"How is he?"
Godien feels the soft pressure of Saint Naomhan's hand across his eyelids, followed by the familiar burning sensation of the man's gift. He grits his teeth. No pain, no gain, as the commoners say. He just needs to power through it.
He can do this.
Five long seconds pass as Godien's knuckles turn paler than the spring's white brick walls, his digits tightly wrapped around the soul stone. He resists the urge to try and blink away the pain or squeeze his eyes as shut as they can go—it'll only make the burn worse. He has to endure it. He needs to endure it. It's always worth it in the end, it will all be over soon—
The pain is gone.
Saint Naomhan withdraws his hand.
Godien tentatively reopens his eyes—ow—he winces. Since when has the sacred spring been this bright? Godien blinks up a teary storm as Saint Naomhan turns to face the Holy Father with a literal glowing smile. He squints to try and diffuse some of the light,
"He'll be alright—it's just a mild light burn and a few scratches from the glass," Saint Naomhan says, moving into a more comfortable position—he turns to Godien, "How're you feeling?"
Godien shivers. Now that his eyes aren't screaming for mercy, the fact that he's sitting sopping wet in the middle of a cold stone floor is… really starting to sink in. Great. He loves being cold.
He sneezes into his right sleeve. Eugh—he'd better not catch an illness from this.
"Honestly?" Godien sneezes again, "I feel very... wet."
Saint Naomhan raises his brow.
"Congratulations, your highness," he drones, "Water is indeed wet when you're covered in it."
"Naomhan," Father Faolan scolds, his tone a clear warning to the Saint.
Saint Naomhan turns his head just far enough so the Holy Father can't see him pull a face. He glances at Godien—shoots him a conspiratorial wink. He then turns back to the Holy Father with his serene, saintly smile slotted right back into place as if nothing had ever happened.
"My apologies, your highness," Saint Naomhan says, the jewels on his headdress clattering against one another as he tilts his head to the side, "I meant to ask after your health. How're you feeling?"
Godien snorts, "Much better, thank you."
Both the Saint and the Holy Father sigh in relief—though Saint Naomhan seems more relieved to have escaped the Holy Father's wrath than anything else. Godien… isn't going to think too hard about that one.
Godien squints as he watches Father Faolan perform a quick prayer under the harsh sunlight. The man is practically glowing as he holds his clasped hands to his chest and mumbles under his breath.
It would be an ethereal sight if the suns weren't determined to burn the image onto his literal retinas and undo all of the Saint's hard work. He squeezes his eyes shut again. Saint Naomhan's ability isn't without its drawbacks—thank the Lord and Lady his injury wasn't any worse.
He'll never forget the time the Saint healed his broken leg. Godien shudders—three months of pain crammed into a single hour of healing… even Death itself would weep.
The Holy Father sighs in frustration.
Godien gulps and clutches the damaged stone a little tighter to his chest.
"Thank you, Naomhan," Father Faolan says in a measured tone—he folds his hands behind his back and turns his gaze back to the prince, "Godien, while I am very glad that you are unharmed, I must ask—where is the soul stone?"
Saint Naomhan gives Godien's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Godien's fingers tremble as he offers his clasped hands towards the Holy Father. His movements are slow and hesitant as he cracks them open to reveal what's inside. The soul stone sits between the palms of his hands—the large crack running down the centre as prominent as the water dripping down Godien's face.
To say that the Holy Father looks horrified would be... an understatement.
Godien resists the urge to hide the stone away as Father Faolan clasps a hand over his mouth and turns to face the wall in shock. Nausea swirls in Godien's gut as the Holy Father's shoulders visibly shake. He's really done it now.
"Leave us."
The knight and clergymen don't need to be told twice. They quietly exit the room.
Saint Naomhan gives Godien's shoulder one final squeeze before he too gets up and follows the others out into the hall. He shoots Godien an encouraging wink before closing the door behind him, leaving the prince alone with the Holy Father once and for all.
Godien's fingers twitch against the surface of the cracked stone.
Holy water steadily trickles from the base of the marble Lord and Lady statue into the shallow moat surrounding the room.
Godien swallows against his dry throat.
The silence is deafening.
"What happened, Godien?" Father Faolan's tone is measured.
