Prometheus Rising- Chapter 3/? [Fic]

[arakni666]

Chapter 3:

The sun climbed steadily across the sky, its rays casting speckled patterns through the thick boughs of the trees. The forest, though still sheltering swaths of shadow in its most impenetrable nooks, seemed almost to glow in the light. As Arthur lifted his leg to step over a moss-covered log, he found his gaze drawn to the shine of the leaves above him. Their gentle motions promised nothing but peace and serenity. It was nearly impossible to believe that this was the same dark forest that had ensnared him the night before.


“Arthur,” called the gruff voice of his travelling companion. Arthur drew his eyes away from the beauty of his surroundings to focus on the man standing several feet ahead of him. Alfred’s eyes were hidden by the shadow of the rough fringe that fell across his brow, but Arthur could see the tense line of his unshaven jaw, the clench of his fists. “Do not fall behind. We are coming nearer to the heart of the wood.” The words were gritted through sharp teeth, and cut off abruptly at the sound of a slight rustle of the leaves beside him. A tiny snout poked through, followed by the eyes and ears of a gray squirrel.

Arthur scoffed. “Are you afraid?” He waved a hand at the little creature. “Are squirrels some sort of monster to be feared? Will it eat my fingers if I come too close?”

Alfred stared at him for a moment, lips drawn into a thin line, before glancing down at the squirrel. It chattered and vanished back into the underbrush. The demon’s mouth twitched, and Arthur wondered in that instant whether he was going to smile. But those thin lips settled into neutrality again. Alfred shook his head. “We need to keep moving.”

“Very well.” Arthur shifted his satchel, frowning. “I suppose you are more knowledgeable about this forest, much as it pains me to admit it.” He strode forward until there were only a few feet between himself and Alfred, and craned his neck back to look up at the man’s face. “But what are you afraid of? Surely nothing in these woods could harm you.”

“I’m not invincible,” Alfred replied. “And it will certainly be more difficult trying to defend not only myself, but also a human.” He turned and moved away, feet silent as they passed across the forest floor.

Arthur scowled at the man’s back, but followed. He was displeased to hear his own footsteps crunching far louder. “My sincerest apologies for being a weak, defenseless human. Perhaps if you didn’t have such a noble heart, demon, you would have left me to die on my own.”

“I could still abandon you here in the forest,” Alfred snapped back, glancing over his shoulder with cloudy gray eyes. “No one would ever know.”

“Ha!” The harsh snort of laughter resounded through the woods. “Yes, you could, but would that not have been a great waste of your time? You said yourself that you already saved me once, and unless this is some elaborate ploy to lure me to your lair, you’ve obviously got some strange sort of desire to see me through this place alive.”

Alfred bared his teeth, letting out an irritated puff of breath. “Leading you to my lair? You said you’ve heard the stories- surely you must have learned that I’m a wanderer. What use would I have for a lair?”

“How should I know the workings of a demon’s mind? Perhaps you keep some special spices for roasting humans in there or something!”

“Special spices?” Alfred’s voice sounded different as he spoke, and Arthur had the bizarre sense that the demon man was smiling, though he could not see his face. “I may not-”

Before Arthur could demand an explanation for the abrupt silence, he found himself being forced into a crouch by a large, gloved hand. Alfred stood protectively in front of him, body tense and alert, gaze flicking across the trunks ahead of them. The forest, so alive with sound and motion before, now seemed still and quiet. A shiver rolled down Arthur’s spine. “What is it?”

“Something is out there.” Alfred did not look down at him, merely stepped back a pace until his leg was nearly pressing against Arthur’s hunched shoulder. His head titled up, eyes narrowing, and his nostrils flared rapidly as he sniffed at the air. “Something whose scent I don’t recognize.”

Arthur nodded, not caring whether or not Alfred could see the gesture. His heart pulsed in his chest. “Do you think it’s a monster?” The question slipped from between his lips without his consent, and he frowned at its ridiculousness. Of course Alfred thought it was some kind of monster.

