Larso, the elegant capital of the land, was a luxurious city of emeralds and sapphires.  It was also the home of the imperial family. Gardens, woods, and streams surrounded their huge castle. A recreational area covered over a thousand acres on the east side of the city.  Cirosa was a very advanced world in this year, 31412, having been given its name by King Fememve, the very first ruler.  It had been born a colonization of the Mother Earth, beginning as the dwelling place of only a few families.  The atmosphere was thought to make the planet a very mystical land, full of extraordinary powers, where it was believed that anything could happen.  The inhabitants believed that because of the land and the air around them, they had developed powers within themselves, fantastic powers of the mind.

Then Earth’s seventeenth World War diminished it to ashes, and in search for safety, many people fled to Cirosa; others became lost in Earth’s ruins, eventually perishing.  Cirosa became a planet with a form of reign different than that on Earth.  Being only a fraction of Earth’s size, Cirosa was ruled entirely by one king, who was powerful and mythical.  The more exalted technology and the scientific brilliance, which more than surpassed that of Earth, made Cirosa a paradisiacal land.

                                                            ------------

Srandon, the prince, was in exile since the death of his father sixteen years earlier.  He had been eleven months old and in hiding at the time, because of the dangers lurking around the palace.  There had been several attacks on the king and the imperial family.  The king, his grandfather, had decided to keep him hidden after Anton’s death, so that his son’s murderer could not get to the new heir.

Srandon was confined to the palace grounds. Everyone outside the sovereign estate did not know of his existence; most of the people inside the palace gates thought he was merely a trainer for the king’s armies. Only selected people within the immediate court knew of his true identity.  His mother had hidden his birth from everyone, by the king’s orders, even Anton, in order to keep him out of danger. Only one man outside of the palace knew, a man known only as Brark, an excellent swordsman and gladiator, who had seen his father die. A man as dead as the prince himself, or so the people assumed.

Srandon was heir to the throne of Cirosa. When he was to take over the throne, he would be presented to the public. The ladies of the court thought it was a shame to keep their surpassingly handsome young prince from the people for all of that time. He had thick wavy black hair, a naturally bronze complexion, and a silvery gaze that almost penetrated the very souls of the many people he was around. His extensive varieties of bed partners were equally drawn to his charismatic ways. However, his chiseled features were often marred by emotions of anxiety. He often felt isolated and extremely alone, thinking only about  the day that he could escape from this austerity.

Over the last few years, his boyish body had developed into the broad physique of a healthy man. His wiry frame was replaced with sinuous, powerful muscles that added to his sensuousness towards the ladies. The same wavy black hair had sprouted over his tanned frame, causing the ladies-in-waiting to swoon whenever he was around them.

To ease their curious natures, the people of the land were told that Srandon’s sister, Dryleria, would marry and take over the throne when King Zoris died. Dryleria knew the truth but had never let anyone believe anything other than the deception created to conceal his true identity.

                                                --------------

           

On this splendid day, Srandon and his closest friend, Mijir were spending the afternoon on the golf course, challenging each other’s capabilities.

“I’d like to see you better that shot, Your Excellency!” boasts Mijir. His laughing green eyes dance as he lays down a challenge to his friend.

“You dare challenge me again, my friend? What are the stakes to be this time, my unlucky compatriot?” Srandon positions himself with a stately poise as he estimates the location of the eighteenth hole. “If I lose, you may enjoy the company of the maiden of your choice from my vast private selection… …but only for one night. However, if I should happen to win, you shall spend this night alone contemplating your defeat!”

Mijir watches in anticipation at the wager at hand while trying to decide which of the many maidens he would spend this night with, knowing that none of Srandon’s maidens could ever compete with the one woman that had stolen his heart.

“Sorry Mijir,” exclaims Srandon, rupturing his friend’s trance, forcing his thoughts to return to the game of golf. “It looks as if you’ll be spending the night alone in deep thought, as usual. You may once again dismiss the aching desire that grows in your loins for one of my wenches!”

