The thud Draken made as he hit the ground froze the heart of the person beside him. For a second, Rapier could not breathe, and all rational thought fled. It was only because of much experience in the world of surprises and bad happenings that he was able to take back control of himself. Breathe in, breathe out.

"No, no, no! We were too late!" Cursing the gods and everything in between, Rapier dropped to his knees and put a finger to the very still throat. There was still a pulse - all was not lost. Grunting in effort, Rapier managed to put a prone arm over his neck and pulled up the dead-weight body. Breath coming out in short gasps, he began making his way through the twisting maze of streets with the prone body of the Black-Dragon Prophecy heir.

True to the customs of this kingdom, no-one paid much attention to Rapier and his companion. Whether Draken was a dead body to be disposed of, or a drinking companion who had had too much to drink in this city's famous poison-taverns, things such as these were common and a way of life. However, those persons going on about their business who actually noticed Rapier and Draken made sure to stay clear of the hooded figure. He, and the person he was dragging, had auras that told of people who were not to be bothered without serious consequences. The avoidance and the clearing of the streets was a blessing to Rapier, actually, for it made his task that much easier.

"You are one heavy person," grunted Rapier as he rounded a corner. Because of the weight, and of the mild thrashing that had started a few streets back, they were going at a slow, painful pace. A journey that took him minutes on foot now took much, much longer - time he could not afford. 

Draken, lost in the throes of the poison and of unconsciousness, jerked suddenly, making Rapier fall down on his knees. Muttering a few choice words under his breath, Rapier took a second to breathe unhindered. Never the strongest of fellows, or someone who oftentimes did things like this, he was winded and occasionally blinded by sudden flashes of panic. It was not just about the prophecy or what Draken was supposed to do - that would come later, and he would deal with it as such. No, this was now saving the life of this person from the Eastern Isles whose entire existence had crumbled to dust in one night, and whose life would continue to get worse. 

Dragging the feverish man back up again, Rapier continued on his trek, occasionally having to double back when going down the wrong street. Night was setting fast, and the black streets were drawing in the shadows. Though the city was made of gleaming spires, the streets were mere twisting alleys, black and dark and of a dirt-packed ground. They were confusing at the best of times, and twice more so when one was in a panic and a hurry. These streets were also the prime hunting grounds of the more basic, less powerful shadows, those malevolent entities who had slowly taken over the streets of the cities outside the main capital. The capital was still protected by wards and enchantments, but the rest of the places were not.

A hand on the silver dagger at his belt, Rapier did his best to get Draken to where he would be cured, cursing at every second, every moment, lost. Invariably, in order to stave off the growing panic, his thoughts turned to the one he was attempting to save. In all honestly, Draken Stellam Matutinam was not whom he had expected. Young, burning with a bright, defiant spark, yet wise of books and of life, and a much better swordsman than some he had been forced to fight alongside with. And anyone who got along with and fought beside Evillier deserved the highest respect.

"How is it you know him anyway, heh?" he panted, speaking to a body that was more akin to a corpse now. The thrashing had stopped, and the coldness of death was settling on him. Just a few more turns, just a few more turns! chanted Rapier in his head, squinting at the maze surrounding him and choosing the right way as quickly as he could. "Never knew this 'heir' studied the craft of swords and weapons. You might just survive in the harsh hell that will be your life, you know," Rapier said in order to distract his mind. Emptying his mind of all thoughts had never worked with him, not when thousands of threads and plans resided there at every moment of the day. The only thing that distracted him was talk and fight. 

"There! The nineteenth house of the Death Street," he said, referring to the street where the practitioners of death and of saving life all gathered. Knock, knock, knock, rang out the three sharp taps. After one, two, three, four heartbeats that seemed suspended in time, the black-marble door creaked open on its silver hinges. 

"Rowan. Greetings to thine self, and blessings for thine plans," Rapier began, in the words of the Brotherhood whom Rowan belonged to. Without any further word, he shouldered in through the door and went past the black-haired and red-eyed man clad in Potioneer gray, taking care not to knock Draken into the walls of the narrow entrance way. 

"What is this? What do you do now, Rapier!" The man, Rowan, was furious, the anger burning in the red-pupiled eyes. This was a person with a temper, a mistrustful recluse at that. At the moment, however, Rapier did not care one bit. 

"Look with your eyes," he hissed, panic and urgency making it known in his voice. He had reverted back to his refined speech, but it was a panic-laden one. "I come to you for aid, not for me, but for one whose life has been ripped away from him. See? It is the heir. I had finally found him and seen that he was the one - but I was seconds too late. They must have already sniffed out rumors, for a winged monster of old had been set on him. The spikes of the tail had already gored his arm and back, and the poison pumped through his veins." Declining to mention who Draken had been fighting the monster with, Rapier took a breath and continued. 

"I got him over to here, the set meeting place, as fast as I could, and came to you in order for him to be cured. He has minutes, seconds left. Time is precious. His life-debt to you shall be what we will use to tether him to us, and you shall have your vengeance and your justice. Now save him!"