“I can’t be certain,” Alfred said, voice barely a whisper. “But I do know that we cannot stay here.” He grabbed Arthur’s arm and lifted the man back to his feet. His other hand maintained its firm grip on the wood of his longbow. “We need to move quickly and silently. Will you be able to stay close?”

Though he wanted to say yes, that of course he could keep pace, Arthur found himself shaking his head. “I’m not sure.” The trees before them rustled suddenly, as if something large were passing through them.

Alfred looked down at him, and Arthur’s breath stuttered as he met a gaze nearly as black as the night they had first encountered one another. “You will have to do your best. I won’t be able to fight if I must carry you. When I give the signal, run as though your life depends on it, do you understand?” His eyes slid back up to the trees as Arthur nodded. “Do not hesitate, and do not look back.”

Whatever creature hid in the leaves seemed to pause, the rustling of its movements fading. It was watching them, Arthur knew, and he hoped that it was not intelligent enough to understand their words. His pulse drummed a rhythm of fear through his body, every muscle waiting for Alfred’s signal to move. The sound of his breathing seemed to echo around them. Every second felt as though it were being drawn out in the stillness. Then Alfred’s hand was pressing against the center of his chest, thrusting him backwards with inhuman force and hissing between sharp teeth, “Run!”

Arthur staggered back at the power behind the shove, but he regained his footing and spun on his heel, darting into the trees. Every trunk appeared the same to him as he ran past. His instincts demanded he look back, to perhaps catch a glimpse of whatever creature they were fleeing, or at least to confirm that Alfred was close behind him, yet he forced his gaze to remain focused forward. He stumbled over a tree root that had escaped his attention, and a warm, gloved hand caught his arm and propelled him forward again. “Faster,” Alfred growled.

“I can’t,” Arthur attempted to snap back, but his breath was already catching in his throat at the exertion, and the only words that managed to gasp free were nearly incoherent. He had never run like this before, had never needed to during his days in the Order. Alfred’s grip tightened around his arm, fingers clenched hard enough to cause pain.

The forest erupted behind them. Branches rattled and snapped, trees groaning under the strain of allowing something large to pass between them, leaves and dirt took to the air in a flurry of noise. Arthur thought he might have heard the sound of wings, hundreds of feathers extending to take flight. It might only have been the sound of escape by the now silent birds. He did not dare look back to see.

“Faster!” Alfred barked. Arthur choked on his response, barely able to breathe. He was being pulled along, nearly dragged, his feet threatening to catch on any protrusion from the ground. His hand was beginning to numb at the force of Alfred’s grasp. A noise, quiet and strangled, escaped his throat, and his legs burned. He knew that could not keep running. He would have to slow down.

Black eyes met his, and without warning he found the smooth wood of a longbow pressed into his fingers, and his feet lifted off the forest floor. Arthur cried out in surprise and nearly dropped the longbow. But Alfred’s arms were strong and warm where they supported his knees and shoulders, and the ground seemed to fly beneath his boot clad feet, so Arthur did not complain. He clutched the bow tight to his chest. It was their only means of protection against whatever monster pursued them, save for the hunting knife strapped somewhere upon Alfred’s body, and now that Alfred’s arms were holding him, it was useless. His breathing was beginning to slow into normalcy, though his thoughts continued to race within his head. He lifted himself as much as he could to peer over Alfred’s broad shoulder.

The beast that chased them was huge indeed. He could not make out its exact form in the flickering light and shadow beneath the tree boughs, but its mass spread wide between the trunks. It did not move around each tree as Alfred did, instead forcing itself through them, sending branches and bark tumbling into the undergrowth. The ever-shifting sunlight glinted off of long white feathers. With every passing moment, the monster seemed to draw nearer. Arthur wound one hand into the leather of Alfred’s coat in order to keep himself upright. “It’s almost upon us!” he yelled into the man’s ear.

Alfred grunted in reply, and for the first time Arthur noticed the beads of sweat dripping down his brow. The man’s breath was strained, harsh between his clenched teeth. “Can you swim?” he gritted suddenly.

