Pan was off and running through another festival, dancing through the meadow with his basket in hand, picking the most beautiful flowers he could find. Around his neck, an otter draped like a cape, chittering happily as he lounged in the dappled spring sunlight, braiding little bits of blossom into Pan’s long cream-hued mane. The boy laughed merrily as he waved to strangers and friends alike, taking great joy in the company of others, and greater joy in the fact that winter snows had melted at long last.
He weaves in and out of the Terrestellan’s planted rows of flowers, retrieving some wild plants along with his bouquet, venturing further than he probably should into the field. There was just too much to see, he decided, wanting to know everything there was to know about the foreign land. His curiosity edged ahead of him as he brushed through tall grasses, weaving his way to a tall bunch of Wraithgrass with interest – for the plant was nearly as tall as he was, and looked to be furry to the touch.
No one was around the boy to warn him as he reached out to touch it, leaping back as trichomes stung him at the site and he released a howl of confused pain. He stumbles away from the grass, the stinging lingering as muscles began to bunch around the place where he had touched the grass. They roiled and twisted, seeming to contract and release at random, the pain of it rendering him unable to walk as he stumbles toward a clearing in the trees.
Tears sting at his eyes as his stomach begins to churn, almost as if he had eaten something which made him sick, but there seemed to be no relief in sight. Oliver… find… help…. Pan whimpered as he curled his body into itself, closing his eyes tightly to avoid the flash of colors which edged at his vision, even as the world seemed to roar around him. With a chirrup of concern, the otter scampered away, eager to find help for his scaled friend from anyone who might be able to shed some light on his strange predicament.
THE PRICE OF ANYTHING
IS THE AMOUNT OF LIFE YOU EXCHANGE FOR IT
Pravda’s curiosity has been piqued by Terrastella’s noble families; the artists and scholars. He had been promised an audience at the De Clare’s estate, but they had cancelled last second. As a result, he found himself returning irritably to Delumine. He might have made it, if not for the displaced otter.
Oliver finds him walking leisurely through the chest-high grass. At first, Pravda starts—he does not expect to see a wild animal so bold. It takes him a moment to discern that, perhaps, the creature is not wild at all—but someone’s Bonded.
He might have continued on if not for the animal’s strange behavior. He incessantly leaps upon Pravda’s legs; until the stallion glances down and pays him greater mind. At that point, he turns sharply and begins to bound through the tall, thick grass. Pravda might have turned away, if not for the way the otter glanced back to see if he were following.
Prigovora, meanwhile, cuts through the grass as surely as a scythe behind him. Pravda mentally restrains the raptor from making a meal of the other animal—the two of them walk side-by-side after Oliver until they happen upon Pan, among his basket of scattered flowers beneath the shade of several trees.
“Oh,” Pravda exclaims, rather grimly. “Oh, my. Do you know what you touched? Did you eat it?” The other looks exceedingly young, and normal save for his behavior.
Prigovora has sharpened considerably; he stares at Pan with ravenous eyes, but Pravda steps forward, blocking the raptor’s view. “I’m Pravda—please, let me help you. But I have to know what it is that's doing this.”
Pravda attempts to discern from he muted leaves and flowers left in the dirt; but he is not familiar with the area. The mere thought of reaching the hospital is daunting. The symptoms seem vaguely familiar, as if he has read something on them. Perhaps it is the adrenaline getting the best of him, but Pravda cannot call to mind the name of what it may be.
Pan had never felt so awful. As he lay prone in the grass, the world seemed to spin and roar around him. A kaleidoscope of colors haunted his vision, and when he closed his eyes, the images grew worse. Gnashing teeth. Yellow eyes. Dancing demons. His skin seemed to crawl with fire one moment and then with the itch of thousands of marching locusts the next. And despite his prayers to any god who would listen, there seemed to be no reprieve.
Oliver was gone for far too long – it could have been hours, though in fact it was mere minutes before the chortling creature was back at his side, brushing against him at all angles and hoping to chase away the pain. Pan moaned, pushing him away as sweat covered his body, as much from fear as from fever. He blinked up at Pravda, hearing his voice but seeing his face swimming far above. He may as well have been speaking another language, for the words were jumbled, though edged with concern.
