THE PRISONERS IN THE PALACE

Part Ten:

His hand still tingled from where she had kissed his palm.  He looked where she had

been lying, looked at his palm.  A vast sense of emptiness washed over him.  She, too,

had not been real.  He lay there, eyes closed, a long time, not moving.  She had been in

the room with him in the palace.  She was the only thing that had. But was the palace

even real?  He doubted it.  If she were not real, it was also likely not real. Was he still
somehow in the tunnel that led out from beneath the gladiator compound?  Was he

lying there dead...or possibly so severely wounded he had lost all sense of reality?

He remembered more than one time in his life when he'd been out of his head with fever

from  illness or as the result of some grave wound.   He didn't feel feverish, though. 

Moving his hand to his forehead, he encountered wolf fur on the way and opened his eyes. 

His cape.  He was wearing his cape again.  He didn't even need to look to know he was

dressed as General of the Felix Legions. 

Rolling onto his back, he stared straight up.  The elm was gone, replaced by a smaller,

more roughly-barked tree.  It was a pine, though vastly different than the tall, straight-

trunked ones of the forest he had fought in in Germania.  He got to his feet, looking

carefully about.  These pines stretched beyond the horizon, their many branches woven

together into a tight canopy, blocking out all sight of the sky.  A silvery-blue light hung

over everything, making the trees and even the grass have almost a moon-lit glow to them. 

The land was flat with just a small scattering of low shrubs.  What time of day was it?

He couldn't tell. 

He turned, noting an area of sand not far behind him, its shape a bit too regular not to

have been made by human hands. He frowned at it.  Why was it there?  It probably

didn't matter that it was there.  Did anything in this place really matter? A small scrap

of brighter color in this monotone world caught his eye near one edge of the sand so he

walked toward it. Why not?  What else did he have to do?

He knelt on one knee, using his hands to scoop away the soft sand and within moments

had uncovered Brianna's blue dress. Lifting it to his nose, he found it still smelled of

jasmine. The memory of her face floated clearly in front of his eyes. "Yes," she had said,

"I am real."  Then she was gone.  Still kneeling, he looked through the endless trees. Now

what?  Why was her dress here? Why buried?

Standing again, he kept his hand on the pommel of his sword.  After about 25 paces, he

found several strands of her blonde hair tangled in a shrub.  So, he was being led some

where. Did this mean she was real and had been taken, or that he was just being sent for

the pleasure it gave the gods to send him?  He looked up at the dense canopy. "How long

do you wish me to play your games?" he said, his voice deeper than usual.  An almost

unnatural silence was his reply, no singing of a single bird, no wind moving the branches, nothing. 

He decided to walk until he could no longer do it.  The pine forest went on, mile after

mile, always the same, always bathed in the silver-blue light.  There had been no further

trace of Brianna and the sameness of the trees soon had him losing all sense of distance

covered.  Still, he kept at it with a dogged determination.

He was surprised at how used he had gotten to her company.  She had been a pleasant companion, not overly-talkative, not given to the weaknesses or fears one might think to

find in so beautiful a woman.  He smiled slightly, remembering her in battle. "I owe you

my life," he said softly, as though she were real, could hear him. His mouth quirked in a

sudden, wry grin. "Or do I? Were those men even real?"  A scrape down one cheek and

a deep ache in his right wrist told him he had fought something, anyway. 

Pausing at a small stream, he removed his cape and gulped down the cool, fresh water.

Good! He had not drunk since...since...the cider this morning, there by the small temple.

Had he drunk?  He remembered the tart taste of the apples on his tongue. But was even

memory real?  He remained kneeling by the edge of the stream, watching the waters flow

past, they, too, the silver-blue.  He had no idea how long he stayed there, just watching,

but when he lifted his eyes he saw a large patch of sand not far across the stream. It was

the same patch.  He remembered the shape of it, how it was placed between two pines.

Oh, gods.  All this time, all this walking and he had made a complete circle. He felt

something heavy settling down through him, as though his body were filling with the

sand.  He was tired and had no idea where to go next. That sense of sand filling him

grew stronger and he began to feel choked with it, a certain panic for air rising in his

throat.  Quickly he dipped his hands in the stream, filling his mouth.  The water was

sliding down his throat. He knew it was, yet still that horror of sand was taking him.

