The Uncoupling - Part 3
“Have you ever been kissed by a bullet? It hurts a little more but brings the same blood to your lips.”
Joshua has just been shot. As he lies dying on the pharmacy floor, he worries about his older brother, Henry, who is dying a slow death in their home. He has no time to worry. He is dead.
But death is not the end.
Somehow, he Falls and when he wakes up, finds himself buried alive. After clawing his way out of the ground, he realises that something strange has happened.
Joshua has Fallen into another world: a world where he meets a man known as Stranger, who believes Joshua is the risen, and recently deceased, Prince of the Partlands, returned to reunite the warring city: torn by the Prince's assassination.
But this is Joshua's body... isn't it?
Struggling with his identity, the nightmares that plague him and the responsibility that he might have to save a Kingdom, Joshua must decide where his loyalties lie.
He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be a hero, he only wants to save Henry.
But when a mysterious woman who claims to be an old, forgotten God tells Joshua that people exist in many worlds at once, the possibility of saving Henry might exist at the heart of these strange lands.
Joshua must stand and face his fears, must travel to the end of the world to save his family, must face himself.
Can he change the fate of two worlds? Especially when Death wants Joshua back ...
He awakes to the sound of gunshots. Bewildered and confused, he stumbles out of bed dressed only in boxer shorts. In the light of the moon, he is a grim parody of Henry later in life. Translucent skin and wearing only boxer shorts. Finding his way downstairs in their rickety house in the dark has always been something of a talent for Joshua, his sleeping mind, as apparent by his sleepwalking, has mastered it as well as his waking one. He finds Henry sprawled out on the sofa, watching television. Something about the war. Joshua thinks this is a rare commodity; they both work too much and are too tired to watch it usually, when they are home together they talk which fills up the time between eating, sleeping and working.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Henry asks with a apologetic smile as he sees Joshua shamble into the room, rubbing his eyes.
“Mm. 'm cold,” Joshua replies sleepily. Henry beckons him over, shifts on the couch and lets Joshua curl up besides him. Joshua is fourteen, Henry is twenty four. There is a space between them, like two brothers on a hotel bed, but they are both used to giving and receiving comfort when one or the other, or both, needs it. Joshua knows when he is with Henry, he is a puzzle piece fitting in the correct place. He does not know anything else. Looping an arm around Joshua, Henry's fingertips rest gently on the boy's scars. He says nothing about them, though he often wants to, but instead smooths them, a habit he has picked up. Joshua smiles , already feeling sleep overcome him again. Tonight, he knows he will have no dreams of lighthouses - a reoccurring nightmare- and he will not sleepwalk. He is with his brother, he is warm and he is safe. Their lives, though sometime hard, sometimes tragic, are often only as perfect as this. Joshua sleeps.
-
As Joshua trod that thin line between sleep and wakefulness, between reality and memory, he became aware of a sensation: a deep, aching pain within his hands. He clenched them together, opened them. His eyes flickered open and he watched them carefully. Before, they were broken, claw like things. Disbelief bloomed within him as he tested them before his eyes. Now, the deep cuts were dim red, aged looking things; the gleam of bone he saw was now a horrible memory. His hands hurt, but nothing like before. Even his fingernails were better; not perfect, but not cracked, broken and bleeding. It was with that realisation he realised everything felt better, and although he dared not chance it, he thought he felt... invigorated. Even his thoughts felt faster, quicker. Stronger. It was as if someone had shed a light inside his body. If this was a dream, Joshua thought carefully, that did not mean that it wasn't happening. He looked at his hands again, which only a short time ago had been gaping wounds, but were now purple, narrowed eyes.
“Magic,” he whispered, but even mentioning it seemed foolish. There was one more theory; what happened to people after almost dying, that trapped them within dream-like states, unable to wake up? The word coma drifted through his mind like a dusty ghost, but Joshua pushed it down, threw it in a cage and buried it deep. There was a more pressing issue, a ghost that had been with him for longer: Henry.
Joshua stretched his limbs slowly, not wanting to strain himself. He explored gently with his fingers. The bruises on his legs had all but gone, the splinter marks from his chest had disappeared. That was good. The sand felt hot on his back, and when he climbed to his feet and wrapped the death shroud around him (one thing that chilled him even in the heat), the man in black approached him. Joshua had not heard him, and he looked downwards at the floor.