The scaled boy tried to concentrate harder, making out a few questions then. Didn’t… eat… he tried to remember, but couldn’t think of anything with poison that he may have consumed. Pieces of memory come back to him then… the tall grass, with its fluffy tops. Others had often told Pan that his curiosity would get the best of him. Maybe he should have just left it alone. Grass… it looked so soft… His voice is a mumble, as he sighs and wills away the confusion as much as he could.
Was this was it was like to die, Pan wondered? If he could, he would have retched again and again, but even as he chokes on the bile which rises in his chest, no relief comes. He tries to focus again on the black and white stallion, but instead finds himself staring at Prigovora. Is that… it looked like one of the demons in his vision. Is that a dinosaur? He laughs incredulously, though the sound is weak and half hearted as he shivers with a sudden spasm of chills, too frail to stand and greet the stranger and his even stranger pet.
THE PRICE OF ANYTHING
IS THE AMOUNT OF LIFE YOU EXCHANGE FOR IT
There is a large difference between reading about illness in books and experiencing it firsthand. Pravda does not have an organic interest in medicine; instead, he has always felt it is is something he should know about versus something he wants to know about.
Didn’t eat—grass…it looked so… soft… The boy’s words are hardly eligible. Pravda clears his throat and finds himself pacing almost hurriedly alongside where Pan has collapsed—and yet, the movement is worthless, and more a nervous tic then anything productive. “Soft?” Pravda repeats. He is thinking of the botany book he read most recently—Novus plants… those that are toxic, and poisonous….
The answer is on the tip of his tongue, but he feels as if time is of the essence. Is… is that a dinosaur? the boy asks, and then laughs.
“Yes,” Pravda answers, glancing at Prigovora. The raptor is salivating long strands as he gazes at the boy and his companion, but Pravda mentally chastises him. Then, the boy is overtaken by a sudden spasm. “Oh—oh no. There’s no way you can stand, is there?” Pravda asks. They are not that far from the Court, and medical attention, but—
“Prigovora,” Pravda says aloud. “I need you to run to the hospital, as quickly as possible, and get help..”
The raptor, although unenthusiastic, turns away with a reptilian hiss and slips through the grasses with rapid speed.
“Try to focus on breathing,” Pravda instructs. “The grass—it was soft. As in, it had soft tips?”
Pan was finding it difficult to focus, more difficult as the time continued to tick slowly by. With every ragged breath, there was a bite of fire that stung at his lungs, as if they were crawling to escape his own body. His breathing is shallow then and rushed, for this was the only way he could breathe through the pain. Try to focus on breathing. the stranger suggests, and with a heavy swallow, Pan tries to count his breaths like the healers had taught him long ago. One. Two. Three.
It hurt, but his head began to clear some as he blinked at the stranger with tears stinging at his eyes. “Soft at the top…” his voice is quiet and hoarse, but more clear now, as he turned his gaze to their right. “It’s over there… don’t touch it…” As if the last part needed explaining… for only Pan was foolish enough to leap before looking, and he’d do it again too… for the boy had always lived like he was invincible.
With a wince of pain, he twists toward his satchel, grasping onto its leather strap and sliding it closer to Pravda. “Maybe it’s in my book… I… I stole it from the library.” Borrowed, more like… though the boy had kept the book in his possession now for a couple of years. While he couldn’t remember all of the plants within it, something nags at his mind which suggests he might have seen the plant before. Perhaps if he had read its description more carefully, he would have known better… he kicks himself for the mistake.
While they wait for Prigovora to return, he closes his eyes, feeling weariness creeping over him as he fought with sleep, knowing he should stay awake. The boy hummed to himself for a bit, trying to stave away the fear with his usual tricks, but it didn’t help. So his seafoam eyes find Pravda’s again, pleading and warm as he begged a story from the stranger.