He still hasn't turned around.
"Well—uhm, the thing is—" Godien starts—stops—stumbles over his words, "I don't—know?"
Father Faolan says nothing.
Godien wrings his hands around the stone in his lap.
"Well—it's not that I don't know, it's more that I—don't know why?" Godien continues, shoving a particularly annoying strand of hair between his ear and lower right horn, "I was just praying and I got—I finished early, but I didn't want to just leave—so, I might've gotten—a bit bored?"
Silence.
"I just—I don't know why, but then the soul stone started... glowing—as in, proper glowing—and I just... I might've panicked—a tiny bit," he rambles, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles around the deep crack in the stone.
Father Faolan stays silent for another long beat.
He turns around, his expression carefully blank, "It started glowing?"
Godien nods—his neck protests the sudden movement. He winces.
Father Faolan frowns, "You're certain about this?"
"Yeah—yes," Godien says, pulling himself to his feet while being mindful of the wet stone floor below, "It was subtle at first and look, then—suddenly there was a sun in my face, so I kind of just..." he fiddles with the stone, "I might've panicked a little and—how was I supposed to know it'd crack like that? Isn't it supposed to be a rock? I only smacked it like... three or four times—maybe five, but still!"
Father Faolan watches him with an unreadable gaze.
Godien sighs and turns his eyes to the floor, "I didn't... mean to break it. I'm... sorry."
He tentatively offers the soul stone to the Holy Father, who takes it into his hands. He looks down at the stone with an unreadable expression... before closing his palms around it and clutching it to his chest.
"Thank you for being honest with me," Father Faolan replies with a deep sigh—his expression hardens and he adopts a sterner tone, "You know that I need to tell your father about this."
Godien's vision blurs—he blinks it away, "I… I know. It's just—"
"I don't doubt that you had nothing to do with... activating the stone. Nevertheless, you still chose to desecrate one of our most sacred spaces out of boredom," Father Faolan interjects, "That's not okay, Godien. Were you anyone else… many have been returned to the soil for lesser crimes."
The Holy Father breaks eye contact for a long moment.
He looks at the soul stone with remorse.
"I do not wish to see you harmed, your highness, but this cannot go unpunished," he continues in a sombre tone, "You will be confined to your chambers until further notice."
"What, no—" Godien balks.
"Do not interrupt me, child," Father Faolan snaps, "Intentional or not, you have damaged a sacred gift of the Gods—you are very lucky that they have not struck you down where you stand."
Godien locks his jaw and breaks eye contact, turning his gaze to the floor. He glares at the intricate mosaic arrangement of the prayer platform.
The Holy Father sighs and moves to pinch his brow.
"I beg of you, please repent for this sin and serve the penance, Godien," he says after a long beat, "The High King's wrath will be nothing compared to that of the Gods'."
Godien swallows against the dryness in the back of his throat and nods.
He can't bring himself to look up as Father Faolan places a firm, yet gentle hand on his left shoulder. He wants to be upset—he is upset, but…it's not like he doesn't deserve it. Godien blinks away the excess moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes.
The Holy Father gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"Let's get you back to your chambers," he says after a long beat, gently pulling Godien toward the prayer room's only exit, "Punishment aside, you're quite in need of a change of clothes."
Godien resists the urge to react, lest he end up sobbing or cursing out the Gods who technically didn't but still technically did get him into this mess.
He nods, takes a deep breath and lets Father Faolan lead him out of the room.
───※ ·❆· ※───
"Ana!"
"Blake!"
Allen and Jenna circle the small clearing, calling out their younger siblings' names until their voices are hoarse. A distant bird chirps and something else scurries away, but beyond the usual forest sounds, there's no response.
They're alone.
They walk back to the centre of the clearing, frowning with a newfound worry. Allen shivers, and Jenna zips the front of her half-jacket shut, not that it does much to protect her exposed midriff from the cold.
They exchange a concerned glance.
"I don't think we should stay here," Jenna grunts, trying to rub some warmth into her arms. Something trills in the nearby foliage—her head snaps towards the sound, "We need to spread out."
