Chapter 7.5 The Trap
I don't want to interrupt the moment, but the daylight is fading fast, and my friends are unprotected in the woods. With no other recourse, I shift to human form and ask the question, "Will we bury him?"
Vakh turns his lion's head towards me, eyes desolate.
He opens his maw as if to speak, and a gentle song pours out.
He seems to realize belatedly that he's not in human form.
He shifts back, and says without looking at me, "Manticore are not buried as humans are.
Their bodies are given to the elements, so they can go onto their next life all the quicker. "
"So we...leave him here?" I look at the body and quickly away again. It seems wrong, somehow, to leave him here, naked and exposed.
"In the woods," Vakhrin corrects, gazing in that direction. "Beneath a large tree. I'll cover him with leaves and soil to show that he's their property now."
I nod. "Do you...want help?"
Vakhrin shakes his head. "Not—not with this part."
To my shame, I'm a little relieved. But I try to hide it. "I'll return to the others, then. They have no one to protect them out here."
"There is no more danger in these woods," Vakhrin says bitterly. "My grandfather is dead."
I don't have any response for that.
Back at Vakh's campsite, Marton and Cherry have built a fire—and apparently hunted their own dinner, which roasts above the flames on a spit.
I shouldn't be surprised that they can take of themselves just as well without me, and I definitely shouldn't feel a little hurt by the evidence of it.
I tell myself that that's certainly not what I'm feeling as I come in for a landing in the center of the clearing.
I'm just raw from the emotional scene I've left behind.
Marton looks at me with wide eyes as I approach, and all the time I've spent around Vakhrin's nakedness lately must be getting to me, because I shift right out in the open, not even thinking about my human body.
I snatch up the crumpled blanket as I pass where Cherry dropped it in the grass earlier, covering myself with it more for the sake of Marton's modesty than my own.
At this rate, I won't have any modesty left before long.
If I ever truly had any to begin with.
I draw near to the fire, wincing slightly as the walk pulls at my injured side.
I pull a section of the blanket away from it, noting a spectacularly reddish bruise across my ribs that will probably darken to the color of a plum soon enough.
No venom, though. I suppose that the venom leaking into the bloodstream doesn't leave much left for poisoning the tail barbs.
Marton makes a distressed noise in his throat, looking at my battle wound.
"What happened?" He half rises and then sits again, as if he doesn't know what to do.
I let the blanket fall back into place, hiding the angry flesh beneath.
"We caught him." Marton keeps looking at me, and even Cherry glances up with reluctant interest. I make myself finish, "He's dead.
"
Marton breathes an exhale, swallowing.
"But you got hurt?"
"Just the tail again.
No venom this time."
Marton nods, but his eyes are pained.
"Do you—can I—that is—"
"I'm alright," I assure him, tiredly taking a seat upon a rock by the fire.
I'm too exhausted even to dress right now.
"How are the both of you?" I look at Cherry as I ask it, because she's being quiet again.
Her chin is tipped up as she gazes into the fire, no expression on her face.
"Cherry," I prompt quietly.
Her blue eyes flick to me, burning by reflection.
"Where's Vakhrin?" The question is asked with pointed disdain.
I sigh. "Out with it, Princess.
What's bothering you?"
Cherry draws her knees up, hugging them to her chest, her skirts a ragged, billowing flow down to her bare feet.
"We're wasting time here. We should have moved on the second we realized he wasn't a dragon.
You promised Marton you wouldn't fight if you didn't have to, but you did anyway.
And you promised me a hot bath tonight."
This is a lot to digest. So many reasons given that I'm not sure which to believe is the real reason for her unhappiness.
The lack of a proper bath? The wasted time?
The fact that I picked a fight that—in retrospect—I really didn't have to and that could have gone disastrously wrong so easily?
Maybe all of those things are equal in her mind.
"I'm...sorry?" I offer.
Cherry grumbles beneath her breath, not accepting my halfhearted apology.
With renewed pique, she asks, "What are your plans for the manticore?
You're going to ask him to come with us, aren't you?
"
"I...hadn't thought about it.