“What?” The question had caught Arthur off guard. “Swim?” The beast behind them crashed through another tree.

“Can you swim?” Alfred snapped again, his voice catching on the last word as he ducked down beneath a low hanging branch.

It might have been the blind fear on which his body was thrumming, or the confusion of the words and their pursuit, but Arthur found that he could not remember. “I don’t know. I don’t know!” His voice rose in panic, and he released his hold on Alfred’s jacket and fell heavily back against the man’s arm. His face pressed into the thick leather. It smelled of sweat and dirt and blood, and he twisted away to look forward once again.

Above him, he heard Alfred growl in what sounded like pain, but his gaze was fixed on the trees before them. The forest was coming to an end, and then all he could see was the wide, open expanse of sky. The ground seemed to simply fall away. Arthur’s lips opened in a gasp, and he called out words that may have been a prayer, or a curse, or a name. He could not even understand them. Alfred darted past the last line of trees, his feet hitting the ground once more, and jumped.

Arthur screamed. The air rushed past him as they fell, and his fingers wound tight in Alfred’s coat even as he held fast to the longbow. The cliff side rushed upwards alongside them. Alfred’s hands tightened their grip around Arthur’s body.

They hit the river with a resounding crash that was deafened immediately by the water rushing into Arthur’s ears, and whatever grip they held on one another was wrenched apart by the rapid current. Everything was dark with foam and the silhouettes of rocks. Arthur gagged on the water but did not inhale, and pushed himself towards what he hoped was the surface. His hand remained clenched around Alfred’s longbow as his legs struggled to kick against the churning flow that tried to spin him around. His chest burned with lack of breath, but he forced himself onwards.

His head broke the surface for barely an instant before the current dragged him under again. He pushed himself back up again, gasping for breath as the cool spring air hit his face, and grabbed onto the nearest rock to pull himself out of the water’s reach. He lay sprawled across it, ignoring the uneven surface that pressed uncomfortably into his body. The world smelled fresh and sweet, and after a moment he rolled onto his back, opening his eyes to stare at the sky.

A shadow hovered in front of the sun. Arthur scrambled into a seated position, holding the longbow close. The creature did not seem to be moving, content with merely watching from high above as those massive feathered wings slowly beat the air, and then it turned and flew back over the cliff, out of Arthur’s sight. Still, he did not move from his defensive hunch, eyes fixed on the place where it had vanished.

“Arthur?” The sound of his named being called, however hesitantly, drew him out of his shock. He uncurled his body, lifting himself to his feet as Alfred came into sight around the river bend.  He was dripping wet, hair matted to his head in some places and sticking out in others, as though he had run a hand through it. Arthur furrowed his brows. In that moment, Alfred looked so young, and so human.

They stood there, staring at each other, Alfred on the riverbank and Arthur perched upon a rock in the middle of the rapids. The silence between them was broken by Alfred, looking away at the rushing water. “So you do know how to swim.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose I do.” His hand clenched around the wood of the longbow, before he realized just what he was holding. “Oh, you must want this returned.” He extended the bow out over the river, surprised to feel just how heavy it was when his mind was not clouded by fear. He nearly had to grip it with his other hand to keep it from falling into the waters below.

“I… Yes.” The man frowned. “But would you not like to move onto dry land first?”

“Oh.” Arthur felt the warmth of a blush spread across his chilled face as he lowered his arms again. “That would be sensible.” His gaze found the river as well. “I suppose I’ll have to attempt to swim across, then.”

Alfred’s frown deepened. “Swim? The current will drag you under.” Carefully, slowly, as though he was not certain that his motion was safe, he held out his arms. “If you jump, I can catch you.”

The water splashed up against Arthur’s feet as he thought. Alfred’s arms were strong, and he had carried Arthur safely before. Yet he had also thrown himself off a cliff with seemingly no care towards his own wellbeing. “You will not drop me?”