Mijir scowls. “Someday, maybe soon, I’ll be the one enjoying a maiden’s favor while you sit alone in contemplation over your loss, my friend!”  Mijir was an alluring man with appealing features. His long blonde hair, accented with soft curls near the nape of his neck, and green eyes would have certainly drawn the fancy of many a maiden were it not that he was shy and lacking in self confidence. Of course, his constant association with Srandon, whose appearance made him seem almost invisible, did not help his cause either.  Srandon’s arrogant nature seemed to distract the ladies of the court, who found his personality to be both sexy and challenging.  They seemed to all be so caught up in Srandon that they didn’t even notice Mijir.  Mijir was unlike Srandon in many ways; he was quiet, not boisterous.  He was somewhat reserved and kept to himself much of the time.  He could be conservative, yet romantic if given the chance.  He was not flirtatious with the ladies; instead, he was very polite and elegant. 

There had been one girl, a little less than a year before, whom he had felt a certain infatuation towards, but whom, for the most part, was untouchable.  Her grandfather would never have allowed the two of them to be together, because they were from vastly different backgrounds, not to mention very different social standings.  There had even been times when he had caught this girl stealing glances at him, in admiration and longing.  There had been a few times when anticipated rendezvous between them had been deterred.  Sometimes, Mijir could still feel her, late at night, in his dreams. Whenever he smelled her sweet fragrance near him, his mind became lost in another place, that place that exists only between dreams, fantasies, and reality. Mijir loved her in ways that he could not even begin to explain, not even to his best friend Srandon. It was not that Srandon would not understand his feelings, but that he would probably not approve of Mijir having these feelings for the king’s granddaughter, Dryleria.

 

                                                -------------

 

 

“Don’t you ever get tired of playing your little games and deliberately antagonizing him into those silly competitions?” Dryleria states coldly.

“What difference would that make to you, my dear sister?  My winning is not deliberate.  Some players are lucky and some are not,” remarks Srandon. “Mijir has skill, no doubt; he is merely unlucky.  But why do you care? It’s not as if you would spend any of your precious time in his company, because he would fall way short of what you would ever want in a companion.”

“And like you would know about what I would be looking for in a companion! It is not as if you have spent time pondering what I like and don’t like in a man.”

“Come now, sister, you would never spend any time with someone like Mijir!”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Mijir is way too timid for you. The differences in your social classes would never be compatible in your mind, nor in your bed.”

“What do you know about what goes on in my mind, or in my bed? You are my brother, not my keeper, Srandon.” She winks at him slyly.

“Are you telling me that you have spent time alone with Mijir?”

“That is none of your business.”

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Again, that is none of your business, Srandon. Whether I have, or whether I haven’t is of no concern to you.”

“Does grandfather know of this?”

“It is none of grandfather’s concern either!”

“What if I were to tell him that you are wasting your time and feelings on someone like Mijir?” Srandon asks teasingly. “You know that grandfather…”

Dryleria clasps her hand over Srandon’s mouth, muffling his voice. “I never said that I had feelings for him! You did.”

“So, you don’t have feelings for him?”

“I would not tell you, even if I did.”

“Then you do have feelings for him, don’t you?”

Dryleria turns to walk away.

Srandon grabs her by the arm. “You do, don’t you?” She averts her eyes away from him. “I can see it in your eyes! Now I know that you do!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have never walked away from a conversation with me, unless the topic of the conversation hit too close to home.” She turns away again. Srandon holds onto her and turns her to him. “You would also not be blushing otherwise.”

She pulls from his grasp and starts out of the room. “You’re crazy!” 

 

                                                            -------------

 

            A short time later, Dryleria is sitting alone in the garden.  Her eyes are closed; her mind is lost in thought, remembering an old familiar feeling from the past.  Her heart begins to beat wildly in her chest, sending warm blood coursing through her body.  The sensual fragrance of her fills the air as Mijir nears her.  Unable to see his way through the darkness, he is guided by the sweet aroma of her.  He inhales deeply, allowing her fragrance to fill his mind with thoughts of her. As the clouds unveil the moon, its soft light shines down on her, illuminating her silhouette. As he gazes upon her beauty, the sight of her takes his breath away. He slowly makes his way toward her; trying not to disturb the exquisite portrait that Fate has placed before him. He stops briefly as she stands; her long gown ripples in the warm breeze that is softly caressing her waist length, silky black hair. The bodice of her low-cut, white gown provides a stark contrast to the deep tan of her luscious body. She breathes in deeply as her thoughts carry her to another time, and another place. In response to her own longing, she raises her hand to her moist lips, almost feeling his passionate kiss.

