Page 63 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

She grabbed both their packs, not bothering to collect their bedrolls and blankets, and the two set out quickly. It was difficult to climb in the dark. And even more difficult with their swords out and at the ready. They walked for a quarter hour, both barely managing to stay upright for more than a few paces. The ground on this part of the mountain was frozen over, making the walk more perilous than before.

“Get down!” Owain bellowed. He pushed Orla out of the way as a male in black leather armor charged from behind a nearby rock. Orla hit the ground, scrambling back from the lunging male as Owain brought his sword down on the assailant. As he fought, four more Elves in black emerged.

Orla got to her feet, blade at the ready, when they charged her. She dodged and wove away from their strikes, parrying their blades as she went. The clanging of the swords and the grunts of exertion became a cacophony in her mind. The sounds, her movements, their black leather armor all brought her back to Fontina.

She fought to stay present and not let her nerves overtake her, but her palms were becoming slick with sweat, and her vision was beginning to tunnel. It was as though she was being pulled out of her body, away from the present and back to the past. She tried to shake off the memories, but suddenly, the air around her felt as stuffy as that fateful day. She no longer felt snow under her feet but felt as though she was back on that muddy battleground. The cloying scent of blood stuck in her nose, making her gag.

It’s not real. I’m not there, I am here. She held onto the mantra as much as she was able, but the longer she battled her attackers, the more she felt herself slipping from the present.

She had fought against worse odds, but never in the midst of a nervous attack. She tried to raise her vines to bind the attackers but failed. She tried again and again, but she was worn down and exhausted.

Failure… Murderer… Fontina… Failure.

The familiar drum of the words echoed in her brain as she struggled to defend them.

To defend Owain.

She was failing him, just as she failed Rhyan.

Owain was battling against two of the foes in black. One of the males Orla recognized. Ser Oleander.

“The moment I saw you with him, I knew you were a traitorous bitch.” He spat as he lunged for her instead. Orla raised her blade in time to block him, but the blow knocked her off balance and she tripped. Owain saw her stumble and turned away from the male in front of him to reach for her just as Ser Oleander raised his blade. The move cost him. The male at his back charged forward, sinking his blade deep into Owain’s back.

Shock and panic rocketed through Orla as she saw the pain flash across Owain’s face. Owain twisted on the male, slashing him across his throat, nearly decapitating him.

Ser Oleander sneered down at her as she swung her blade towards his legs. The cuts weren’t deep, but they brought him to his knees.

The other Elves advanced on a wounded Owain as he fought to stay on his feet. So much blood was pooling from his back. Still, he fought, but he was moving so slowly now.

She moved; she had to get to him. She had to help. This couldn’t happen again. She couldn’t lose someone else she loved because she had been distracted. Because she hadn’t been fast enough.

But as she moved, another slash hit Owain. This time across his broad chest. As she continued towards him, she tripped, hitting the rocky ground hard. Looking back, she saw Ser Oleander gripping her leg, stopping her from getting to him. The male at her feet jabbed his dagger repeatedly into one of her calves, causing her to cry out. As she attempted to get away, she looked back at Owain.

Another slash, this time down one of his arms. Another, slicing across his abdomen. Blood ran in rivulets down his body as Orla screamed.

No. No. No. No.

“Owain!” She cried as his legs gave out, and he hit the ground facing her. Still, he was fighting, slashing his sword at his attacker while he tried to stand.

This couldn’t happen. Not him, not him too.

She looked into his pale blue eyes and saw something that scared her more than any of the blood and cuts running across his body. She saw resignation.

“Leave me, goddess,” he said weakly, rising to his feet as the two Elves circled him.

“Owain, no!”

She kicked Ser Oleander, trying to get him to release his grip on her. She twisted her body, swiping her own sword across his forearm, but he wouldn’t release her.

“It’s okay, Orla. Leave me. Please. Save yourself.”

Orla felt helpless as she watched Owain fight. She knew his wounds would be fatal, made worse by the fact that he couldn’t heal himself. They were both so weak and exhausted from their journey that their magic was depleted.

“Please. Orla, please. Don’t die for me,” he begged as he continued defending himself against attack. His movements were slowed, the snow around him had turned bright red from his blood. Owain was giving her a chance. If she could escape Ser Oleander’s hold on her, she could run. He wasn’t fighting for his life; he was fighting for hers.

Then it all happened in slow motion. Orla continued to scream, tears streaming down her face, as one of the attackers moved towards her, sword outstretched. The other surged towards Owain, angling for his neck. She felt it happen now as she had then. Rage and unending sadness coursed through her veins. She had only felt overwhelmed by these emotions once in her life: Fontina.

Power burst out of her. Only this time, it wasn’t uncontrolled, but a steady hum rising within her.