“I passed out?”
The man in black made a noise in the back of his throat, Joshua raised his eyes to meet the man's and then he nodded.
“Do you feel any better, my Prince?”
It was Joshua's turn to nod, and as he did he felt something within his mind. He thought it had been there all along: A shard, or a bullet, buried deep within, lower than bones. It was something to think about later.
“Why do you keep calling me Prince?”
The man in black frowned. “Because that is what you are.” The tone indicated no discussion, it was said in a deadpan monotone and Joshua felt the man's gaze turn from displeasure to a hardened distrust.
“Oh,” was all he could muster.
“It is time we left this place, Prince. We must return to the city, your city,” The man in black said after a thick silence passed between them. “Your people need you.”
“My people?”
“They need saving from themselves, your majesty.”
“But.... But I only want to save Henry.”
The man in black glared at him, he looked frustrated, tired and confused. “Who is Henry?”
“My brother.”
“But you don't have a brother, my Prince.”
“Stop calling me that!” Joshua barked, unaware of his anger until it rose in his throat. “Where am I? What is this place? Who are you!?”
For a moment, Joshua thought the man was about to hit him, his large hands curled into fists but then, after a deep breath (counting to 10? Joshua thought) the moment passed like a shadow.
“You have been... displaced. You are confused, I understand.”
But Joshua didn't understand, not at all. “I-I died, that's what you call displaced?”
The man's eyes clouded, darkened like a thunder head and he turned his back to Joshua and began to walk away.
“What's your name!” Joshua called after him, and then began to follow him. He was dumb but he wasn't stupid, where else could he go? “And how do I get back!”
The man stopped, looked towards the skies. “If you do not know me, call me Stranger until you can remember. I do not know why you want to return to the grave, you are home now, Prince.”
-
They walked, and walked, and walked.
“Where are we going?” Joshua asked once, not expecting an answer. Stranger pointed towards the skyline, and Joshua could vaguely see a shape.
“A city?”
Stranger nodded, and that was that. The sand turned to grass, which turned to dirt, which eventually turned into what Joshua could only describe as a brick road. A yellow brick road. Joshua was going to ask Stranger about this, wanted to make a joke about seeing a wizard, wanted to know if the Wizard of Oz even existed in this world, but the man was being obtuse; whenever Joshua asked anything, he answered with yes or no responses if possible. He wanted to know what he had done to upset him; but then he thought of the way the man's eyes had dulled then flared with anger when he didn't recognise him, the way he caught the man looking at him when he thought Joshua was looking, and fragments of memories that he didn't think were his own. Stranger was hurting. Joshua was surprised; he wanted to help, but he could not give him the answers he wanted. Whoever this Prince was, Joshua was not him.
*
Eventually, trees began to appear around them. Joshua did not notice their arrival until they were surrounded, thick leafy branches stretched out above them, hiding the night sky. Joshua could have sworn he saw more than one sun earlier in the day, but when he asked Stranger about it, he just snorted and said nothing. It was beginning to annoy him. Although his wounds, aches and pains were lessened, there was a burning in his thighs and feet from walking, and when he delicately pointed this out, Stranger was not pleased.
“I was hoping to make it back to Midgard by nightfall, but I clearly overestimated you, Prince.”
Joshua did not bother to correct him; that was annoying him too. Instead, he nodded and glanced around them. The woods were dark and deep, and Joshua did not want to be alone. He could hear nothing but his and Stranger's breathing and the rustle of leaves. “Will we be safe here?”
Stranger looked at him, sincerely, and nodded. “You are with me, of course you are safe.” Joshua nodded, and was shocked to find he was comforted by those words. Although they were different by worlds, he was beginning to realise that Stranger had a similar presence as Henry; mysterious and reassuring.
They found a clearing, which was as silent as everywhere else. It made Joshua nervous, but Stranger seemed content. He gathered firewood and made a pile of it, and then began to sit down besides it.