            Mijir can feel the familiar excitement in his chest that he has only known with her. His breathing begins to quicken and he can feel the need for her, growing deep within him. He can almost feel the warmth of her touch and the heat of her embrace as their bodies entwine.

Her thoughts clouding her perception, she does not notice him, until she turns and he is there. Finding him within a few steps of her, she gasps quietly. They both extend their arms, gently touching each other’s hands. They gaze into one another’s eyes, feeling the emotions that are consuming them. The light touch that they share only adds to the fire burning deep inside of them. Mijir, showing a forwardness that he has never known, pulls her to him gently. Dryleria looks up to his face as they kiss each other, softly at first, then much deeper. They wrap their arms around each other as they slowly melt together as one. She reaches up and unbuttons his white silk shirt, sliding her hands beneath it, and hungrily caresses his taut, muscular chest. She slides his shirt off of his shoulders and lets it fall to the plush grass. He gently moves his hands down her body and rests them at the small of her back. In response, she moves closer to him as she begins to lightly glide her tongue down the side of his neck to his shoulder. His heavy breathing becomes louder as the warmth of her tongue explores his skin. He moves his strong hands around her waist, turning her around, as he begins to untie the loose strings of her gown. She moans softly as he opens her gown, exposing her entire body to the smooth caress of the warm night air.

She turns back to him, allowing her gown to fall at her feet. She replaces her arms around his neck. He raises her up slightly, carries her to the bench and gently lays her there. Kneeling down beside her, he begins to kiss her deeply again.

He gently glides his hands down over her shoulders, slowly moving them toward her full, soft breasts. Their tongues move around inside of her mouth in a sublime dance of pleasure that carries their passion to an entirely new level.   

 

                                                -------------

 

Briar pulls herself up the rock face slowly, every muscle in her body straining from the exertion. Her soft leather tunic, soaked with sweat, clings to her body. The frigid arctic air stings her lungs as she reaches for another crack to help her scale the last few feet to a ledge, where she has planned to rest before continuing on to the top of the mountain. Her handholds are coming fewer and farther between, causing her to exert herself even more. The dryness of her skin has caused her fingertips to bleed. This latest test is, by far, the most difficult she has faced since her training began a year ago. Her body aches as she finally reaches the ledge and drags herself onto it. She collapses, rolling over onto her back, breathing rapidly. The combination of thin, cold air and the exhaustion from her climb causes her mind to wander. The thoughts of her training and the quest ahead of her are flooding her mind. She reaches down to her left thigh to massage away the throbbing pain and she feels the warm, stickiness of blood there. She pulls her hand away to see it. As she stares at the blood on her fingers, her subconscious mind carries her to another time and place.

She closes her eyes and sees a white blanket of snow all around her stained with blood. Her body tenses from a sound off to her left. She turns to see the snarling fangs of a great white bear. The trail of blood across the ground leads to the huge claw that has just torn into her flesh. As she reaches for her sword, the bear lunges at her.

She shrieks loudly, causing her to jolt upright and look around. She realizes that she is still on the mountain ledge and the dream never actually happened.

 

                                                            -------------

 

At that same moment, Srandon jolts out of a restless sleep. He is breathing heavily and his body is covered in a cold sweat. He shivers from the biting cold, his muscles aching from exhaustion. He feels a throbbing pain in his left thigh. He reaches down to find that there is blood there. Shocked by this, he gets out of bed and goes in search of Dryleria.

 

                                                            -------------

 

Sitting alone on the same bench, on which she and Mijir had recently made love, Dryleria’s thoughts are reflecting on the passion they had shared. She gazes at the moon, sighing deeply. She rises and begins to leisurely stroll back to the palace.

