Blake winces as Ana finishes tying the makeshift sling around his neck. She secures it in place with a crude knot. It's far from her best work, but considering their situation... it will have to do.
Ana shakily withdraws her hands.
"Thanks," Blake grunts. He turns to face her with a pained smile and takes her hand into his own. Her eyes trace the taut fabric holding his left arm in place—the canvas is fraying along the edges. It likely won't hold for more than a few days.
Blake gives her hand a gentle squeeze. Ana returns the gesture and lets him go.
"Where are we?" he asks after a long beat, turning to look at the ruined hut around them. Ana follows his gaze.
Torn patchwork fabric, scattered logs, and large crumpled leaves cover the floor as Ana takes in her surroundings. The walls consist of thick logs stacked on top of one another in a circular pattern, broken only by the occasional drape pinned to the wall... alongside the occasional dark splatter. Ana's fingers twitch and she turns her gaze to the now-open ceiling—there's a tiny hole in the canopy from their fall.
She frowns—reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone.
"Annie...?"
Ana turns it on and opens the measurement app—she points it at the canopy. She clicks the plus. She points it at the floor. She clicks the plus again.
She furrows her brow.
"That doesn't make any sense," she mutters under her breath—she deletes the measurement and repeats the process. Canopy. Click. Floor. Click.
Same result.
52 meters.
170 feet.
"Maybe we are in purgatory..." she mumbles.
"What?"
Ana turns back to her boyfriend with a serious expression on her face, "We shouldn't be alive right now."
"What do you—?"
"Look," she goes to hand him the phone—she pauses, looks at his broken arm and holds it up to show him instead.
"That's impossible," Blake balks, his eyes blown wide, "170 feet? That's insane. No one can survive that kind of fall—"
"Yeah," Ana agrees, withdrawing and shutting off her phone—it's at 18%, "I know."
She grabs a nearby stick and pulls herself to her feet. She gingerly rotates her joints. Her shoulder aches and her wrist smarts, but overall she seems to be okay. Ana furrows her brow and extends her hand to help Blake to his feet too—she shouldn't be okay. Blake shouldn't be okay. They should be—
Blake takes her hand and lets her pull him to his feet without protest. Ana's ribs protest the movement—she grits her teeth until the pain settles. It settles quickly. Too quickly.
170 feet and the worst she has to show for it are a bruised rib and a twisted wrist. What in the—?
"Ugh," Blake groans, attempting to stretch his spine—he grimaces and halts mid-movement, "Ow—shit—sorry."
"It's fine," Ana replies—she hesitantly reaches forward, "How're you feeling?"
"Like I fell through a roof," Blake snorts humourlessly.
Ana chuckles—his smile softens. He returns his gaze to the open ceiling and furrows his brow.
"The sky looks overcast," he notes, his eyes locked onto the stormy grey sky peaking through the canopy. He turns back to Ana with a frown, "Was it supposed to rain today?"
Ana furrows her own brow and looks towards the largest of the canvas drapes pinned to the walls.
"No," she replies after a long beat, "It wasn't."
───※ ·❆· ※───
The village is deathly silent as Ana helps Blake down the last of the hut's uneven steps. A bead of sweat drips past the makeshift bandage around his head—he tugs at the collar of his Giovanni sweater. He doesn't remember it being this hot this morning.
He watches Ana approach one of the nearby huts, sidestepping the various black splatters staining the earth. Blake approaches the nearest stain. It's a short drag mark roughly the length of a pavement slab, ending in a few tiny splatters as if whatever had been dragged through the dirt had finally been picked up. Blake's frown deepens.
Blake's... not sure he wants to think too hard about that. The connotations...
He shakes his head—grimaces—and squeezes his eyes shut as the earth begins to sway beneath his feet. Blake's never had the strongest stomach in the world—he keels forward and slaps a hand over his mouth. He can feel the nausea rising up the back of his throat, threatening to break free—
He shivers, his head pulses to the beat of his heart—a cold sweat forms on his brow. His stomach turns. Oh God, he's going to be sick—
"Blake!" Ana calls out. Blake startles—chokes—and purses his lips as tight as he can to silence the coughing fit desperately trying to break free from his lungs, "Hurry up!"
It takes more than a few moments to force down the nausea, but eventually Blake manages to take a breath without risking a different kind of stain marring the dirt.
He opens his eyes—he winces. Right. Concussion.
Blake carefully circumvents the stain and makes his way over to his girlfriend.
She's standing by the charred remnants of a bonfire. The heat's long gone, but the glow of a few stray embers still remains—it can't be more than a day old.
Thunder cracks in the distance. Blake shivers despite the humid heat in the air.
"What do you think happened here?" he asks after a long beat.
Ana turns her gaze to the dark stains marring the dirt and—Blake's blood runs cold. The dirt around the firepit is more black than brown, and the stains... drag marks coming from every direction, all pointing towards the bonfire in the centre of the village clearing.
Blake can feel his pulse begin to quicken, "You don't... you don't think—"
She gingerly shifts her feet—oh God, they're standing in it—
"I don't know," Ana replies, her hands tightly held against her stomach, "I just hope—I don't know."
She begins to blink rapidly—her hands begin to tremble. The corners of her lips begin to twitch downward as her bright blue eyes dart between stain after stain after stain—Blake takes Ana's hands into his own. He gives them a gentle squeeze.
Ana releases her death grip on her own palm and laces their fingers together. She moves her other hand to her chest.
"I think... we need to get out of here," Blake says, trying not to—he can feel the subtle stickiness beneath his shoes as he turns to face her, "It's not..."