" Which is to say that I have thought about it, but I hadn't realized I was thinking about it until now.
"But yes, probably."
Cherry makes a noise of vexation. "Why?"
Because," I frown, "He's a good fighter.
He's strong. He can help protect you. And he's...alone.
"
"He's not a dragon," Cherry says, in a tone that indicates this is all that matters and I should know that.
Finding her a dragon husband is priority number one.
"So sorry to disappoint you.
" Vakhrin's voice, stiff and angry from the shadows beyond the fire.
He takes a silent step into the firelight, eyes churning with darkness as he looks at Cherry.
Cherry turns her nose up and away from him, huffing.
I'm torn between being annoyed with them both, and feeling sorry for Vakhrin and amused at Cherry's primness.
This is the girl who spoke of fun and vowed to flirt with every man she met?
I guess that, to her, flirting is a thing to be turned off and on as the fancy strikes her, and she just hasn't been in the mood for any flirting yet.
I wonder what it will look like when she does?
Cherry spends the majority of her time making herself as disagreeable as possible, but I bet the men would drop like flies at her feet if she turned on the charm.
The thought makes me smile for an instant, before Vakhrin ruins it by speaking.
In a tone of challenge, he asks Cherry, "What exactly are you the princess of?
"
My hackles rise, mind spinning.
How did he know that? When—?
And then realization hits.
He was listening in the shadows. I called Cherry Princess not a moment ago.
But perhaps we can play that off as a joke?
A nickname?
When Cherry ignores him, Vakhrin turns his sharp gray eyes on me.
I note that he's once again dressed in the clothes he donned before.
He watches me warily, maybe expecting me to attack again.
My muscles are primed enough. I make an effort to relax, and Vakhrin notes it.
I decide that now is a good time to put that whole trust thing into action.
"Perhaps you ought to sit."
"This is my campsite," Vakhrin responds gruffly, and stays standing, hands clenching into fists.
"Suit yourself." I glance at Marton, wondering what his thoughts are.
He eyes Vakhrin for a moment, and then gives me a small nod.
He agrees. Trust is the way. Of course. The knowledge of this proof of his character makes me smile, and seeing it, Marton almost—but not quite—smiles back.
"Cherry's true name is Princess Shireen Elaina Montrose of Dragomir, Firstborn Heir to the Throne of Ithyma," I tell Vakh.
His eyes widen, mouth falling open.
"But—" he splutters. He looks rapidly from me to Cherry and back again.
He stares for a long time at Cherry, who ignores him, before he looks at me once more.
His eyes sharpen into something suspicious, brows pulling together.
"I had heard a rumor..."
"That the princess of Ithyma was being held captive by a monstrous beast in the ruins of the old castle?
"
Vakh nods slowly. "That a kingdom was promised to whoever slayed the beast—the dragon—and returned her to her father.
"
"Never thought to try your luck?
" asks Cherry scathingly.
Vakh blinks at her in surprise, but she still isn't looking at him.
When he answers, he speaks as if to me. "I had thought it was just a mad rumor.
An old wives' tale."
"It isn't a tale," spits Cherry, climbing to her feet.
"It's my life." With a sharp look at me, she walks off towards the waterfall.
I exhale tiredly, knowing I'm meant to follow her.
I get stiffly to my feet, favoring my sore side with a wince.
"Don't—" says Marton, eyes fretful.
I wave his concern away, taking a step after my princess, my eyes sharpening to track her in the dark.
"She won't be easy till she's had someone to complain at.
"
"She's complained enough already," Marton protests.
I give him a look, forehead pulling into a crease. It's struck me before that he doesn't like it when I make everything about Cherry. He always tries to convince me that it should be about me and what I want instead.
But he doesn't get it.
Cherry and I are linked inextricably. Like salt mixed into ashes, separating us out now would be impossible, and it's a fool's game to try. No one wants salt that's been covered in ashes, and ashes are only good for tossing out to begin with.
There's a disturbing metaphor for our current situation in there somewhere, but I'm too exhausted to try and parse out exactly what it is.
Steps halting, I go to follow Cherry into the night.