As she reaches for the doors, they open in front of her. Srandon is standing there gaping at her, with a troubled look on his face.

“Where were you?” he asks, “I went to your room, and you weren’t there.”

“I needed to get some fresh air,” she replies.

“At this time of night?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Your bed was still made; it looked as if you were never in it.”

“Enough about me, what’s wrong?”

“I had a nightmare, and when I awoke, I found blood on my leg.”

“Blood? From what?”

“I don’t know; that’s the problem.”

“Which one of your little wenches did that to you?” she asks, as she looks down at the scratches on his thigh.

“I’ll have you know, I slept alone last night!”

 

                                                            -------------

The next morning, Briar, upon returning home, finds Brark waiting in the cabin. The warmth of the fire is a welcome feeling as the chill of her night in the mountains slowly begins to ease.

“How was your first night alone in the mountains?”

“It was very cold and very troubling, Daddy.”

“While you were gone, I made you something for your birthday.” He goes over to the bookcase and takes down a long package. He carries it over and hands it to her.

She fumbles with the coarse string that binds it, but finally gets it open to reveal a gift of incredible beauty. She stands in the center of the room, clutching in her small, delicate hand an exquisitely decorated sword that had just been sharpened and glazed. The sword shimmers brightly in the firelight coming from the hearth. The hilt of the sword is encrusted in gold and inlayed with sapphires and emeralds.

“Oh, Daddy, this is so beautiful!”

“This is the special project that I have been working on for some time. I had the finishing touches done last night by an old, dear friend. He cast a spell over it and said that with this sword, you will change the world.”

 

                                                -------------

 

The staff, as usual, prepared an incredible feast. There was watercress salad, a fine selection of cheeses as an appetizer, freshly steamed vegetables from the royal gardens, baked chicken cacciatore, spiced potatoes in garlic sauce, fried calamari with a succulent marinara dip, stuffed oysters with melted butter, and for dessert, strawberry pie. The whole meal was set out on the long dining room table. The room was fashioned out of dark cherry wood with ornately carved designs covering the lower half of the walls. The upper half of the walls was smartly decorated with beautiful tapestries depicting historical battles that had taken place all over the realm. Several large, golden candleholders were placed around the room to provide a soft lighting effect that would normally be soothing to the people dining here. King Zoris was seated at his usual position at the head of the table, while Srandon and Dryleria sat across from each other mid way down the length of it. Presently, Srandon appears very troubled, while Dryleria, although quite troubled by her brother’s condition, seems to be quite happy as faint smiles appear on her face from time to time.

“I have some wonderful news for both of you.” Zoris says excitedly.

“What’s going on, Grandfather? You seem about to burst.” Dryleria replies.

“I have just made arrangements for a huge tournament to take place in six weeks, with gladiators from all over Cirosa traveling here to compete for the title of The Greatest Competitor in the Land.”

“That’s wonderful, Grandfather! It has been so long since we have had a competition, of any kind.  I can hardly remember the last one.”

“The best part of it all is the winner will be named as the new Commander of my Royal Legions!”

“There is already a commander of the Royal Legions, Grandfather. He has been the head of the Legions for as long as I can remember.”

“He is wanting to retire soon and he was only named as the commander because the former one left long ago and we have never really replaced him properly.” Zoris is suddenly overcome with sadness. He runs his fingers through his long silvery hair. His normally tanned features pale and his broad shoulders slump just slightly as he begins to reflect on the memories of many years ago and the events that led to his son, Anton’s death.

“Grandfather, what’s wrong? Why are you suddenly so sad?”

He doesn’t answer. She looks first at King Zoris and then over to Srandon.  She notices that Srandon, too, seems very distraught.  Dryleria is suddenly very concerned, for she can feel the deepened distress in both men.

“What’s wrong, Srandon?”

Srandon looks up from his untouched plate of food. “What?” he questions.

“What’s going on with you two?” Asked Dryleria, looking first at Srandon and then to her grandfather. “The two of you seem so dismal all of the sudden; just a moment ago, Grandfather, you were so happy.”

