Defeat was a gristly fear. Emeril was on his back, lying pinned with the warmth of a soft soled shoe pressing against his chest and the steel of an elegant spear hovering just above his neck. He’d seen this vision before. The canvas of the tent was perfect and the fire could be seen flickering outside and lighting the tent’s canvas with the light of the Horizon Moon lighting the opposing side. The hooded eyes of his assailant looked down on him in the darkness and the chill crept again up his spine. Emeril had seen this so many times before and he could never shake it. His own wild eyes took in the surroundings as he labored to breath under the weight. The thoughts played out in his mind and he swore that he could change the way things played out.

But it always ended the same.

The spear tip was lacquered in a brownish resin and it glistened with drops thickly forming on the tip. What happened next was quick, as it had always been before, he reached for the dagger at his waist and the assailant pushed heavily against his chest, squeezing the wind out of him and then slashing quickly at his stomach, tearing through the silk tunic and splitting the flesh.

He gasped at the movement. It was a superficial injury but the wound quickly burned and he could feel the cold sweat of a fever breaking while his temperature began to rise. Then, as he looked at his assailant, he saw distinctly that he was human. The cold blue eyes caught the wash of light from the moon as he pulled back the canvas for his escape.

The King awoke in a cold sweat. His medicine had worn off again. In the darkness he settled back against the sweat soaked sheets. The ache started to return, first starting at his extremities and slowly creeping to his core. He winced knowing that the pain would soon be unbearable.

Emeril cherished these instances of lucidity. The antidote, as the doctors called it was a little known plant called Black Finger. It was a poison potent as death itself, but when given to the King in small doses it would alleviate the slow poison infesting him. Either way he was dying, but one was fitfully painful. The other at least allowed him to continue life… if that was what you could call it. Black Finger would also numb your entire body and make the taker delirious beyond reason.

His eyes refocused on the canopy above him. Emeril had, in one of his moments shouted that he needed a mirror above him so he could see his condition. It was there the next time that he awoke, his dying form was now ever before him. In the dim light from an oil lamp at the window, he could see that his eyes were sunken and dark. Patches of dark skin dotted his bared arms and legs. The characteristic blackened fingers and toes were still limber, but he was slowly losing feeling in those appendages. He slid his hand over the old injury. It was the last thing that remained pink on his body. Tears welled up again as he softly shook. The pain was starting to creep closer to his core. He was on his deathbed and he felt it with every passing beat of his heart. This poison had killed all of his dreams and was doing its best to kill him, too.

He looked around to refamiliarize himself with the surroundings. There were columns adorned with banner of the empire. The banner was a variation on his own family insignia, a ram’s head. Each generation made an addition or change to the theme and it evolved slowly as the generations passed. The red with gold embroidering depicted a Ram’s head, one eye black and the other solid with two swords poised crossed above the ram’s head.

The ram’s head seemed to mock him as it stared at him with it’s empty eye. A mockery coming from his own creation. Emeril changed the banner to the swords and poked out the left eye. It seemed that in doing so he disgraced his family. Putting out the eye seemed a symbolic gesture of defamation and turning blindly from the past. It was here to gawk at him and remind him of his failure.

Here he was, the great King, Emeril Muldaven, who stabbed at the very heart of the wilds to the North. Who took his father’s kingdom and expanded it, endeared it and shaped it into a grand society. Now, here he was, cursed by poison from one of his own to some end that he can hardly fathom. Only in times like these, between the doses of dangerous medicines could he think like this. Each time he saw himself, he saw death creeping a little closer. For the past 10 years he can remember seeing his own daughter a handful of times and being able to think clearly for only moments.

His years had felt like days to him, but either he was able to bear the pain more or the Black Finger was starting to kill the feeling enough to make it bearable for longer periods of time.

Emeril’s heart ached. The Horizon Moon started to paint the interior of his chamber. Glamourous gold inlaid tiles and fanciful red lined the floors and gold tapestries hung on the walls. Did his people know he still lived? Did is daughter visit him anymore? Had he told his counselors about the man in the tent? His lucidity only seemed to come at night when no one was tending him directly. It seemed to be happening more, too. The seasons were not passing as quickly, he could tell by the way the room was adorned, it was still mid-summer. Colorful flowers perched around the foot of his bed and the apples and pears lie clustered together on a silver platter. Emeril paused, he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

“Someone… Please!” Emeril croaked. His throat was parched and he felt too weak to reach move from his current position. A tethered rope was near his hand, he slid his hand over the knot in the rope and pulled slightly. The rope ran along the ceiling into an adjoining room. A tinkle was heard and someone stirred.

There was a clank and heavy footsteps accompanied by the jangling of a chain suit. The door cracked opened and the bonneted head of a serving girl poked through. She was pulled back aggressively and the door swung wide open. The brightly lit hallway blurred the fully armored shadow standing in the doorway. The disembodied suit of armor walked briskly towards the King.

Emeril saw the image of the blue eyed man again vividly who has been killing him over and over again for the last 10 years. His chest felt heavy and he began to sweat. He twisted in bed and pulled the tasseled cord again.

“Help! Please somebody help me!” His eyes were wild and his fear was obvious. He struggled and fought but could not even force himself to move more than he had.