“Do you have any matches?” Joshua asked him lightly, the man had done nothing since collecting the branches. He was replied with a withering stare, and the man opened his palm. There was a strange feeling in the air, like electricity and ozone, and a flame burst into life on Stranger's hand. The sight of the fire, the unexpectedness of it made Joshua's body flush an icy cold, his heart miss a beat and suddenly he was covered in a cold sweat. He did everything but jump away. He wanted to scream, to run. His scars felt alive: like squirming maggots beneath his skin.
“Are you okay?” Stranger asked, flames crackling away on his fingertips. He directed them at the wood and the fire jumped from his outstretched hand to the lumber, and ate at it happily. Immediately, Joshua felt warmth wash over him like a blanket, but he could not keep his eyes off of the fire. He was scared.... scared that it would jump to him.
“I just don't like fire, that's all,” he whispered, shuddering. “H-How did you do that? Is it magic?”
Stranger snorted, crouched down and stared directly in to Joshua's eyes. “Prince, what has happened to you?”
“I'm not your Prince,” Joshua said wearily, pulling the shroud around him tighter. When the hulking man was so close to him, it made him realise just how naked he was.
“You don't think you are, do you?”
Joshua shook his head.
“Then why were you in his grave?”
“Did your Prince have these scars, Stranger?” Joshua ventured, holding his arm up where the flames lit them up. Once upon a time, it was a smooth arm and the flames really did take to it.
Stranger hesitated, and Joshua saw through him and how scared, how worried he was. And then the expression disappeared and he began to think he imagined it.
“He did not,” Stranger said quietly.
“Then how do you explain them?”
“I-” Stranger hesitated, and then a fury appeared on his face like a thunder head. “Trickery,” he said finally.
“Why would I trick yo-” Joshua was interrupted as a dirty hand clamped over his face and he was dragged onto his feet, he shouted into the palm but only a muffled cry emerged, he clamped his hands on the shroud and shivered against whoever held him. His eyes sought out Stranger - HELP ME! - but he saw the man struggling with his own assailant. There was a flash of steel (and red?) and the taller man held a blade against Stranger's throat.
“What've we got 'ere?” A voice hissed in Joshua's ear, it was hot and stunk. “You look a wee familiar little boy.”
“Leave him!” Stranger thundered, even Joshua felt intimidated. It was the voice of a fighter, but the grunt that followed was not as the man holding Stranger delivered a swift and heavy hit to his kidneys.
“No!” Joshua whispered into the forest, the man behind him had moved his hand and was gripping his throat in a vice grip. “No.”
“I thinks you're a Shade, little boy.”
The man holding Stranger giggled shrilly - an absurd sound - and pressed the blade hard against Stranger's throat. Even in the firelight, Joshua could see a thin trickle of blood: like a tear-drop.
“And I think you're -” The man holding Stranger muttered, “One of those mancers, raising the dead?” He tutted against Stranger's ear. “Defiling the body of our beloved Prince?” The man dragged Stranger towards Joshua, close enough, and then spat in the boy's face. Joshua's skin crawled.
“I'd advise you to let us go, and perhaps you'll leave with most of your limbs,” Stranger said darkly, his voice was still thunder and Joshua watched as the fire began to dwindle and die.
“Or, we kill you and take your bodies to Midgard,” The man behind Joshua muttered - squeezing Joshua's neck tightly - “They pay pretty good for scum like you.”
“You would hand in your own Prince?” Stranger asked, wincing as another tear of blood was opened in his neck.
“The Prince is dead. Everyone knows that,” Stranger's captor said. Joshua watched Stranger's eyes as the firelight died; so did a spark within them.
“I warned you,” Stranger said simply. And then a great many things happened at once. Stranger threw back his head - Joshua shouted something at him as he saw another bloom of blood - and the man holding him let out a howl of pain as his nose split and broke. Stranger twisted in the man's grip, slipped out from under it and spun and his boot connected with the man's chest who went wind milling to the ground - Joshua's attacker was shouting in his ear and gripping for something behind him, another sword maybe, but Joshua copied Stranger; launched his head back. The only crack was Joshua's skull as fireworks exploded in front of his vision - the man grunted and pushed Joshua hard, he stumbled over his shroud and tumbled to the floor, fireworks surrounding him and fresh wounds opened on his knees. He glanced upwards and somewhere in his vision he saw Stranger grappling with the man over his sword; Joshua's captor was shambling forwards towards him, a wicked looking knife in his hand and a similarly bladed smile on his face. Joshua saw the tip of it enter his chest, through his heart and felt another death.