“There was a time when I was always happy. But, alas, that was a long time ago…when your father was still alive and when I was surrounded with the joys of having a son and being a father. You are like your father in many ways, which makes me miss him all the more.”

“I wish that I could have known him.”

“Well, I am suddenly very tired. I am going to retire to my rooms for the night. I will see you both tomorrow and we can discuss the tournament more then. Good night.”

King Zoris rises from his chair and leaves, walking slowly as though a great weight has been placed on his shoulders.  His eagerness about the tournament had quickly vanished with the thought of Brark and of his son, Prince Anton. 

            On the brink of tears, he exits the room immediately.  “Good night, Grandfather,” whispers the young princess, her heart slightly aching for the father she never knew.  She pauses briefly, trying to regain her composure.  A single tear trickles down her cheek just as she moves to wipe it away.  She looks up at her brother, who is still unresponsive.  “I feel bad for Grandfather.  I should not have mentioned the past as I did.  I hate to see him hurting.”

            Srandon does not respond. 

“Srandon.”  She waits for a moment.  “Srandon!” she says, more loudly, jarring him from his deep trance.  “What is wrong with you?”

“Forgive me, Dryleria; my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“Obviously.  Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he answers, “Something strange happened to me last night, and for the life of me, I can’t figure it out!”

“Are you speaking of the dream you had?”

“Yes, the dream.  I can’t explain it.”

“Do you wish to talk about it?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, looking around him.  Several servants have entered the dining room and are bustling about with the dishes.  “Not here, though.  I am going to my room shortly; meet me there.”

Dryleria nods.  Srandon rises from his seat across from her, excusing himself.  Her eyes follow him as he disappears around the corner.  She finishes the few bites left on her plate before she quietly rises from the dining table to join her brother in his quarters.  She glances down the long hallways outside the dinner hall entrance, hoping to possibly catch a glimpse of Mijir there, and then makes her way up the long winding staircase to the prince’s royal suites.

 

 

                                                      --------------

 

Two swords slice through the brisk night air as they clash against each other, sending sparks flying towards the snow.  Brark swings his large, double-edged weapon mightily at the agile figure before him, clad in a flowing black, hooded cloak.  The force of his thrust is met with a resilience and strength that he had not experienced in many years.  The figure lunges at him swiftly, almost floating across the snowy riverbank, like an angel of battle.  He can definitely feel the years creeping up on him as he uses all of his strength in resistance against the downswing of her glimmering sword.  The leather straps that crisscross up her legs tighten with the tautness of her muscles as the product of her extensive training becomes more evident. 

Then, she hesitates, slightly faltering. Intermittent flashes of a quiet city street, lit only by the brilliant glare of a full moon, begin to distract her. As she fights to ignore the visions, they only become stronger and more distinct. She shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts, so she can concentrate on the present lesson in swordsmanship.  Stumbling to the snowy ground on her knees, her hand moves instantly to her throbbing head.  In her mind, she can see what she thinks to be her own, cloaked figure walking down the center of the street.  She can feel the warmth of the night air caressing her cheeks beneath the hood of her cloak.  The street seems barren almost, with no lights or movement anywhere.  Only the light of the moon lights her path, guiding her almost.  She vaguely recognizes this place as being a place she had possibly visited long ago, as a child and wonders why her thoughts are carrying her back there.

Brark lays his sword down on the ground, and gently raises a hand to rest on her shoulder, as he kneels beside her.  As he touches her, he sees a brief glimpse of the city streets of Larso, near the palace gates.  Instantly withdrawing his hand, he averts his eyes from her.  “Allow the visions you are having to guide you.  Do not be frightened by them.”   

 

                                                    ----------------                                           

 

Srandon sits alone in his private suite.  The room is dimly lit with candles; the shadows of the grand, elaborately carved, four-poster bed seem almost menacing in the candlelight.  A slight gust of wind rustles the light curtains, which lead to a huge balcony made of marble and lined with brass rails.  A few candles near the open balcony doors flicker slightly. Srandon sits at a huge mahogany desk, writing in his journals.  He hesitates momentarily; his right hand slips to his brow, to massage his aching forehead.