“So long as you jump far enough.” Alfred leaned forward, reaching out further. The cool blue of the river below him seemed to dull in contrast with his eyes.

Arthur hesitated a moment longer. He had not known this man more than a day, but Alfred had already saved his life twice. “Very well,” he said stiffly, stepping back as far as he could on the rock without plunging into the water. The stone was smooth and slippery with foam. His hands wound tight around the bow he still clutched. He pushed forward, thrusting himself out over the rapids, and a brief flare of fear lit in his stomach as he felt his feet leave the ground. But then Alfred’s arms closed in around him, one hand seizing Arthur’s upper arm and the other grasping a handful of his tunic, and his body was pulled onto the grassy riverbank.

They drew apart from each other immediately, Alfred releasing his grip so that Arthur could move away. Arthur held out the longbow, and Alfred gently took it, careful not to touch Arthur’s hands. The silence lengthened.

“We should change out of these wet clothes,” Arthur murmured finally, his gaze focused upon the grass at his feet. “It would be easy to catch cold out here.” He did not look up to see if Alfred had agreed, and bent to unlace his boots and slide them off onto the ground. The air, though warmed somewhat by the sun’s rays, still held the chill of early spring. He pulled off his satchel, dropping it carelessly into the grass. The spare clothing inside would be as wet as the rest of him. His tunic and shirt followed, and it was only as he began to untie the lacings of his breeches that he looked up at Alfred again.

The man’s long coat lay spread upon the ground, a tunic and tattered shirt resting in a pile on top. Alfred stood with his back to Arthur, head bent as he appeared to fumble with the laces of his own breeches. His back was strong, taut and firm with the muscles of constant motion, but what drew Arthur’s eyes was not the tanned skin or broad shoulders. His eyes instead traced along the pattern of scars covering Alfred’s back. They were widely varied, some long and deep, gouging from a shoulder blade down beneath the waist of his breeches, some old, faint, barely visible amongst the others. Many extended down over the muscles of his arms, or appeared to delve below onto his hips and legs. After several long seconds, Alfred stiffened and turned to peer over his shoulder. Arthur scowled, averting his eyes, and continued to remove his breeches. They disrobed in complete silence, broken only by the burble of the river and the birdsong in the few trees that dotted the landscape.

Arthur lay his clothing out upon the grass in the sunlight. He had even emptied his wet satchel, spreading out his nightshirt and spare breeches. If luck was on his side, they would be dry before nightfall, and he would not have to worry about sleeping defenseless in the nude. He ignored the golden sun pendant, leaving it to settle in the bottom of the satchel. It felt strange, to be standing in the wild wearing naught but his own skin, yet there was something calming about the feeling. He crossed his arms across his chest and turned away from the river, staring out across the land. Rolling meadows spilled out before him. Tall grass shone in the daylight, overcast only in the areas where the tangled trees of the forest had managed to bloom. Far off on the horizon stood the cloudy, jagged peaks of the Anhael Mountains.

“Have you ever seen what lies beyond the mountains?” Arthur asked. He had not meant to, but once the words had slipped past his lips he found that he did not regret them. Behind him, he heard Alfred stir from whatever he had been doing.

“Past the Anhael? No. I’ve only climbed their roots, never high enough to see through the mist.” Alfred’s voice was soft, perhaps even wistful. “I’ve heard the stories, though.”

“So have I.” Arthur drew in a deep breath. “Well, I suppose we should make camp for the night. We can’t travel without any clothes.” He turned to face Alfred, and noted in a quick glance that the scars upon his back continued along his front as well, crossing over his chest and stomach. He did not let his eyes linger this time.

Alfred let out a sound of agreement and knelt to gather his longbow and quiver. “I’ll hunt something to eat. Start a fire while I’m gone.” He hesitated as he turned, before adding quietly, “My knife is with my tunic.” As silent as ever, he moved away across the fields.