“Father. It’s me.” The firm, but whispered voice floated to Emeril’s ears. And hope poured down his spine as his daughter jingled up the edge of the bed.

“Avengale? Is that you?” He lifted a hand weakly and she took it in hers. He could feel her warmth flowing into him. She was his only child and he loved her more than life itself.

The patterned tabbard she wore was very similar to her fathers but she had changed it as well. The Ram’s right eye was removed and the left filled in. The swords had been removed and the Horizon Moon was positioned behind the Ram’s head.

“Father, are you yourself?” She spoke with a whisper still, but he realized she was keeping quiet for another reason. He nodded with a little effort. The serving girl poked back into the room and moved cautiously further into the room. And Avengale turn to glare at the girl. “I told you I would ring you when I needed you!” The girl snapped to attention and left quickly under Avengale’s intense gaze.

Emeril jumped at her voice. She looked back quickly at him when she felt the shock and gave him an apologetic look. She caressed his hands, not looking at his body, but looking into his eyes. Her hazel eyes were glassy and wet as she began to speak. Her voice was firm, but her eyes belied the emotion that was boiling inside of her. “Father, you need to tell me again what happened in the tent 10 years ago.”

“10 years?!” He sputtered with a start. She let go of his hand and picked up a pitcher at his bedside that was beading with moisture and filled a glass for him. Emeril’s heart beat a little faster. It had been that long and he hadn’t even left this bedroom for that entire time. She brought the cup to his lips and the rushing coolness ran over his tongue and down his throat. The fever was coming back, he could feel it rising.

He knew there wasn’t much time. He could tell that Avengale thought so, too. She was anxious to hear what he had to say, but was trying not to show her anticipation too overtly. He tried to soak her in again, look over her face. She had rich black hair that was cut short to accomodate the full plate that she was walking around in so casually. Her jaw was more square, like her father’s, but she had her mother’s hazel eyes and fine darker skin which seen more than a little sun. He stifled a smile as he saw her as a 12 year old again. On his initial campaigns in the jungles, she moved with the force. The officiers took a quick liking to her since she was always willing to try something new.

She liked playing soldier. If only her mother could see her now. The thought made him chuckle which he disguised as a cough.

“There was a man who came into the tent while my back was turned. I had given my honor guard leave as we had finally established a perimeter. He… had blue eyes.” She nodded. Apparently she had heard this before, though he didn’t remember telling her.

“You mentioned a spear.”

“Yes, the spear. It was covered with a thick brown residue.”

“What about the shape of the spear?”

“I… I think that it was.” He scrunched his face with the effort of reliving memory. Think! She is depending on you! “It was a long jagged blade spear with swordhooks on either side.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked around, then looked up. She smoothed out the topsheet and began to trace shapes in the silken sheets. He watched through the mirror, he could feel his pulse striking harder with each beat. His head started to ring.

“Did it look like this?” As she finished the final touches on a very accurate representation of the spear, though one thing was missing. He moved his hand ponderously over the illustration and made some rough scratches for the barbed edge that was on the left side. All the while his head began to pound more and more relentlessly. His body felt as if he would fold in on itself while his guts, chest and heart began to burn. The look of recognition swam over her Avengale’s face and she looked at her father with wide eyes.

“Please… get me my medicine. The pain…!” His eyes began to well up with tears. He wanted to spend more time with her. He wanted to be useful again. 10 years! It had passed without him even knowing. He wanted to know how she was and what her aspirations were! He wanted to know if she had met someone that she loved! The pain was taking hold, though, and it wouldn’t allow their time to last much longer.

She grasped his hand and creakily leaned over to kiss his cheek. A warm teardrop fell on his withered cheek as she whispered in his ear.

“I love you, father. I will save you.” And as she said that, she tugged on the bell, stood up quickly and briskly walked to the door. The serving girl walked into the room and Avengale stopped her speaking so that Emeril couldn’t hear. She nodded humbly and began walking towards the King with the specially brewed Black Finger tea.

Avengale walked briskly through the halls of the mansion. He head was full of echoes and images. She had heard her father speak deliriously of the blue eyed man so many times. Anyone who could pay off a servant would know that, though it had been downplayed to her so often and by so many different members of the King’s advisors that she felt something very wrong had taken place.

She looked down at her hands. They were not the hands of a Princess. Her father wanted a child, but not particularly a boy. He never held it against her for being his daughter and was allowed to do as any boy or girl would do. As she was growing up, it looked like she would be pressed and cleaned and well mannered by the influence of her mother, Queen Daene. But after complications, mother died mid-birth with their second child. The baby was delivered alive, but died shortly after.

She was only 7 years at the time, but she remembered it vividly. Her father and her clung tightly to each other seeing that they were the last left in the world, but the found the strength in each other to move on. She had followed him through the jungles, kept well behind the force but brought up to visit when the battles were over. All times, but that one time.

Her steps echoed through the hallways as she walked towards the stables, servants scrambled at her appearance but she paid them no mind. Avengale had fallen short of the truth so many times and had never been able to put her finger on in.

After her father had fallen ill, she could not find peace at his side anymore. His wild muttering, yelling and delirious rants drove her further and further away from home. However far she went, though, she heard them as if he was always there next to her. She had left and come back so many times, but this time, she had the answer.

She knew whose spear that was.