No. That would not be the way. He kicked out hard with his bare feet, met the man's knee and there was a sickening crack like a thunderclap, the man screamed - not shouted but screamed - and Joshua saw his leg bend in a way that was impossible. He did not drop the knife, instead he brought it down hard as he fell towards Joshua - he saw it in slow motion, the knife arcing and meeting him in the same spot as the bullet - but then there was a silver streak and something hit the man in the neck, knocking him in a lifeless heap besides Joshua. Inches away. The fireworks were disappearing, leaving a ocean of pain in his head, and Joshua's stomach roiled as he saw that from the man's neck jutted a sword; Stranger's sword. With a sinking realisation, he spun around and watched as the surviving man punched Stranger once in the face - he fell to the floor - and raised his sword, it was not a graceful act but one that guaranteed a swift death. Joshua searched and found Stranger's eyes, in his mind he saw the man throwing his only weapon and saving Joshua, and the man stared wearily back at him: blood made a mask over his face.
The glint of the sword: The relief in Stranger's eyes: The drumming of blood through Joshua's veins.
“LEAVE HIM!” A voice roared from Joshua's mouth - a voice distinctly not his, but Joshua knew who it was. The remains of the firewood exploded into flames and spat ash and sparks high into the air. It had turned into a roaring pillar of flame. Joshua screamed but it was not he who was in control any more; The Prince threw out his hands, palm facing, and something like a spear shot launched itself out, quieter than a shadow and whistled through the air. The man holding the sword was knocked backwards like a rag doll, hit a tree with a superhuman crack and fell to the floor. He twitched, once, twice, and then all was silent. The fire had already gone out. Sparks fell like rain.
As Joshua fell to the floor, arms were already in place to catch him, like towers. He was back in control but had no breath, even his blood felt tired.
“Prince?” He heard a whisper.
“No,” he managed to whisper back. And then he was back with the darkness.
Joshua has just been shot. As he lies dying on the pharmacy floor, he worries about his older brother, Henry, who is dying a slow death in their home. He has no time to worry. He is dead.
But death is not the end.
Somehow, he Falls and when he wakes up, finds himself buried alive. After clawing his way out of the ground, he realises that something strange has happened.
Joshua has Fallen into another world: a world where he meets a man known as Stranger, who believes Joshua is the risen, and recently deceased, Prince of the Partlands, returned to reunite the warring city: torn by the Prince's assassination.
But this is Joshua's body... isn't it?
Struggling with his identity, the nightmares that plague him and the responsibility that he might have to save a Kingdom, Joshua must decide where his loyalties lie.
He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be a hero, he only wants to save Henry.
But when a mysterious woman who claims to be an old, forgotten God tells Joshua that people exist in many worlds at once, the possibility of saving Henry might exist at the heart of these strange lands.
Joshua must stand and face his fears, must travel to the end of the world to save his family, must face himself.
Can he change the fate of two worlds? Especially when Death wants Joshua back ...
He awakes to the sound of gunshots. Bewildered and confused, he stumbles out of bed dressed only in boxer shorts. In the light of the moon, he is a grim parody of Henry later in life. Translucent skin and wearing only boxer shorts. Finding his way downstairs in their rickety house in the dark has always been something of a talent for Joshua, his sleeping mind, as apparent by his sleepwalking, has mastered it as well as his waking one. He finds Henry sprawled out on the sofa, watching television. Something about the war. Joshua thinks this is a rare commodity; they both work too much and are too tired to watch it usually, when they are home together they talk which fills up the time between eating, sleeping and working.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Henry asks with a apologetic smile as he sees Joshua shamble into the room, rubbing his eyes.
