"Corpses breathe and willows ripe. Their souls dance in the dimming light. Trees sway and pick their brides as lovely ladies do and die," Jon muttered. The song was stuck in his head. Often now he had a dreadful song stuck in his head--repeating itself until he would beat his body and beg for it to leave. Never before had such great darkness been thrust upon him, and he wished deeply that it would never come to him again. "Starlight whispers gleefully, as it drowns you and me, you and I, in the darkest sunlight. Dimming skies to cut the air, tension rising with a flair, and no one will come to stop our plight."

    The grumpy boy who was scarcely nineteen years and already had several scars upon his chest gave him yet another scowl. His voice was harsh, and dark shadows lined his face. "Do you ever shut up?" he asked.

    The light was burning out. The dim grew and was slowly taking them captive. If insanity were truly doing the same thing over and over and over again yet expecting different results, Jon could have called himself a lunatic. He kept singing the same song, almost as if he were physically willing the words to change.

    The door, which had been sealed off right by a magic witch, popped open, spewing dust from its sides. A trio of guards threw two bloodied souls into the room with them. They had been shackled together so they didn't bother to chain them against the wall.

    Instead, the door closed again with a deafening thud.

    He winced as he gazed over the two boys. They were of similar age, young but old enough to serve their country. From skin he could immediately tell they lived in Gardelle, and by their looks of defeat it was all the more clear.

    The younger one had rich features that had been bruised bloody. His nose was cracked, his knuckles tough and weeping, and there was too much blood on his ripped clothes. Even pained as he was, the boy kept a protective stance over the other. A knight, he thought.

    The second boy wasn't too much to look at. He was royalty, that was clear, and the few sores and cuts were nothing compared to the others. His entire body slumped against the wall, as if drained ofall energy. Scrawny, he noted, this boy is too thin. Must be a magician, some powerful sorcerer. Not powerful enough.

    "Oh, the winter months do surely die," he sang, "and call upon the world's sigh. They weep and whisper gleefully, to take away each prideful plea."

    Grumpy huffed and moved himself again. His wounds were only made worse, yet he did not whimper. Beside him, the king of Partrall stayed fast asleep. Slumber such as that could be no good.

    "Cannot you find a better use of air?"

    Jon grinned. "Cannot you complain inside your head? Be jolly, for today we remain alive. Tomorrow that shall not be so. Let us not make our new friends welcome? Hello! Glorious days cut short by deathly sorrows, no?"

    The knight let out a dry cough. His voice was rough, each word practically spat out. "Ah, yes. To die for ones cause is such a pleasure."

    "Better to die a hero than live a fraud," Grumpy told him. He sighed and ran a hand through his long, raven hair. "What might be thine name?"

    Knight coughed again, deeper. His friend appeared to be slipping in and out of consciousness. Each bobbing movement of his head ended in a sharp jerk and a frantic fluttering of his eyes.

    "Luis," he said. "My name...is Luis."

    Luis? Odd, Tis if I've heard such name. He must have passed through my village before, Jon figured. A sharp, sudden hand clutched at his chest. My village. His throat felt raw. Chest felt cold. Body felt much, much too warm. Everything had tilted because of one careless thought.

    "Mine be Aritemes," Grumpy told him. The boy gave the slightest smile before his face transformed into a grimace as one of the claw marks began to bleed again. It was slight, but blood was blood.

    "El..." Whatever the royal boy said was lost. His speech slurred into a drunken ramble of syllables, each one more drowsy than the last. Must have hit his head hard, or those witches done cast a mighty curse on his soul.

    "I am Jon," he said. In comparison to the scornful voices of his companions, he sounded near happy. Content, even if he were in jail. His mouth held firm in a scowl, though. "Can't say I much enjoy this place, but it could be worse."

    "Worse?" Grumpy spit on the floor. "How could this be worse? You're a dammed fool!"

    "We could be dead--"

    "We'll be dead tomorrow!"

