"Nngh—!"

Heekam cursed under his breath as his hands continued to steadily mop the fine layer of sweat from Jaelan's moist brow. His eyes darted to the small window of their quickly moving carriage, trying to access their locations by trees and vegetation alone. When another one of Jaelan's agonizing shouts pierced through him, the eunuch wilted, eyes set with fear and worry as the poor boy screamed.

Traveling on horseback had turned impossible two days after the incident where the young half-god exuded an ethereal light. Thereby they were forced to delay their travel to acquire a small carriage. Wylen had remained in the inn where they stayed alongside the sick warrior, knocking him from consciousness in hopes to lessen the agony, hoping it was enough to keep the smaller man from experiencing pain. When they had finally procured a carriage, Jaelan was placed inside, and Heekam had accompanied him, acting as nurse and caretaker to the young warrior, barely a man by age.

With lips pressed together into a narrow line, Heekam brushed the hair from atop a sweat-soaked brow, tucking the wet tendrils away while his heart sat heavy in his chest. When Jaelan gave another anguished cry, the feminine featured eunuch grabbed for the boy's hands to keep the warrior from clawing at his stomach.

The poor half-god was a mess, unable to pull himself out of the hellish torment that plagued his body. Never before in his life had Heekam seen someone so completely and utterly at the mercy of an invisible enemy.

"Hush," He tried to murmur. His wits were at their end, empathy for the young warrior fueling his words. He needed to distract them both from the onslaught. "We’re almost there, Jaelan. Fight it!”

“Nngh—AHHHH!”

On horseback riding just beside the carriage, Wylen glanced in through the small window. His face haggard and drawn as he witnessed his lover writhe upon the wooden bench. Head of wet raven hair pressed into Heekam’s lap as his features morphed into a grimace.

It shook him to the core, making all his muscles tense beneath his exposed skin. Swallowing down his ever-growing panic, he turned to look at Raygar, the guard driving the carriage. Much as the sturdy swordsmen would have liked to hide it, Wylen could see the blatant worry glint across the warrior’s chiseled features.

 At every cry Jaelan made, Raygar and the rest of the party seemed to freeze up for a second. They knew that if it had been them, so vulnerable to the unknown, they’d have long since done themselves in to repel the agonizing pain. One could only sympathize and marvel at the strength and iron will Jaelan held not to lose his sanity and succumb to the knife. And to keep the young warrior in the world of the living with them, they only charged on ahead more fiercely. Their heels dug deeper into the flanks of their mounts, urging the horses to go faster.

“AHHHHHHHHH!”

Wylen worrisomely gnawed his bottom lip, biting down hard near enough to draw blood at hearing Jaelan give another anguished cry. Unable to listen to it any longer, he bucked in his saddle and issued the horse forward.

Leaning down so that the fine mane brushed against his face, Wylen sidled up to the Crown Prince, matching the stead’s pace before turning to address the leading man in almost a crazed manner.

“We need to go faster!”

Taemor whipped his head to the side, his brow heavily creased with apprehension. The sun’s rays hit him in the face as he looked at the tanned warrior, forcing him to squint. Upon hearing the request repeated more determinedly and with a tinge of added force, Taemor inwardly winced. It wasn’t like he couldn’t hear Jaelan’s frantic shouts or see the despair on Wylen's face. Alas, there was only so much he could do. He couldn’t risk all their lives. Making sure his voice didn’t betray what he felt, he instead gave Wylen a cool and clipped reply. “Any faster, and we’ll ruin the beasts.”

“He’s gotten worse!” Wylen retorted with a wave backward, motioning to the moving carriage. Eyes wide and bloodshot from many sleepless nights, “Can’t you hear him?”

“I hear him!”

“We can shorten the ride to an hour if we just press the horses a little harder!”

“Can you hear yourself?” Taemor snapped. His tone was commanding as he looked upon the warrior daring to order him around. They were all on edge, but one must not forget to show respect or remember who he was! “Look at the horses pulling that carriage! Do they look like they can go any faster? If we push too hard, they’ll collapse or worse—turn violent! How will we get there then, Wylen?”

Thrust thoroughly back into reality, Wylen jerked back in his saddle, chastised. Lips opening and closing without a sound departing them, Wylen stared at the Prince, sweat soaking his neck and upper torso. Almond eyes gawked in misery, their silent plea slicing through the nobleman like a bone-carved knife.

“He…he sounds like he’s d-dying…Taemor-s-sir…”

Kohl rimmed eyes stared back, the Prince’s knuckles turning white as his fingers tightened around the leather reigns in his grasp. He shouldn’t give in…he mustn’t for everyone’s sakes. And yet, he could hardly listen to Jaelan’s screams. Those bone-chilling agonized yells made him tremble in his leather boots. He was about ready to do anything to alleviate the poor boy’s pain.