  As he closes his eyes, he sees a vast terrain of white, fluffy snow, which seems to reflect the brilliance of the starry sky above it.  The snow is light and unblemished by footprints; there are a few scattered trees in the distance but no immediate sign of anything else.  Then, as if suddenly appearing out of the fog, he sees the dark outline of two figures, kneeling in the snow.  As his perception clears, he distinctly sees the shimmering details of the elaborate swords lying next to the two figures on the ground.  However, he cannot make out the details of the figures’ features; they are merely shadows in his mind. At that moment, he hears a deep voice echo through his head, “Allow the visions you are having to guide you.  Do not be frightened by them.”  The voice fades as Srandon hears a light tapping on his bedroom door.

He opens his eyes and shakes his head, bewildered.  He notices that he is still firmly gripping the quill in his left hand, yet both of his hands are now shivering. There is a bluish coloring to his skin, his hair is damp with what seems to be snow, and the breath exhaled from his lips is like ice.  Although his headache is gone momentarily, his eyelids are heavy from weariness.  He hears Dryleria’s soft knock on his door again, lays the quill down on the desk and rises from his writing to receive her.

“I thought perhaps you were asleep,” she says as he opens the doors for her to enter.   

“I was writing in my journals, and I must have dosed off for a moment,” he replied, still shivering.

“Are you okay?  You look extremely tired, Srandon; you don’t look well at all.  I am worried about you.  It is obvious that you have not had much rest lately.”  She reaches to take his hands in hers, noticing that they are as cold as ice.  “My Lord, you are freezing!  You look and feel as though you have just been in a blizzard!”

“Come in,” he whispers.  He then closes the doors behind her and locks them.  Dryleria walks to the desk where he had been writing and notices the words scribbled on the parchment.

“Allow the visions you are having to guide you,” she whispers, yet her soft voice echoes through his head like an incantation.

 

 

He turns to her abruptly, “What did you say?”  Her words are screaming through his head.

She looks at him.  “Forgive me; I was reading this.  However, it doesn’t look like your handwriting.  It looks as though a child scribbled the words.”

Srandon quickly crosses to the desk and takes the paper from her hand.  He reads the words again, aloud, “Allow the visions you are having to guide you.  Do not be frightened by them.”  Dryleria notices the distress and confusion in his facial features.

“Who wrote this?”

“I think I did.  However, I don’t remember.”

“To whom were you writing?” she asks.

“I’m not sure.”  He pauses, “Perhaps, someone was writing these words to me.”  He pauses again.  “But what do they mean, I wonder?”  As if in a trance, he lays the paper down on the desk, walks past her to the bed, and sits heavily upon it.  She follows him.

“You mentioned a disturbing dream that you had, yet, you are behaving very strangely, as though you have never had a dream before.”

“This was different, unlike any other dream.”

“How so?” she beseeches.

“It was too real to be a dream.  It was as though I was actually there.  And the scars on my leg prove it.”

“Possibly you scratched yourself on something and was not aware of it.”

 

“No, the scratches were not there when I laid down.  Yet, when I awoke from my dream, my thigh was bleeding!” he exclaims.

“What was the dream about?” she asks, in confusion, wondering whether or not “dream” was the proper term to use. 

“That is what is so confusing!  I do not remember exactly.  The only things I recall are the bitter cold of the snow and ice all around me, and the pain in my legs, and something else.”  He hesitates for a moment, looking at her questionably.  “I remember the intensity of the fear that I felt at the sight of a bear’s enormous fangs just before it attacked!  I remember seeing the blood everywhere, and someone screaming.  Yet, it all happened so quickly, and then it was over.”

“Then you awoke to the blood on your leg?  Was it the pain in your leg that woke you?” she asks.

“No, it wasn’t the pain; the pain was not that intense.  It was more of an aching sensation due the cold, arctic air.  The loud screech woke me.  It was almost like I was screaming, but I wasn’t.  Someone else was screaming.”  Srandon closes his eyes, trying to recall the dream from the previous night.  “I don’t recall seeing anyone else, but I do remember feeling someone else’s presence in the dream.  I don’t know who it was, though.”