    The knight coughed deeply, his voice cracking like a wee girls'. "We shan't be dead. There's a plan--we, we have a way to fix everything."

    "We?" Jon hardly thought that the royal one could be counted. There was no way he could be healed in time. Nothing could help them.

    Even the strongest magician couldn't heal that boy. Ay, bloodline magic could bring him to his feet...at the cost of his eyes, and he cannot be any bloodline magic in him. Only six families are left in the world that haven't been completely burnt out.

    "Elesen, he can hold Lentiusta Orb of Els," the knight explained, "and he's going to save the kingdom."

    Jon's mind brewed at that, uncertain of what she meant. The myth is true? "Lentiusta Orb of Els...A magical orb that contains a spell that is of dark magic and strong enough to destroy a country. It can raise the dead, recharge any spell, strengthen any spell, and can create an army of demonic monsters. That, that orb of myth and lore?"

    "Yes," he said, his voice cracking once again. "Elesen knows how to use it to save the kingdom."

    With a flash of raven and a slip of brown Grumpy was up. He groaned as he sat himself upright to ask, "Elesen, the royal Prince Gardelle?"

    "Aye," Luis the knight said.

    "I know thou," he said. "I know you, I do. Luistia, from Tower Gardelle, how..." His voice trailed off, and at the same time he quit talking Jon began.

    "Luistia! Aye, a sight for sore eyes, it is far too long since last met," Jon told her. He held a playful grin and a glint in his eyes. "What odd turn of events had brought you down here to the steps of death, what hath killed you so badly that those witches want you to burn and choke?"

    Luistia shrugged, then winced. It became obvious by the turn of her shoulders what gender she was—before, her chest had been concealed by the large clothes she wore and her broken stance. With the blood and bruises covering her already manly face he couldn't even tell that she was female. Heat filled his face at the thought of her being so well...covered. "We are the only ones who know how to save Gardelle. To defeat Partrall-"

    Grumpy interrupted her, "Partrall is not thine enemy, Lusitia. My king, Arnold, is here beside me. We hath all been captured by the witch sisters. Arabelle has  lossen and lossen witches and she hath teemed up with her sibling...eh, Cyliaria? The two are death inside of death, a curse upon the world. They want to get rid of all magic bloodlines that are not theirs, beginning with the destruction of our two nations. To win I fear the only thing we might do is team together-"

    "Work with you?"

    Her hatred was thicker than molasses.

    "Luistia, I-"

    "Ya try and kill both me and Elesen, ya work against my country—ya nearly kill Destrim, and ya propose us working together? No! We work alone. We fix this, and then you go on with ya pitiful life as if we never met at all." She breathed heavier, then cursed lowly. A scar streaked across her forehead then disappeared, bits of white light that faded easily. Magic had been done on her in the past, and that magic was working hard to heal her.

    The boy stirred, muttering his syllables again.

    "What does he say?" Jon asked.

    Luistia scarcely looked back at him. "He is sick, in pain. The witches who threw us in here said that we was going to die unless he could heal himself...but he knows not the magic to do so."   

    "I can help."

    Luistia cussed again, "No."

    "But you said-"

    "Assassin, ya will not go near him. I would rather kill him myself than have a lowly dirtbag as yaself-"

    The man who was barely alive had woken up at her words. He moaned, asking for some girl in his sleep. Mirian? Ah, must be his wife. Jon alternated between listening to the man wake and the two children argue and waste time like young fools in love. It amused him to think that someone who had seemed noble when talking to his "Lord" could resort to phrases told by spiteful children. In his village—another pain raced through his chest—the children would hate one another until they became of age to marry, then suddenly they couldn't be separated.

    "A gleeful bit of life and death, a cheery lovely corpse's breath. A beautiful maiden lost her life by the hands of lover's strife. Another bit of lost but fair, never to be known there, and see as I ever might, such love by love's mighty might." The songs felt second nature.