His eyes snapped beyond the stream to the sand pit by the trees.  BRIANNA!  Half-

slipping, half-running he crossed the stream, falling heavily beside the sand, an urgent desperation filling his mind. She was here! He knew she was!  He clawed at the sand,
calling her name.  Not more than six inches down he found her face.  Frantically he

shoveled the sand away until he could slide his hands under her head, lifting it up. Her

lips were parted, her mouth filled with sand. His fingers probed, scooping it out.

"Breathe, Brianna!" he cried. "Breathe!"  There was just too much sand.  With one

powerful yank, he pulled her free, running with her to the stream, lying her on her

back and tipping her head to one side. Cupping his hands, he guided water into her

mouth, washing the sand away.  She gagged violently, her fingernails digging into his

arms as he held her head and she vomited.  The stream carried it away and he sat in

the water himself, cradling her, washing the remaining sand from her eyes and nose. 

Very, very tenderly he rinsed her eyes again and again, his fingers exploring her lashes

for remaining grains.  She lay quietly, not knowing what had happened, was happening,

only that he had her and was taking care of her.  For a moment she forgot about Sid,

forgot about everything but the familiar feeling that he had her. 

A spasm of coughing took her, though, and he sat her up, holding her until it passed. 

Her eyes opened and she saw her own legs, dressed in green tights. What?  Her blue

dress? She clutched at the tights, then looked up at Maximus. "D..Dress?"

He had not had time to think of it himself.  She was dressed in tones of green, some sort

of darker green tunic belted about her waist. He shook his head.  The dress had been in

the sand when she was not.  Where it was now he had no idea.

Then she saw a full quiver of arrows lying just to the side of the stream...and she knew,

God damn him, she knew! Sid had dressed her as Robin Hood.  She closed her eyes.  How

would she explain this to Maximus?

He looked back toward the sandpit, but it was gone. He was not surprised.  He wondered

if he would ever be surprised again. The pines were gone, replaced by maples, a thick bed

of leaves where the pit had been.  She grabbed the quiver as he lifted her, carrying her to

the leaves.  The silver-blueness was gone, superseded by a warm, starlit night.  Somehow

their clothes dried in the short distance between stream and leaf pile.  Still, when he had

settled her down, he fetched his cape to cover her, then sat beside her.  He didn't care

about the manner of trees, the colors of anything.  All he needed was to know if she were

real.

"You remember the path through the wheat...the rhino?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied softly, knowing where he was going, knowing she had no answers.

"We fell...under the elm, and the beast was gone."  She was silent so he continued.  "You...

were gone."

Still she did not reply.  "How? You were not in the sand and, much later, you were.

How?"

She sighed. She could be truthful with what she said.  "I don't know, Maximus. I was with

you and the next thing I knew you were pouring water into my mouth."   Everything

between was entirely blank. 

He touched her tunic.  "Why this?  Are these not man's clothes?"

"They are," she smiled,  Errol Flynn flashing through her mind to Korngold's theme

music. "Eng....er...in Britannia, there is a legend of a man who was the best archer of all. 

He wore green, so they say...like this."

He leaned back a little, thinking.  "So this is because of your bow?" he ventured.

"The gods must have a sense of humor," she said, borrowing one of his lines. 

One of his eyebrows lifted, recognizing it, but he let it pass. "It would seem we are to spend

the night in this place."

She nestled more deeply into the leaves.  Her teeth still felt slightly gritty.  You're going

to pay for this one, you monster.  She found herself addressing comments to their captor

even though he couldn't hear her thoughts. Or could he? 

"I am glad you are back," he murmured, settling beside her, stretching out  his tired legs,

"even if you are not real."

That startled her and she turned on her left side, facing him.  "I AM real, Maximus.  Just

as real as you are!"

He gazed at the stars.  "That is the problem, Brianna," he sighed.  "I am not sure of even

that."

A catch in her chest worse than the sand filled her at the sadness in his voice.  "Be sure

of one thing, Maximus," she said, her voice breaking as she leaned on one elbow, bending

over him.  "Be sure of this...."  Her lips found his, soft, light, warm...alive.

Tears stung his eyes at the touch of their moist warmth.  Closing his eyes, he parted his

own lips and let them return the pressure of hers.

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