 

                                                         ---------------     

 

     Through the bleak, white emptiness, the two figures trekked the distance back to the cottage.  They stayed close to the river, so as not to lose their way.  A thick sheet of ice shielded the water from the biting air, which coursed through the travelers’ veins like fire.  The sharpness of the wind stabbed at them; the falling snow blinded them.  It was soon difficult to distinguish between the bank and the icy river.  

 

                                               -------------

 

“I have never seen a life outside of these palace walls.  I have never felt the caress of falling snow upon my face, nor have I ever felt the aching sensation of the biting arctic cold.  I have been hidden here for the duration of my years, and as you well know, it never gets that cold here.  I have also never even seen a polar bear, much less stood so close to one. Yet, last night, I was there; I felt it all.  And it was so real, like nothing I have ever experienced!”  Srandon rises from the bed beside Dryleria and walks over to the desk again.  He picks up the parchment that had been scribbled on, and stares at it.  “Just moments before you arrived tonight, I was there briefly, again.  Yet, this time, it was peaceful, and it only lasted for a few seconds.  But, the biting cold was the same, and the view of miles and miles of snow was the same.”

“When I arrived, the first thing I thought was that you appeared as though you had just walked through a blizzard.”  She turns to look at him; he remains standing at the desk, holding the paper, with his back to her.

“I did just walk through a blizzard,” he whispers.

 

                                                            -------------

 

“I can’t see anything in this blizzard, Daddy!” screams Briar, over the blaring wind.  She gasps for air, feeling the numbness in her arms and legs.  She tightens the sash around her waist and pulls the hood down further over her face, to protect her from the wind.

“We have to hurry and get back to the cottage, before we get stranded out here!” hollers Brark, in response.  He can barely see his daughter’s cloaked form ahead of him.  “I believe we are very close!  It should be right over the next hill, if I am not mistaken.”

  At that moment, Briar screeches as the ice beneath her feet cracks and she plunges into the icy water beneath.  Brark hears the ice break, screams Briar’s name, and struggles to help her.  He stomps quickly through the deepening snow and falls to the ground beside the hole in the ice, reaching his gloved hands down into the freezing water.

 

                                                            -------------

 

Srandon is still standing at the desk, tightly gripping the parchment in his hand.  At the same moment that Briar falls, he screams, “No!”  Dryleria jolts suddenly, rushing to his side.  The paper floats to the marble floor as Srandon collapses to his knees.  He screams again before slipping into unconsciousness. 

Dryleria kneels beside him, shaking.  “Srandon!” she shrieks, “Are you okay?”  She then notices that she is kneeling in a pool of freezing water, with several chunks of ice around her.  The hem of her gown is soaked.  Srandon is shivering, uncontrollably.  She slowly reaches to touch his back.  As her delicate hand comes into contact with his body, she shuts her eyes tightly, momentarily seeing the same thing he sees, before she pulls her hand away.

 

                                                            -------------

 

 

“I’m right here!  Hold on!”  Brark’s hands are extended far into the icy waters, grasping for her.  He feels her loose grip on his fingers, and instantly struggles to pull her to the surface before the ice gives way beneath him.  The veins in his arms strain, and his muscles tighten as he pulls her limp, soaking body up onto the icy ledge.  “Briar!  Wake up, Sweetheart!”  He takes his bearskin wrap off and wraps her shaking body in it after he removes her wet cloak from her.  Then, he holds her tightly in his arms, rocking her back and forth, to warm her.  He then notices that the sharp ice had ripped the flesh on her legs, so he tears strips from his shirt to wrap around her wounds before he continues to cradle her in his arms.  

He catches a glimpse of the glimmering emerald dangling from the gold chain around her neck, and reaches for it.  Her breathing is very shallow and raspy.  Brark grasps the emerald, clenching it tightly in his fist.  He closes his eyes tightly, lowering his head to hers, as he continues to rock her back and forth.

