effects of its bite, as well. A Mirrit's poison would try to drag its victims into the Land of Death’s Door. In his mind, Martimeos was probably there right now. It could be slowed, or even reversed, by giving the victim an ‘anchor’ to the world of the living – the touch of warm flesh. Though it was particularly effective if it were a lover’s touch. Or kiss, or passionate embrace. Some reminder, the stronger the better, of life and its pleasures.

Elyse bit her lip as she looked at Martimeos. She did not mind the idea of a kiss, to save his life - there was even a part of her that was curious. But to go further...? There was just one problem with that. It was true what she had told Martimeos. Her mother had always said men were dangerous. What she hadn’t mentioned, however, was her mother’s other warning. That she was dangerous to them. She still remembered her mother’s words. “Your father’s blood runs dark within you, child...”

Her father….

Elyse twisted the large dark ring on her hand fretfully. Then she sighed, tossing her hat onto her bed, approaching Martimeos, wincing at the black veins beneath his skin. “Well, at least you are good-looking,” she told him, as she bent down and placed a kiss on his lips.

His lips were cold, though, and did not respond to the touch of hers at all. She frowned, and tried again, kissing him longer, but still there was no sign of life, no warming of the skin, no retreat of the black tendrils in his flesh. She fretfully twisted her ring once more, then sighed. “A kiss not enough for you, is it,” she muttered. “I thought it might not be.” And with that she lifted her dress above her head, kicked off her boots, and slipped into bed with him wearing nothing but her ring, drawing the sheets above them to keep them warm.

As she pressed her flesh against his, she felt a dark fire begin within her, and her normally cold ring grew warm. But it was nothing uncontrollable – the Lover’s Lament helped with that. And Martimeos definitely seemed to respond. He stirred, murmuring, and his flesh began to warm as she pressed against him. “That’s right,” Elyse whispered. “Let my touch guide you back, Martimeos. Shame you aren’t awake to enjoy it, isn’t it.”

She lay there, holding him, one of his arms wrapped about her, keeping an eye on the black tendrils in his skin. They began to retreat, slowly, as he warmed. She was glad to see it. He did have a nice-looking body, after all. And she thought he liked hers, as well. He might be embarrassed to see her nude, but she had caught him glancing peeks at her legs when he thought she wasn’t looking. Such a silly little dance, she thought. If you liked to look, why not look?

After a while, she thought the retreat of the black tendrils across his skin had slowed, so she bought her hand to his face and leaned up to kiss him again. This time, his lips were warm, and the kiss was longer. She felt the fire within her flare up, and for a moment, she lost herself in the kiss, her eyes closed. She opened them, checking again on the black tendrils. They had retreated considerably from that; now there were none on his face or legs, and barely any on his chest.

“Hmm,” she said to herself. And so she kissed him again, the fire rising in her even more; her ring grew hot on her finger. She broke it off, breathing heavily. Now, there were barely any black tendrils on Martim's body at all. They were all localized to around his shoulder, barely protruding outside of the poultice Minerva had placed over his wound. She smiled to herself, she knew all he needed was a little guidance. One more kiss should finish off the poison. One more she placed her lips upon his.

This time Martimeos kissed back.

She barely had time to react as his arm pressed her into him, his lips moved to meet hers, barely had time to think before the fire rose in her body and she lost all thought, knowing nothing but the feeeling of him pressing into her, the feeling of the hungry, desperate kiss, the feeling of her body being aflame, for what seemed like an eternity. “W-w-wait,” she panted, gasping, pulling back, when finally she had the willpower to. “Don’t...”

But Martimeos was still asleep. He had kissed her back in his dreams.

She fell out of the bed, her legs shaking and trembling beneath her as she crawled on the floor to the wall, as the fire and uncontrollable hunger raged through her body. This was….she had never felt this before. Never felt her father’s influence coursing so clearly through her veins like this. Every touch, of everything, sent new waves of fire screaming through her body, new fresh urges of hunger.

She leaned herself up against the wall, breathing heavily, feeling her eyes drifting over to Martimeos. No, she couldn’t let that happen. She stubbornly fixed her eyes on the ceiling. If she looked at him right now, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop herself. She tried to stop her legs from trembling, tried through willpower to force back that fire growing in her, that dark fire that originated in her lower belly and spread everywhere, but nothing was working. It was only growing stronger, and stronger. She hissed, as the ring on her finger grew too hot for even her to wear, slipping it off.

This only made the fire into her into an inferno. Before she even knew it, she was halfway back to Martimeos’ bed, the throbbing hunger in her feeling strong enough to split her body in two. “No!” she cried, tearing herself away, turning around. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Two dark, pointed horns jutted out of her hair, rising six inches above her head.

She clutched her stomach. The hunger burnt so hot it ached. Suddenly she remembered, looking in the corner – the tub of ice water.

She bounded across the room towards it, sitting down in it, yelping a bit at the feel of ice against her bare skin. She plunged her ring into it, too, to cool it off. Using a ladle, she dripped cold water and ice over her head, soaking her hair, until the cold sank into her skin, her flesh, her bones, until it drove the fire from her.

In the end, she sat silently in the tub, blowing her wet hair from her face, the fire in her dead, staring sullenly across the room at the slumbering form of Martimeos. She knew it was foolish to feel anger at him, but it was there all the same.

She stepped out of the tub – all the ice had melted, and the water was lukewarm now – and slipped her now ice-cold ring back onto her finger. She grabbed a towel to pat her hair dry, looking at herself in the mirror as she did so. No more horns.

She looked down at Martimeos as she dried her hair, considering. She knew she shouldn’t, but...it had felt good to lay with him. The fire within her began again, at that thought, but low, small, manageable. She tapped her foot a few times. Then she tossed her towel onto her bed, slipped into Martimeos’ bed again, and drew the sheets up around them. It should be fine as long as they did not kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, curling up by his side, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.