Point

Her side hurt, burning fire across her ribs as she limped slowly down the seemingly-endless stairwell. Silently, she cursed the mason who had built the castle; Had the man no regard for the sick when he put in so many blasted stairs? She sighed loudly, then groaned when the motion only caused her pain to flare sharply and forced her to double over.

Kit hated knife wounds.

Taking deep breaths, she waited until the pain had subsided and slowly straightened, continuing on her way more slowly this time. Already she could hear the voices outside in the courtyard, just beyond where the stairs spiraled to an end. That was her ultimate goal, but she’d be damned if the castle was not making her work for it. Never before had she realized just how confounded the elaborate structure truly was, and now she hated it. She had traversed three hallways, two flights of stairs, and a very large, very heavy doorway, effectively draining her energy by the time she had reached the final stretch of her destination. Even so, she kept walking, determined to defeat the worthy opponent that was the grand stairwell.

It was not until she was almost to the bottom that a voice sounded ahead of her, stern and angry.

“What are you doing?” Had she not already learned her lesson, Kitiana might have sighed in exasperation. She had worked far too hard to be stopped here when her goal was so close. Instead, she settled for rolling her eyes at the glowering prince before her.

“Admiring the architecture, can’t you tell?” Pain always made her a smartass. She attempted a smile but only managed a grimace, causing the scowl painting his broad features to deepen.

“Kitiana…”

“Risse.”

“You’re going back to bed.”

“Hardly.”

She half expected him to snarl at her and purposely schooled her features against his wrath. “You look ridiculous! You can barely stand,” he growled out, gesturing at her state of being.

It was true. Her knees felt like they would buckle any minute, her hands and legs trembling with the effort just to fight gravity. She had not bothered to bind her breasts or pull back her hair, wearing only a man’s tunic and a pair of leggings that settled at her hips, well enough below her wound. She had not even made an attempt for boots, walking barefoot on the cold marble of the floors and hoping she did not step on anything disagreeable. Kit was a mess that morning and she knew it.

Nevertheless…

“I’m not staying in that bed all day, Risse, and you’ll get one hell of a fight if you try to get me back there.” He would win hands down, but he would still get a fight; she was one hell of a fighter.

If the prince’s expression could have grown any blacker at that moment, it did, but he did not budge from his place before her. Together the two of them stood at an impass on the stairs, eyes locked.

Eventually, Kit lowered her gaze to the stairs, taking a shaky step down, “Well, if you’re going to just stand there, I’m going to go about my day.” Settling on the step, she worked at the next, blatantly ignoring the angry man.

Unfortunately for her, her strength failed her at that moment, pitching her forward and causing her to lose her already precarious grip on the banister. She was falling before she realized what had happened.

And then she was cradled in his arms, pillowed against his chest as he gently lowered them both down to the landing. Kit sighed softly this time. She had been so close…

“I don’t want to go back to bed,” she mumbled, whining like a child.

The only answer she was given was the shift of his arms as he lifted her and the retreating doorway as he carried her back up the stairwell and back to bed.   

~ by eeratka on February 14, 2007.