“Mm. 'm cold,” Joshua replies sleepily. Henry beckons him over, shifts on the couch and lets Joshua curl up besides him. Joshua is fourteen, Henry is twenty four. There is a space between them, like two brothers on a hotel bed, but they are both used to giving and receiving comfort when one or the other, or both, needs it. Joshua knows when he is with Henry, he is a puzzle piece fitting in the correct place. He does not know anything else. Looping an arm around Joshua, Henry's fingertips rest gently on the boy's scars. He says nothing about them, though he often wants to, but instead smooths them, a habit he has picked up. Joshua smiles , already feeling sleep overcome him again. Tonight, he knows he will have no dreams of lighthouses - a reoccurring nightmare- and he will not sleepwalk. He is with his brother, he is warm and he is safe. Their lives, though sometime hard, sometimes tragic, are often only as perfect as this. Joshua sleeps.
-
As Joshua trod that thin line between sleep and wakefulness, between reality and memory, he became aware of a sensation: a deep, aching pain within his hands. He clenched them together, opened them. His eyes flickered open and he watched them carefully. Before, they were broken, claw like things. Disbelief bloomed within him as he tested them before his eyes. Now, the deep cuts were dim red, aged looking things; the gleam of bone he saw was now a horrible memory. His hands hurt, but nothing like before. Even his fingernails were better; not perfect, but not cracked, broken and bleeding. It was with that realisation he realised everything felt better, and although he dared not chance it, he thought he felt... invigorated. Even his thoughts felt faster, quicker. Stronger. It was as if someone had shed a light inside his body. If this was a dream, Joshua thought carefully, that did not mean that it wasn't happening. He looked at his hands again, which only a short time ago had been gaping wounds, but were now purple, narrowed eyes.
“Magic,” he whispered, but even mentioning it seemed foolish. There was one more theory; what happened to people after almost dying, that trapped them within dream-like states, unable to wake up? The word coma drifted through his mind like a dusty ghost, but Joshua pushed it down, threw it in a cage and buried it deep. There was a more pressing issue, a ghost that had been with him for longer: Henry.
Joshua stretched his limbs slowly, not wanting to strain himself. He explored gently with his fingers. The bruises on his legs had all but gone, the splinter marks from his chest had disappeared. That was good. The sand felt hot on his back, and when he climbed to his feet and wrapped the death shroud around him (one thing that chilled him even in the heat), the man in black approached him. Joshua had not heard him, and he looked downwards at the floor.
“I passed out?”
The man in black made a noise in the back of his throat, Joshua raised his eyes to meet the man's and then he nodded.
“Do you feel any better, my Prince?”
It was Joshua's turn to nod, and as he did he felt something within his mind. He thought it had been there all along: A shard, or a bullet, buried deep within, lower than bones. It was something to think about later.
“Why do you keep calling me Prince?”
The man in black frowned. “Because that is what you are.” The tone indicated no discussion, it was said in a deadpan monotone and Joshua felt the man's gaze turn from displeasure to a hardened distrust.
“Oh,” was all he could muster.
“It is time we left this place, Prince. We must return to the city, your city,” The man in black said after a thick silence passed between them. “Your people need you.”
“My people?”
“They need saving from themselves, your majesty.”
“But.... But I only want to save Henry.”
The man in black glared at him, he looked frustrated, tired and confused. “Who is Henry?”
“My brother.”
“But you don't have a brother, my Prince.”
“Stop calling me that!” Joshua barked, unaware of his anger until it rose in his throat. “Where am I? What is this place? Who are you!?”
For a moment, Joshua thought the man was about to hit him, his large hands curled into fists but then, after a deep breath (counting to 10? Joshua thought) the moment passed like a shadow.
“You have been... displaced. You are confused, I understand.”
But Joshua didn't understand, not at all. “I-I died, that's what you call displaced?”
The man's eyes clouded, darkened like a thunder head and he turned his back to Joshua and began to walk away.
“What's your name!” Joshua called after him, and then began to follow him. He was dumb but he wasn't stupid, where else could he go? “And how do I get back!”
The man stopped, looked towards the skies. “If you do not know me, call me Stranger until you can remember. I do not know why you want to return to the grave, you are home now, Prince.”
-
They walked, and walked, and walked.
“Where are we going?” Joshua asked once, not expecting an answer. Stranger pointed towards the skyline, and Joshua could vaguely see a shape.
“A city?”