He knew he shouldn’t.

This was reckless behavior on the warrior’s part.

Wylen was not thinking straight. Jaelan inexplicably clouded his judgment due to his state.

And yet—and yet his fear for the fine-featured man pushed forward, overpowering his rational thought.

Nostrils flaring, he gave a short yelling order. “Hasten the pace!”

:::

Minow stilled in his tracks as his bright mismatched eyes gazed forwards, hand automatically sailing into the air to call for silence as he tried to focus his vision and ascertain the identity of the tiny approaching specks in the distance. However, before he could even morph his mouth to utter the first syllables to his detection, Nokiel was off at a run, his powerful legs beating down the grey stones and terrain like a mythical nine-tailed fox.

“They’re here!” Soral bolted after Nokiel with an earsplitting cry, his hand instantly moving to the horn dangling off his hip.

Hands tightening around the polished ram’s trumpet, he brought it to his lips and let forth the pitched wail of the horn, allowing for it to echo through the meadow as the three of them sprinted back to the village.

Soral constantly blew notes of the oncoming arrival into the air as his boots barraged the foliage beneath his feet.

Swiftly the warriors sped through the brush, Nokiel leading the troupe with the agility of a young mountain lion.

As soon as they laid eyes on the familiar huts and cottages, they began to yell out in earnest, alerting all those within earshot of the arrival of their anticipated Prince.

In the village square, both Chieftains dressed in their customary ceremonial armor hurried over to the erected tent, faces set and brows tense with the knowledge of what was soon to proceed in the temporary pavilion. Just as they were about to push their way through the makeshift tent entrance, the two priestesses clothed in temple armor standing guard at the entryway blocked their passage. The spears in their hands were crossed in front of the tent flap, barricading their way inside.

The long white-haired Chieftain of the Ellos clan stilled, bright eyes widening as his feet froze. Beside him, the leader of the Aldor clan did much the same, his scowl imperious.

“They’re approaching.” The Aldor Chieftain’s voice boomed outwards, causing the whiskers above his lip to tremble, spittle flying from his mouth. “Are you not going to come out? You’ve been inside this tent for the past few days! Show yourself, Priestess!”

At the sound of his scalding tone, the flap of the erected pavilion moved, and the older woman, clothed in her customary black silks, stepped out, her glare as piercing as a venomous bite from a fanged cobra. The sheer silk over her mouth and nose blew gently with the light wind as she exited. She folded her hands in front of her and replied gruffly, blocking the way with her body.

“This procedure is incredibly delicate. You understand that even the smallest of mistakes on our part could potentially serve as fatal to Prince Jaelan, Priestess Senisari, and the child.” She pointed at the Aldor clan's obstinate leader, her finger accurately directed at the arrogant, demanding warrior. “It would serve us better if you left this matter in our hands and focused more on the part you have to play.”

Wylen's father bristled, teeth-gnashing together at such blatant disrespect shown in front of him. He growled and mumbled under his breath but heeded the older woman’s words. Not about to let his pride get in the way of something that concerned his family. It was his grandchild they were discussing. He was not about to let any harm come to his descendent.

After having said her piece, the quick-tongued Priestess looked up to the sky and noted the way the clouds had collected right above them. It was a significant change from the clear and cloudless skies of just this morning. These gathered clusters of grey tainting the heavenly sea seemed to promise a rain that would fall hard once the time came.

“If I were you,” She returned her gaze to the two standing Chieftains, so different from one another and yet similar at the same time. “I’d start with the assembling rings around the pavilion…and make ready the pillars of fire around the tent. We do not have much time. Jaelan is late as it is. We’ll have to work quickly and make haste.”

“They’re coming!” Nokiel hollered from the depths of his lungs as he ran into the village center, his long decorated hair escaping from the sash holding it up as he jerked to a stop in front of the two Chieftains and the Great Priestess. Behind him, almost in perfect synchrony, Soral and Minow followed, their hair in the same disarray. “Jaelan is coming!”

Without skipping a beat, the elderly woman motioned to them, ready to step into the fray. “Discard your weapons immediately and take your places inside the pavilion! Hurry!”

With nods and curt bows, the three warriors hurriedly stripped themselves of all their battle gear. They quickly made a dash into the pavilion, access granted by the female guards stationed at the entrance upon visual.

Jaelan’s father inhaled slowly, apprehension blossoming through his chest. From the Southside of the village, he could see his wife and daughters hurrying towards them, having heard the news of the arrival. Along with them came the Aldor Chieftain’s immediate family, their expressions just as tense as their figurehead.

Deciding now was the time to act, the Ellos Chieftain began to issue orders to the gathering people, requesting that they all start to form rings around the tent and shouting commands for his men to make ready the pillars of fire.