"Yeah," she agrees, "Yeah, we should—you're right. We need to—"
Something cold suddenly presses itself against the flat of his jaw, and something blunt is pushed into his spine. He freezes. A bead of sweat trickles past his brow to his jaw. Pain pricks as the cold, metal object grazes his throat.
His blood turns cold.
Someone is holding a knife to his throat.
"Hands," the deep voice of a woman orders, her tone as sharp as the blade beneath his jaw. Blake's palms begin to tremble—Ana is watching the exchange with wide, panicked eyes.
"Uhm," Blake swallows—he winces as the knife grazes the tip of his Adam's apple. He resists the urge to swallow, "Could you—?"
The pressure disappears from the base of his spine—he feels another prick against the back of his neck. The first knife hasn't moved. His breath quickens. She's got another knife.
"Hands," she orders again, the non-existent patience in her tone somehow dwindling even further, "Show your hands. Now."[1]
Ana's eyes are wide and unblinking as she slowly raises her hands to face the woman behind her boyfriend's back. Blake mirrors the motion with his good arm.
The woman is silent for a long beat.
The blades suddenly tighten against his throat. Ana flinches forward—the blades tighten even further, breaking the skin with a sharp sting on both the front and back of his neck. Ana freezes into place, her hands shaking as much as Blake's own. She refrains from closing the gap any further. Thank God.
"The other."
Blake resists the urge to swallow and opens his mouth to speak—
"He can't!" Ana blurts out, her eyes as wide as saucers as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks, "His arm's broken—he can't move it."
"She's telling the truth," Blake says, the words spilling out of his mouth like a broken dam, "I can—I'll turn around if you—"
"No need," she says. After a long beat, she finally withdraws her—holy shit, that's an actual hand sickle—and steps back. Moments later, the presence behind his back disappears.
Blake spins on his heel to catch a glimpse of—the clearing is empty. The firepit is undisturbed. There's nowhere else to hide. He turns back to Ana, her eyes as wide as his own.
The woman's gone.
He touches the base of his throat—it's wet. He retracts his hand. He looks down at the red smudged across his fingertips. Blood. He looks back up at his girlfriend.
"We should—"
"Yeah," she agrees, her eyes darting around the clearing as she takes Blake's bloodied hand into her own, "Yeah, we should—we should go."
───※ ·❆· ※───
Iarlaith's not sure what he should feel as the Holy Father recounts what happened in the prayer room. Should he be horrified that Godien managed to damage a relic predating the Thousand Year War? Disappointed at how little time the man needed to be left alone before causing a national incident? Incredulous? Godien had tripped over his own feet and desecrated nearly everything in the room.
The High Lord's jaw opens and shuts, over and over because... what do you even say to that?
"He did what?"
The Holy Father sighs and pinches his brow, "May I leave him in your care, my lord? I need to report this incident to the High King."
Iarlaith watches a bead of holy water drip from Godien's lowered horns onto the floor. He glances at the clerics standing behind him. Iarlaith pushes down a sigh of his own.
He nods.
"Thank you," the Holy Father replies—he turns to Godien, "Please... behave, Your Highness. Due to the severity of the incident, there's only so much I'll be able to do to mitigate the situation. His majesty... may still choose to involve the Dubhchoin."
Iarlaith's blood runs cold. He resists the urge to make eye contact with the prince. There's only one member of the Dubhchoin that the Holy Father could be referring to in this situation, and it's not the head of the knights.
"Is involving him... really necessary?" Godien asks with a tremble in his voice, "I haven't tried to hide anything—"
"I know," the Holy Father interrupts, "I trust you—"
"But Father doesn't," Godien grunts, turning to face the wall with an unreadable expression, "I understand."
"Godien—"
"I'll ensure he returns to his chambers without further issue," Iarlaith says, stepping forward with his hands folded over his belt.
The Holy Father stares at him for a long beat—he nods and steps back.
"Thank you. My clerics will escort you the rest of the way," he says, before performing a traditional bow. His hand is over his heart and his knuckle is against his brow, "May the Lord and Lady be with you, my lord, Your Highness."
Godien and Iarlaith return the gesture.
The Holy Father finally turns to leave. He disappears down the hall, one quiet step at a time.
It's not long before he's turned a corner and is out of sight altogether.
Iarlaith sighs, then shoots a pointed look at his idiot cousin, "What in Gehenna is wrong with you?"
"Wha—" Godien balks.
"Do you have any idea what you have done?" Iarlaith snaps.
"Of course I do!" Godien snaps back, flinging his arms into the air, "Father Faolan looked like he wanted to have me hung—he even mentioned the Dubhchoin! I'm not that thick—"
"Oh, I'd beg to differ on that—" Iarlaith cuts himself off, pinching the skin between his brows—he glances at the two clerics standing awkwardly offside, "We'll continue this conversation in private."
"What? Why?" Godien balks.
Iarlaith's fingers twitch—no matter how irritating the royal, defenestration is still a crime. Unfortunately. He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a long moment and finally lets it out.
He spins on his heel and begins walking down the hall.
"Hey—!"
"Have some—patience, your highness," Iarlaith says, forcing the corners of his lips a little too high up his cheeks, "I urge you to be wary of your surroundings."
Godien huffs—glances at the clerics pointedly staring at the walls and sighs.
"Fine."
Then he folds his arms and turns his gaze to the opposite wall in a sulk.
Iarlaith rolls his eyes into the back of his head and turns to face the hall. He shakes his head.
That man is a twenty-five-year-old child.
[1] https://i.postimg.cc/nzT5fb4K/act1c008.png