"And go where? We're not exactly at the bottom of a cave right now," Allen retorts, gesturing at the dense foliage around them, "This is not a small forest—there's nothing but trees for miles in every direction! We're just as likely to find the kids as we are to lose them if we go the wrong way. It's too risky—"
"Then what would you suggest?!" Jenna snaps, "We just stay here and hope they're looking for us too? What if they hit their head, or got seriously hurt on the way down? It's a damn miracle that we can even walk right now—just look at yourself!" She gestures at the dark red forming along the hem of his left trouser leg, "You really think the kids escaped falling from up there," she points up, "without a single scratch or bruise? You really think not a single one of us drew the short straw?"
"Maybe!" Allen snaps back, "For all we know, they could already be looking for us! What if they heard us fall and are heading this way as we speak? If we abandon the crash site, who's to say we won't lose them completely?"
"Don't you think they would've said something by now?" Jenna retorts, gesturing at the clearing around them, "Either they've already gone the wrong way or they can't move, Allen. You know I'm right about this. We need to spread out."
Allen stares at her for a long beat.
He looks away with a deep sigh.
"Alright, fine. You have a point," he replies, folding his arms close to his chest, "But we can't just leave without doing something—do you still have that stupid knife of yours?"
"It's not stupid, it's a limited edition—"
"Stupid knife—do you still have it?" he cuts her off, brows raised, "If we're going to spread out, we'll need something sharp to mark the trees. Unless you want to spend the foreseeable future running in circles?"
Jenna flips him the middle-fingered salute before digging through her pockets for the knife—she curses.
"Must've left it in my pack," she grumbles under her breath, revealing her spoils to be nothing more than a half-used kohl pencil and a crumpled up receipt, "Will eyeliner do the trick?"
Allen glances at the thin layer of fog curling around her ankles and the small dew droplets covering the off-coloured leaves. He frowns.
"It's only a matter of time before it washes off," he says—he takes a moment to think, "Actually, give me one of your spiked cuffs."
"Seriously?" Jenna asks, her tone skeptical as she shows him one of her black wrist cuffs, "They're not exactly made to cut into stuff."
"You got any better ideas?"
Jenna's silent for a long beat.
She removes her right cuff.
"Here you go," she replies, tossing it at Allen's open arms.
He jerks forward, fumbling it in the air before catching it between his wrists. His ankle jolts from the sudden movement, and his knee buckles. He yelps—flails his arms like a pinwheel if it were glued together at the wrists.
Allen rights himself with a grimace. Bloody stupid—he takes a deep breath and takes the spiked cuff between his palms. He presses his thumb onto the tip of one of the spikes—it's dull. Not ideal. It'll take a bit of effort to mark the trees with it, but it is better than nothing.
Something rustles the foliage behind them as he fiddles with the cuff—their heads snap towards the sound. The leaves stop still for a beat before the rustling picks up again.
Allen and Jenna share a wide-eyed look.
There's something in that bush.
The leaves rustle again before a small purple skink-like head pops out of the bush. It stares at Allen with its bright yellow eyes, flicking its little tongue in the air like a snake. It watches Allen watching it—tilts its head and makes a trill-like noise.
It disappears back into the bush.
"Never seen a purple lizard before," Jenna says in a careful tone, her eyes glued to the strange bush the creature disappeared into. Another bush rustles nearby—she turns towards the sound.
"Nature works in mysterious ways, I guess—"
The lizard makes a deeper trill-like noise and reappears from behind a nearby tree. It's closer this time—it appears to be curious.
Its thin, fan-like tail trails behind it as it hops a step towards them on its hind legs. Allen blinks in surprise—he's never seen a feathered lizard before. The creature's dark purple and blue feathers seem to shimmer in the light with every step.
The forest debris shifts and Jenna moves out of his peripheral vision—she's taken a cautious step back. He's tempted to do the same, but the creature's done nothing to harm them or even nip at their heels. It genuinely seems curious.
It trills again and tilts its head, the bright orange underside of its folded frill fluttering against the sleek feathers lining its neck. If Allen didn't know any better, he'd think he was looking at some kind of... tiny, feathered dinosaur.
The thought alone is absurd—he shakes his head. It seems to hop a step closer in response.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Jenna mumbles, her fingers flexing out of the corner of Allen's eye, "Al, we gotta scare it off."