Stranger nodded, and that was that. The sand turned to grass, which turned to dirt, which eventually turned into what Joshua could only describe as a brick road. A yellow brick road. Joshua was going to ask Stranger about this, wanted to make a joke about seeing a wizard, wanted to know if the Wizard of Oz even existed in this world, but the man was being obtuse; whenever Joshua asked anything, he answered with yes or no responses if possible. He wanted to know what he had done to upset him; but then he thought of the way the man's eyes had dulled then flared with anger when he didn't recognise him, the way he caught the man looking at him when he thought Joshua was looking, and fragments of memories that he didn't think were his own. Stranger was hurting. Joshua was surprised; he wanted to help, but he could not give him the answers he wanted. Whoever this Prince was, Joshua was not him.
*
Eventually, trees began to appear around them. Joshua did not notice their arrival until they were surrounded, thick leafy branches stretched out above them, hiding the night sky. Joshua could have sworn he saw more than one sun earlier in the day, but when he asked Stranger about it, he just snorted and said nothing. It was beginning to annoy him. Although his wounds, aches and pains were lessened, there was a burning in his thighs and feet from walking, and when he delicately pointed this out, Stranger was not pleased.
“I was hoping to make it back to Midgard by nightfall, but I clearly overestimated you, Prince.”
Joshua did not bother to correct him; that was annoying him too. Instead, he nodded and glanced around them. The woods were dark and deep, and Joshua did not want to be alone. He could hear nothing but his and Stranger's breathing and the rustle of leaves. “Will we be safe here?”
Stranger looked at him, sincerely, and nodded. “You are with me, of course you are safe.” Joshua nodded, and was shocked to find he was comforted by those words. Although they were different by worlds, he was beginning to realise that Stranger had a similar presence as Henry; mysterious and reassuring.
They found a clearing, which was as silent as everywhere else. It made Joshua nervous, but Stranger seemed content. He gathered firewood and made a pile of it, and then began to sit down besides it.
“Do you have any matches?” Joshua asked him lightly, the man had done nothing since collecting the branches. He was replied with a withering stare, and the man opened his palm. There was a strange feeling in the air, like electricity and ozone, and a flame burst into life on Stranger's hand. The sight of the fire, the unexpectedness of it made Joshua's body flush an icy cold, his heart miss a beat and suddenly he was covered in a cold sweat. He did everything but jump away. He wanted to scream, to run. His scars felt alive: like squirming maggots beneath his skin.
“Are you okay?” Stranger asked, flames crackling away on his fingertips. He directed them at the wood and the fire jumped from his outstretched hand to the lumber, and ate at it happily. Immediately, Joshua felt warmth wash over him like a blanket, but he could not keep his eyes off of the fire. He was scared.... scared that it would jump to him.
“I just don't like fire, that's all,” he whispered, shuddering. “H-How did you do that? Is it magic?”
Stranger snorted, crouched down and stared directly in to Joshua's eyes. “Prince, what has happened to you?”
“I'm not your Prince,” Joshua said wearily, pulling the shroud around him tighter. When the hulking man was so close to him, it made him realise just how naked he was.
“You don't think you are, do you?”
Joshua shook his head.
“Then why were you in his grave?”
“Did your Prince have these scars, Stranger?” Joshua ventured, holding his arm up where the flames lit them up. Once upon a time, it was a smooth arm and the flames really did take to it.
Stranger hesitated, and Joshua saw through him and how scared, how worried he was. And then the expression disappeared and he began to think he imagined it.
“He did not,” Stranger said quietly.
“Then how do you explain them?”
“I-” Stranger hesitated, and then a fury appeared on his face like a thunder head. “Trickery,” he said finally.
“Why would I trick yo-” Joshua was interrupted as a dirty hand clamped over his face and he was dragged onto his feet, he shouted into the palm but only a muffled cry emerged, he clamped his hands on the shroud and shivered against whoever held him. His eyes sought out Stranger - HELP ME! - but he saw the man struggling with his own assailant. There was a flash of steel (and red?) and the taller man held a blade against Stranger's throat.
“What've we got 'ere?” A voice hissed in Joshua's ear, it was hot and stunk. “You look a wee familiar little boy.”