    Amidst the noise and confusion, the songs and moaning of the wounded, there came a cannon-fire. It scorched past the castle, over the fortress that had been taken so swiftly by magic forces. No one could ever say how it was taken so fast, nor could they explain what had left partsof it burning. Some magical beast that had been set upon the country had left with destruction in its wake. Another cannon shot. The storm that had been so violently laying ruin to the city was losing itspower. Only a bloodline magician could keep it up, and even they couldn't hold it forever.

    Jon's mind wandered, knowing all that he knew, and he tried to think of all the bloodlines. There's the line of Rohesia's blood, the royal family of Gardelle. That boy must be a part of that, though it is clear he hath not been trained well enough. Of the six that leaves five. Then comes the family of the two witches, from their father, Rull. That leaves four. There be two royal lines living in Rufella, which are rumored to have combined within the decade. So that leaves two...only the line of Elt, which live far away in the desert cities, and the line of Q, the nomads who never art found. If only the family of Vue was still alive...he sighed.

    Jon's father, Cron, had been best friends with Xen Vue, a woman who had very powerful magic in her blood. Sadly, there was an assassin sent by an unknown magician that had killed both her, her husband, and her month old daughter. They had yet to give her the name by way of Been. It was a tragic death that happened but twelve years to the day. Zen had been beautiful in the sad sort of way—her skin dark and her eyes light. There had been a permanent frown on her face, but she was constantly happy. It was almost as if she was born into the wrong family, but it was the right one for her, as she had been a skilled magician. After the Queen Rohesia had sent in her decree to stop all magic practices she had given it up, only to find herself caught in a web of deceit before the end finally came.

    That bloodline had been the purist of the original seven. They had never once worked black magic, and after so many generations it was spoken by way of myth that if they ever did black magic it would consume them whole. But everyone is dead of them, otherwise we might still have hope. Mayhaps if they boy can heal...but time is not on our side.

    The children were still fighting, and they broke his chain of thoughts when Grumpy stood up, leaning heavily against the wall. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and chest and mixed with the crusted blood. His chest glistened in the wavering light of the torches that burned high above their heads.

    "I shall heal him."

    It was not to be argued, and Luistia merely frowned as he sat down next to the Prince and began to work his magic. What did I miss?

    The elderly man stirred once more, finally managing to sit himself up. He breathed heavily, as if acid had burnt his throat and left each movement to bruise his tongue. "Mirian," he said. Luistia crawled over to him as quick as possible, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. "Luis—where is Mirian?"

    "Destrim, you're...how did ya...why be ya here?"

    "Mirian, Luis, where is Mirian? She's been corrupted—they forced her to touch the orb," he whispered. Each scratchy word sent chills through Jon's body. He watched as the man, Destrim, reached out his crooked hand to touch her cheek. "They plan to use her magic to kill her."

    "She can't touch it—she doesn't have ta power."

    "Luis, there is too much that you do not know. Only know that your sister is not whom you thought she was. Mirian must be kept safe at all costs, for I hath remembered why the two of you came into my care to begin with...our pasts are not how we remember them to be, my child.

    "I know that," he paused to catch his breath, "I know that you think you can save the world...help us, for if we allow Cyliaria to keep that orb...Mirian shall be forever darkened. I cannot allow to her what I allowed to happen to Cyliaria and her family. She shall not have that magic inside of her ruined worse."

    "I—I don't understand," Luistia said. She blinked several times, shaking her head just the slightest. "We have ta same magic. She couldn't have held ta orb...our family does not hold that power."

"Your family doesn't, Luis." Destrim coughed deeply, hand falling back to his side. A silence descended upon the room.

*
Wooh! Finally updated. As you could see, this was in Jon's pov. Gotta love that little man! Lots of secrets here, and a big surprise...what do you guys think? What does Destrim mean? Is Luistia's entire childhood a lie?