Allen swallows against the dryness of his throat. His hand slips into his pocket to fiddle with the smooth back of his phone case, "What if it's friendly?"
"You think everything's friendly."
He… doesn't have a response to that.
The lizard trills again, hopping yet another step towards them, slowly closing the gap one hop at a time. Allen shivers through the thin fabric of his collared shirt and short-sleeved sweater—he glances at Jenna.
She's too focused on the creature to notice the cold.
He returns his gaze to the little animal watching him with bright, unblinking yellow eyes. It trills again, hops again and scents the air with its little tongue.
Allen's fingers twitch—he hesitates.
He begins slowly crouching down to his knees.
"Al—what are you doing?" Jenna hisses.
Allen holds his hand up in the universal signal for 'please shut up, I'm trying to focus here'. She grumbles to herself in frustration, but doesn't say anything else. Good. She understood the message.
The creature trills and tilts its head again, now less than three feet away from Allen's crouched knee. He mirrors the motion. It tilts its head in the opposite direction—Allen copies it again.
It trills and hops another foot closer. A small part of him wants to try and pet the creature, but he knows Jenna would tear him a new one for 'dancing with rabies' again. Still, there's no harm in letting it scent his hand… right?
He cautiously extends his right hand towards the creature, making sure to keep his movements measured and slow.
"Seriously?" Jenna says with a tone so flat that it could host a billboard, "You're trying to pat that thing? Are you kidding me?"
Allen shooshes her.
Her eye twitches.
He turns back to the lizard creature.
"Hello there," Allen says to the creature in the gentlest tone that he has.
It trills in response, snapping its jaw in what Allen can only interpret as a sign of excitement.
The creature leans forward to inspect Allen's outstretched hand, scenting the air around it with its tongue. It makes a series of clicking noises from the back of its throat. Its orange-lined frill vibrates with every sound.
Up close, the dinosaur comparison feels even more uncanny—its head is that of a skink with a feathered crest, and its mouth is filled with an array of tiny, razor sharp teeth. He's no zoologist, but something about this creature feels... wrong.
A sharp hiss and an open jaw is all the warning Allen gets before—snap! He yanks his hand out of the way as the lizard's jaw snaps shut around the air where his palm had been.
It rears back with a sharp hiss, followed by a series of deep coos—the bright orange frill around its neck snaps up like a furious frillneck lizard as it continues to repeat the sound over and over.
"I told you," Jenna barks, yanking Allen to his feet by the back of his sweater as the surrounding leaves begin to quake, "I told you it wasn't friendly!"
"No, you told me that I think everything friendly—"
The leaves, the trees, the underbrush begins to rustle violently as one, two, four—far too many little feathered lizards start popping up all over the place like acne on a teenager.
Jenna curses something fierce enough to make an Australian blush.
"Have you never heard of reading between the lines?" she snaps, circling around Allen like his very own personal 5'3" bodyguard. More and more of the little lizards keep popping up like baited beach worms—she growls, "You've gotta be kidding me."
Allen watches her fingers twitch before she starts clapping her hands together to scare the creatures off.
"Back off—get out of here!"
The calls only get louder as the feathered lizards begin closing in from the front, the sides—Allen turns around and blanches, pressing his back against Jenna's.
They're surrounded.
"Not good," she says, her back stiff as she takes in the horde surrounding them on all sides, "We've gotta run."
"But what about the kids?" Allen balks, clutching the spiked cuff to his chest.
"I already told you, they're not here!" Jenna snaps—she grabs Allen's wrist and yanks him close enough to reveal the furious tint in her amber eyes, "We're no use to Blake and Annie dead. Now shut up and run."
One of the creatures lunges for Jenna—she spins on her heel and roundhouse kicks it right back into the tree it leapt from.
Allen rears back as bright orange frills and hisses fill the clearing—his grip on her cuff slips, falling into the dirt. He balks.
"Wait–"
"Run!" Jenna shouts, and Allen—he hesitates for a beat until Jenna is yanking at his wrist to move and he can't—they're out of time, he can't think anymore. He pushes through the pain of his screaming ankle and just runs from the horde of enraged tiny dinosaurs swarming after them.
He desperately hopes that the kids aren't going through anything similar right now.