“Where did you find the dinosaur? I’ve never seen one, aside in storybooks…” And in his nightmares, he thought for a moment… but Pan wasn’t afraid of Pravda’s pet. Especially since the raptor was the only thing standing between the boy’s health and being lost to the madness which threatened him now, as he teeters on the edge between sanity and sleep.
THE PRICE OF ANYTHING
IS THE AMOUNT OF LIFE YOU EXCHANGE FOR IT
For a moment, Pravda is not there; he is Prigovora’s eyes as the raptor slices through the high grasses at a speed that feels like flight. For a moment, he is only the raptor’s hunger and ferocity, and the way that he flashes through a field of tulips and slices through a group of citizens walking through the field. Then, Pravda is listening to Pan’s voice. Soft at the top. It’s over there… don’t touch it…
Pravda’s eyes follow the young man’s gaze. He takes in the grasses and, after a moment, remembers a similar picture. Wraithgrass. At least the boy chose something that would respond to treatment, Pravda supposes. Pan slides a satchel from his shoulder and offers the contents, but Pravda shakes his head. “No, no—I’m familiar with it. And—wait… you stole it?” The outrage is evident in Pravda’s tone; he is a scholar, and thieves… well, thieves should be punished.
His jaw clenches inadvertently. There is a new hardness overcoming him, one difficult to disguise. The young boy closes his eyes but Pravda makes a noise of disapproval in his throat. “No, try to stay as aware as possible. Look at me.”
Then: Where did you find the dinosaur? I’ve never seen one, aside in storybooks.
“He came from a land very far from here,” Pravda says. He can see the boy’s attention waning, and decides it better to keep speaking. “A land where men are bonded with creatures that represent the worst parts of themselves. Prigovora is hardly a dinosaur. He’s worse than that, I suppose.”
Pravda searches for the otter that led him here. “And how does one find an otter?” Pravda asks, to keep Pan talking as they wait. Pravda continues to see flashes of Prigovora’s journey. He is already to the swamp, which has hindered his speed.
Pan feels very sleepy, but he fights to keep awake. His otter chitters with alarm, winding himself over and over again around Pan’s neck like a wreath. Tiny hands roam over his face, feeling every part of him, before the creature dives back into the satchel and begins to draw forth all manner of baubles to place them before his master. Bits of golden thread, smooth river rocks, and iridescent shells pile up before the boy, as Oliver continues to make love offerings, hoping they would be enough. “Ollie… stop… it’s okay. It’s okay now. He’s going to make it better.”
The boy manages a weak laugh, as his seafoam eyes find Pravda’s, expecting to find humor there too, but finding a new hardness over the concern. Clearly, he thought Pan a troublemaker, and for a moment the boy regrets his admission about the book, trying to explain. ”It’s not like that, exactly… I didn’t mean to steal it. I borrowed it to learn, and then I just kept reading it – over and over and over. I couldn’t return it, not yet… I’m not done with it. I need to know all of the plants, so I can help the healers.” Muttering softly under his breath, he thinks back to the grass which put him in the predicament. “Clearly, I still have a lot to learn.”
The burn was fading some, his vision clear enough to see the festival in the distance, and Pan longs to join them. He tries to stand, teetering for a moment before falling back to the ground and staying still, understanding that he was too weak to push himself. But it wasn’t in his nature to sit still for long, and he was itching to get back to the party. So he does the next best thing, focusing on the story that Pravda told, his brow furrowing in confusion when the stranger mentions Prigovora being a manifestation of the worst in him. “You seem alright to me… thanks for helping – you and him both.”
When the stranger mentions Oliver, he turns with a smile to stare at his furry friend. “I didn’t find Oliver, he found me… a long time ago. He didn’t always look like this. In the beginning, he was more of a ghost or something, but then the magic changed him and made him whole.” It didn’t make much sense, but then, the boy could have easily been addled by the plant. Whether or not Pravda would take his words as truth or fiction remained to be seen, but stranger things had happened here in Novus with the magic too.
“I just want to go home,” the boy whispers, thinking of his cave by the river in Delumine. And in that moment, he is more the lost boy than he’d been in some time, his green eyes wide with fear as he wonders if his body would ever feel right again.