 

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As Dryleria pulls her hand away from Srandon, she suddenly feels very cold and damp from the icy air around her.  When she looks down, she sees ripples of blood floating in the puddle of water on the floor.  Noticing the scrapes and lacerations on his legs, she instantly dabs at them with the moist hem of her gown.  As Srandon comes to, she carefully helps him walk to the bed where he can lie down.  As before, his body, too, is shivering from the cold, but this time, his clothes are soaked.  She gently removes his wet clothes from his body and wraps him in the warm blankets on the bed.  Still groggy, Srandon slips off into a peaceful sleep, as she cradles him in her arms.  As she rocks him slowly, in her warm embrace, she ponders about the events of the last few minutes and about the things she had seen when she touched him.  

 

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Brark continues to cradle his daughter, rubbing her arms fiercely with his left hand in order to get the warm blood flowing through them again.  His right hand is still gripping the emerald around her neck.  The sensational warmth, coming from the emerald, fills him.  The stone begins to glow with deep hues of blue and green in his palm as Briar slowly opens her eyes.  She looks up at her father hovering above her, as she feels the warmth of his strong arms engulf her. 

“What happened, Daddy?  I felt the ice cracking and then,” she pauses, “I can’t remember.”

“You are okay, Sweetheart; you’re safe now,” he answers, his voice soothing and comforting.

Briar looks around her, seeing the huge hole in the ice.  The wind had subsided slightly, and the snowfall had eased.  “My sword,” she whispers.

Brark glances around for a sign of the weapon, but can’t see it anywhere.  He then looks at the water glistening in the starlight, already starting to freeze over.  His grasp on the emerald necklace tightens as he closes his eyes again.  Seconds later, the water starts to ripple slightly.  Briar watches in amazement as the sword that he had made especially for her as a gift rises slowly from beneath the water to levitate in the air above it. 

She looks at him curiously, and at the necklace glowing in his hand.  “Now, I understand the strength and intensity of this power, which is in you.”

“This power is also in you, Briar.  Come now; retrieve your sword, and let’s go home.”     

As Briar starts to stand, her legs throb beneath her in excruciating pain.  “Oh, the pain in my legs!”  She looks down at the lacerations on her thighs and calves, encrusted with dried blood.  “I really do need to be more careful, Daddy.  These are going to leave horrendous scars!”  Brark smiles, and assists her to her feet.

“Most of your scars will fade away in time, and the ones that don’t will only make you stronger.”

Briar stands, wraps the bearskin snuggly around her shoulders and takes a step toward the sword, which is still levitating in the air above the hole in the ice.  “An enchanted sword, how incredible!  But, how can I reach it from here?  I surely don’t want to fall again!”

“I won’t let you fall.  As for the sword, simply hold out your hand, and it will come to you.”  Briar does just as he had instructed, and the brilliant weapon floats smoothly into her grasp.  In her small hands, the exquisite sword seems to glow with an extraordinary, luminous light, similar to the light emitted from the emerald around her neck.  Both of them seems to reflect the deep indigo in her eyes.

 

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In the early morning sunlight, peeking its way through the chiffon curtains, Dryleria lays next to her brother, still holding him safely in her comforting embrace.  Srandon begins to stir beside her, his subconscious mind filling with images of a magnificent sword encrusted with emeralds and sapphires, the illuminating glow of it, which matches the deep glow from the depths of a large emerald stone, and the hypnotic peacefulness of a stranger’s sapphire-colored eyes.  As he wakes from his trance, the intensifying pain in his legs erases the images from his mind.  He cringes from the discomfort, moving his hand to massage them.

Dryleria sits up immediately.  “Srandon?” she questions, “Are you okay?”

“My legs hurt again, much worse this time.”

“I know,” she replies.

He throws the covers aside to look at his bandaged legs.  The bandages she had wrapped around them earlier in the night are already seeping with blood.

“While you were sleeping, I wrapped your legs in these bandages after I anointed them with healing herbs.”  She can see the frustration and confusion mounting in him.

“What is happening to me, Dryleria?”

“I’m not sure, Sran.”

“Am I going mad?  Why is it that I can’t understand this?”

“There is a reason for all of this, although you may not know it yet.  I am sure, that in time, it will be revealed to you.”