“Leave him!” Stranger thundered, even Joshua felt intimidated. It was the voice of a fighter, but the grunt that followed was not as the man holding Stranger delivered a swift and heavy hit to his kidneys.
“No!” Joshua whispered into the forest, the man behind him had moved his hand and was gripping his throat in a vice grip. “No.”
“I thinks you're a Shade, little boy.”
The man holding Stranger giggled shrilly - an absurd sound - and pressed the blade hard against Stranger's throat. Even in the firelight, Joshua could see a thin trickle of blood: like a tear-drop.
“And I think you're -” The man holding Stranger muttered, “One of those mancers, raising the dead?” He tutted against Stranger's ear. “Defiling the body of our beloved Prince?” The man dragged Stranger towards Joshua, close enough, and then spat in the boy's face. Joshua's skin crawled.
“I'd advise you to let us go, and perhaps you'll leave with most of your limbs,” Stranger said darkly, his voice was still thunder and Joshua watched as the fire began to dwindle and die.
“Or, we kill you and take your bodies to Midgard,” The man behind Joshua muttered - squeezing Joshua's neck tightly - “They pay pretty good for scum like you.”
“You would hand in your own Prince?” Stranger asked, wincing as another tear of blood was opened in his neck.
“The Prince is dead. Everyone knows that,” Stranger's captor said. Joshua watched Stranger's eyes as the firelight died; so did a spark within them.
“I warned you,” Stranger said simply. And then a great many things happened at once. Stranger threw back his head - Joshua shouted something at him as he saw another bloom of blood - and the man holding him let out a howl of pain as his nose split and broke. Stranger twisted in the man's grip, slipped out from under it and spun and his boot connected with the man's chest who went wind milling to the ground - Joshua's attacker was shouting in his ear and gripping for something behind him, another sword maybe, but Joshua copied Stranger; launched his head back. The only crack was Joshua's skull as fireworks exploded in front of his vision - the man grunted and pushed Joshua hard, he stumbled over his shroud and tumbled to the floor, fireworks surrounding him and fresh wounds opened on his knees. He glanced upwards and somewhere in his vision he saw Stranger grappling with the man over his sword; Joshua's captor was shambling forwards towards him, a wicked looking knife in his hand and a similarly bladed smile on his face. Joshua saw the tip of it enter his chest, through his heart and felt another death.
No. That would not be the way. He kicked out hard with his bare feet, met the man's knee and there was a sickening crack like a thunderclap, the man screamed - not shouted but screamed - and Joshua saw his leg bend in a way that was impossible. He did not drop the knife, instead he brought it down hard as he fell towards Joshua - he saw it in slow motion, the knife arcing and meeting him in the same spot as the bullet - but then there was a silver streak and something hit the man in the neck, knocking him in a lifeless heap besides Joshua. Inches away. The fireworks were disappearing, leaving a ocean of pain in his head, and Joshua's stomach roiled as he saw that from the man's neck jutted a sword; Stranger's sword. With a sinking realisation, he spun around and watched as the surviving man punched Stranger once in the face - he fell to the floor - and raised his sword, it was not a graceful act but one that guaranteed a swift death. Joshua searched and found Stranger's eyes, in his mind he saw the man throwing his only weapon and saving Joshua, and the man stared wearily back at him: blood made a mask over his face.
The glint of the sword: The relief in Stranger's eyes: The drumming of blood through Joshua's veins.
“LEAVE HIM!” A voice roared from Joshua's mouth - a voice distinctly not his, but Joshua knew who it was. The remains of the firewood exploded into flames and spat ash and sparks high into the air. It had turned into a roaring pillar of flame. Joshua screamed but it was not he who was in control any more; The Prince threw out his hands, palm facing, and something like a spear shot launched itself out, quieter than a shadow and whistled through the air. The man holding the sword was knocked backwards like a rag doll, hit a tree with a superhuman crack and fell to the floor. He twitched, once, twice, and then all was silent. The fire had already gone out. Sparks fell like rain.
As Joshua fell to the floor, arms were already in place to catch him, like towers. He was back in control but had no breath, even his blood felt tired.
“Prince?” He heard a whisper.
“No,” he managed to whisper back. And then he was back with the darkness.