The Apothecary and the Cursed Prince

Eleonora's eyes were still transfixed on the portion of the sky turned red when the first scream tore through the silence, desperate and raw, sending a frightful chill down her spine. She didn't sprint into action immediately; for a few initial moments, she didn't move at all.

Oftentimes in face of adversity, one is expected to act on instinct: either to dive into it head-on or to retreat and run for cover. Help or hide. Fight or flight.

Eleonora knew the ones who say that have never been in an emergency before. They've never had been unfortunate enough to be forced to make a choice that would alter several lives. They've never watched a human bleed in front of their eyes and have the dying one's loved ones beg you to perform some magic, when all you could do is pick up a lancet and make a cut, not sure if the cut was going to help him heal eventually or bring him closer to his demise.

That choice is hardly ever based on instinct. It's calculated — by weighing the odds, by assessing the situation, and by choosing the best possible outcome. All done in a matter of a few seconds.

And that's what Eleonora did.

The expanse of the fire was unknown to her, but the distance was inferable. Red embers that rose to the sky, like hellfire to heaven, were yet to reach the forest. She didn't know what existed beyond it, beyond the Spirit Forest. Inhabitants and travellers usually avoided passing through it, due to the myths surrounding it. But for now, for this short while, the forest was safe from the fire.

And whoever's scream that had pierced through the ominous silence was somewhere in there, in need of help.

Eleonora tightened her fingers around the rusted handle of the oil lamp and contemplated her options. She wasn't sure how badly the man must be hurt; it was a man, that she recognized from the scream.

The most viable choice would be to run to the village to ask someone for help. For even if it would waste precious time, it was better than leaping into the forest when there was no possible way to treat his injuries in the woods or drag him to her cottage all alone on her own.

But would any of the villagers lend her a hand?

That was when the second scream erupted through the trees.

And Eleonora sprinted into action.

The Spirit Forest was infamous for two things. One, for the darkness that lingered within it, even during the brightest of days. And two, for the spirits residing there.

Before tonight, Eleonora had never cared about either. Because the ghosts were said to keep the wild animals away from the woods which was a generous assistance while collecting firewood; and the darkness — despite the thick forest cover and the canopies barely allowing anything to pass through the leaves — was less severe in broad daylight at the fringe of the forest, which was where she limited her movements to.

So when the third and final scream tore through the sky, pulling her deeper into the forest, the darkness amalgamated with the fog and smoke making her vision unclear and the awareness of being constantly watched through it all causing her chest to feel tight with fear, Eleonora realised she might have made a colossal mistake.

But she continued to run; the choice was made and there was no going back.

The last cry had sounded less like a pleading for help and more like the final expression of pain. She feared she might be late — too late. Her feet thundering on the uneven, damp ground begged her to stop, to rest for a while, for a moment of ease. But Eleonora understood well the grave importance of time when it came to saving a life, and if there was even a flicker of a chance that she might reach the dying man on time, she wasn't going to stop.

The thick woods gave way to a clearing, and Eleonora took a breath of relief. The smoke mixed with the cold air entering her body was like a thousand needles stabbing her from the inside. Eleonora slowed her steps as her eyes fell on the two figures lying on the ground, across the clearance.

The shadowy veil of mist hanging around was already a hindrance to the vision, her watering eyes after that desperate run was an added misfortune.

As swiftly as her feet would allow her, Eleonora rushed to their side. They were bleeding, both of them, one much worse than the other. She crouched down near the bigger pool of blood and raised her lamp to the man's face. His eyes were closed, his clothes were drenched in blood, his pulse was non-existent, and his face was ashen, like that of a corpse. For he has become one.

Eleonora felt the dull ache in her chest that usually accompanied the sense of loss caused by failure. But it was no time to indulge in self-pity. She raised herself on cramping feet and walked over to the other man lying to her left.

Even as she crouched in front of him, she could tell he was alive. Eyes closed, leaning on a fallen log, stabbed in the chest — with the dagger still in and the blood starting to clot around the wound — but alive. The pulse throbbing in his throat, albeit slow, was the biggest indication.

Eleonora raised the oil lamp to his face, and before the light could illuminate barely an inch of his face, it gave out.

Sufficient oil swirled around the fuel chamber of the lamp, but the flame was extinguished. Eleonora tapped the outer glass, as if doing that would light it back up. When it hardly worked, she shook it vigorously, her frustration rising.

How was she going to check the wounds without any light? Although the clearing made the darkness less dense, it wasn't enough to find her way out. How was she going to bring him out of the forest, when she herself didn't remember which way to go? And just how in the world had the lamp extinguished only now, when she'd been literally running in the cold for the past several minutes?

She let the lamp fall to the ground, and for a passing moment, sat there defeated. All of this, and for what?

Then the image of the sky turning red flashed before her eyes. It was hard to decipher how close the fire had gotten to the forest, but the smoke had gotten thicker than before. There might not be much time left, both for her and the man before the fire eats them alive.

With careful movements of avoiding the blood and the blade handle jutting out of the man's chest, Eleonora shifted closer to him. Something moved around the corner of her right eye, but it would be a futile attempt to look around. It was hard enough to see the man's face with the white veil of smoke covering it.

Specks of blood were splashed over his sharp features, but there were no cuts or wounds. Despite the loss of blood from the dagger's stab, his face still looked fresh; it was a good sign. He might not have lost a lot of blood. He might gain his consciousness back. She might not have to drag him out of the forest, after all.

'Can you-'

His hand shot up to grab hers before she could do as much as touch him. Eleonora's eyes widened with shock as she pulled back so hard, she fell back to the damp forest ground.

The man opened his eyes, lazily and slowly. They were blue, like the morning sky. Eleonora would blame his sluggish movements to the open wound in his chest, but when his eyes fell on her, they were steady and unfazed, as if untouched by pain.

'What do you want?' he asked. His voice was rich and deep, with a calmness and steadiness so in contrast to the condition he was in, that it made her blood run cold.

'I'm- I'm an apothecary. I heard the screams. I'm here to help.' Eleonora raised her hands for him to see they were unarmed.

His old, washed out clothes didn't look like it, but his build implied he was a soldier. The way his eyes roamed over her face, as if trying to read every detail — including the one going inside her head — only further concreted her doubts. Eleonora hadn't met a lot of soldiers in her life, this might be the first time she was conversing with one. But she had heard they were pessimistic folks: way too cautious, always suspicious.

'Ah, of course,' he threw his head back, as if annoyed. 'It was my friend over there,' he jutted his chin towards the dead man on his right. 'I warned him not to make a spectacle.'

Eleonora frowned. That was one way to respect the dead.

'I'm sorry, I couldn't do anything. He was dead before I got here.'

'I'm glad. You didn't answer me. What do you want?' The man asked, his voice and expression unnervingly steady.

'I came here to- Are you not hurt?' she asked, shifting closer to have a better look at the dagger embedded in his flesh. It looked terrible; it looked painful. She raised her eyes to his face, not a hint of discomfort.

'I think I'll live.'

'Is it not painful?'

'It's-' he closed his mouth and tilted his head a little to the left, as if listening to something.

Seconds later, Eleonora heard it too. Footsteps. Somewhere far to their right.

His hand wound around her neck and pulled her closer, lower to hide, away from the eyes of whoever was there at the other side. And if she wasn't stunned by the action, if she wasn't staring at his face when he pulled her closer, Eleonora might have missed it.

His eyes changed colour.

One blink and they were as black as the darkness surrounding them. She could swore they were blue only a moment ago.