Immediately, Rowan sucked his breath in, the urgency and importance of the situation made clear to him. He motioned to Rapier to help him pick up the body, and they shuffled through the long, narrow corridor into an open, dim space. Without pausing, Rowan started to lead the way to the bolted room at the end of a wide corridor. The bolts were drawn back with clangs as he made them obey his will, and they entered the most sacred room of the narrow, marble house. 

It was a dim room, with shelves of vials and potions and poisons and cures, and piles of volumes and parchment that littered the ground and the tables. In a corner there was a small cot, reserved for those in need to be saved or for those who gave themselves up to experiments and to old rituals. However, Rowan had been busy with his work, and had not the time to clean up the filthy, blood-stained cot after the last occupant had lain in in. 

Holding the arms of Draken, while Rapier held the legs, he vacillated between thoughts. Should he take the precious time to clean up? Or...

Sensing the torn mind of Rowan, Rapier took matters in his own hands. "It won't kill him. If you take the time to clean up, then he will die." 

"You are that heartless, that unsafe?"

"He is from the Eastern Isles," Rapier said with a shrug, his justification complete.

"Oh, well then. That changes things." With no hesitation now, Rowan walked backwards to the cot, and both men laid down Draken on the blood-stained and torn sheets. "Those people are insane, unhinged. Made of poison-dagger armor, they are. It won't kill him."

Once Draken was laid down on the bed, Rowan went to his vials and started measuring quantities, muttering things to himself. "Details?" he asked, needing to know exactly what had happened. For, you see, he was one of the persons that studied alchemy and potions and the healing arts, and he was the one person in this entire place that would help someone like Rapier heal someone like Draken.

"It was night when he fought off the creature, and we got on the earliest ship we could. You know how it goes - sometimes the voyage takes less than a day. He finally collapsed in the morn, as I finished explaining certain things to him - things he did not believe, things he thought I made up." 

"Really? You jest, do you not?"

"Nah. Why would I? He is strong, I tell you. He'll need it, alright. Now will you just get onto healing him already?"

"Aye, aye," Rowan replied in the speech of the learned Brotherhood, "I'm getting right on it." As he began to feverishly fabricate the liquid that would stop the poison, freeze it, he added, "and he is still alive? Most cases die within hours - you have to administer the cure within the first hour. Good for him, and for us, I suppose."

Withdrawing to the door of the study, Rapier watched the proceedings unfolding with a quiet, but fiercely hopeful, demeanor. He had seen too many robbed of life, robbed of their due, taken much too soon. He would not be seeing this youth join those numbers. Holding on to that thought, Rapier was in attendance as Rowan shoved a liquid down Draken's throat that would freeze the poison for just a bit, allowing him to administer the series of potions and concoctions that would slowly dissipate the poison. Alternating between the many steps of the cure was something that would keep Draken's heart going, that would keep Draken alive for that much longer. 

It was well into the night when Rowan finally sat back on an old wooden chair, hands trembling from exhaustion and from too much precision, clothes stained from the deadly ingredients of his cures, eyes straining from looking at tiny, spidery writing. He was finally done, and Draken would live.

With a wheezing breath, Draken started coughing and hacked up the remains of the deadly poison, his body subconsciously turning so that his face was facing the torn, stained pillow. His breathing became more regular, and Rapier could slowly see the color of life returning to the pallid, death's door skin. 

Rapier thanked Rowan profusely, now secure in the knowledge that Draken would live, that Rowan would get what he was owed, and that maybe, just maybe, the tides of war would actually be turned.

***

With panic racing through his body, Draken sat up with alacrity, clutching at his pendant, as he was wont to do when waking up in an unfamiliar place. The events of the past days came back to him, and he realized that the poison had almost killed him.

Blinking, his heart calming down, Draken noticed two pairs of eyes looking back at him in the dim room he was currently in. It was some sort of apothecary or a healing place, Draken could tell that much. He was very familiar with such places - except it never was the workshop of someone with red eyes in a very strange city. 

"You are very, very lucky to be alive," the voice of the red-eyed one drawled. The voice put Draken on edge, and he immediately gritted his teeth. As the man, who introduced himself as Rowan, lit some candles and approached where Draken was lying down, it was made clear that this was a Potioneer. Those that came from the Isles were forever mistrustful of these practitioners, preferring to trust in those that followed the old traditions and rituals and who communed with the gods. 

The necessary words were said - the acceptance of a life-debt, and the promise to fulfill it - and soon, Draken was left alone in the increasingly stuffy room. Alone, with his thoughts and demons. And with the realization that he was now lost - now an orphan. He knew that his old life was over, and that it would take a long time to finish whatever he was meant to do. He also knew that there was no way he would ever drag his family into all of this. It meant, though, that he had no more family, no more home, no more name. He was Draken the Lost, heir to some prophecy, and he was all alone. Bitterly wishing that the poison had just killed him off, he buried his face in his hands as his soul screamed out and wept tears of blood and pain. 

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