Arthur watched his departure for a time, and then set off to gather whatever he could find to make a fire. The thought that Alfred had left him with his knife, with a weapon that could potentially be turned against him, refused to leave his mind, but he did not go and see if it was true. He focused on his task, quickly gathering enough twigs and bark to make a small fire. Only after he had managed to spark a flame did he venture over to Alfred’s clothing. It laid out several feet away from Arthur’s own, but much in the same fashion, and Arthur entertained the strange idea that Alfred might have actually copied him. It was a ridiculous thought. He brushed it aside.

The demon man’s tunic was roughly made, as though by untrained hands, and patched in various areas. Arthur gently lifted its hem. There lay the knife, sheath-less, long and glinting in the fading daylight. Alfred had not been lying. Arthur took it into his hands, careful of the blade, and ran his thumb across the handle. The weapon seemed to have been forged by an untrained smith as well, though it was obviously crafted with care.

The soft sound of a carcass being dropped to the ground startled him out of his reverie, and he twisted around, knife pointed out at whatever had surprised him. Alfred stood there, blue eyes cautious. Beside him lay the body of a large fox. “Are you going to put that down?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Arthur replied after a moment, and lowered his arms. He did not let go of the knife. “Is that all you could find?”

Alfred nodded, before turning to look at the fire Arthur had built. “That’s a very small flame,” he said, almost reproachfully.

Arthur’s lips dipped into a frown. “It was all I could find.” The minute the words left his mouth, he understood, and he could not help as his lips quirked up slightly. “Skin the bloody thing and get on with it,” he muttered to hide the smile.

“But you have the knife.”

All humor fled at once. Arthur looked down at his hands, still clutching the rough handle. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He could feel Alfred’s gaze upon him, watching, waiting to see what he would do. He paused, then slowly turned the knife around until the blade rested between his fingers, and held out the handle. “You’ll need this.”

“I will.” As though approaching a frightened animal, Alfred moved forward until his fingers could grasp the handle offered him. His hands were large and calloused, Arthur saw, now that his gloves were too damp to wear. His nails extended out into sharp points. The skin across every knuckle, along each finger, down his palm, and along the back of his hand was nearly white with scars. Arthur held back the questions that threatened to come bursting forth.

Quiet settled around them again as the fox roasted above the flames. Evening was descending, and it brought along with it the chill of night. Arthur drew his bare legs to his chest. He glanced at his clothing, still spread out upon the grass, and hoped that at least one piece would be dry enough to wear. To sleep naked in this cold would most certainly invite illness. His gaze slid across the fire to Alfred, and met a wide blue stare. “You’re shivering,” the demon man said.

Arthur frowned and wound his arms around his legs, pulling them even closer. He had not realized that he was shivering, but now that it had been said, he could feel his body trembling. “I am not used to sleeping outdoors.”

Alfred watched him a moment longer, before murmuring, “Your clothing should be dry now.” He reached into the midst of the small fire to press a clawed nail against the side of the fox, barely wincing at the flames. “Supper will be ready soon, if you want to clothe yourself.”

Their gazes held, before Arthur nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He strode over to where his clothing lay, away from the fire and the other man, and knelt down to press his hand against the cloth. The material of his tunic and shirt were still somewhat damp, but the spare breeches seemed dry. He slid them on. He could hear the river flowing over the rocks several feet in front of him, could make out the reflection of the sunset in the rushing waters, and he remembered the sensation of being submerged. As he stepped forward to look more closely, his foot brushed up against the wet cloth of his satchel. He bent down to it and reached inside to draw out the golden sun. The smooth paint reflected the sunset’s colors beautifully. Yet as he turned it in his hands, his fingers once again found the sole mar in its perfect surface. He frowned.

“Arthur,” a rough voice called from behind him. It was becoming familiar. “The fox is done.”

“Alright,” Arthur said. He shoved the pendant deep into the damp confines of his satchel, and turned back to the fire, where Alfred held out a strip of roasted meat in his scarred hand. Arthur sat down once more, warming his feet by the flames, and accepted the meager supper.

The sun set and the stars appeared in the wide open sky, and they ate in silence.