The Way We Fall

Chapter 83 (Roche)

Harold moved fast, but in the wrong direction. Roche was saving her remaining inkblood, so she crashed through the underbrush, hoping desperately that she could catch up to the knight. No sooner than a half an hour into her trek, Roche realised she'd lost the trail of the knight.

She futilely tried to double back and pick up the trail again to no avail. Roche cursed, sweat dripping down her back as her panic swelled.

Great. Now she'd lost Harold. Tigris was going to die.

Roche leaned against a tree, panic swelling. Maybe Tigris was already dead. Maybe she'd failed the one destiny she'd been given, the sole cause for all the panic and suffering her inkblood had brought her since it had bloomed within her. Roche choked back a sob. Harold had strayed so far from the path that if she didn't find him soon, they wouldn't get back to the city by sunset.

Roche cursed loudly, ready to return to the path. If she couldn't find Harold, then she'd fight the copy herself.

Just then, a loud crash sounded to her right. Roche froze, trying to push down the the hope that rose in her chest like a hot air balloon, failing when she heard the deep thrum of a male cursing She crept forward slowly, trying to ensure that it wasn't a lost bandit, but then she tripped over a tree root and loudly rolled through a bush.

The world flipped and spun as she rolled down a mulchy hill. Roche cried out as pain shot through her injured shoulder and collarbone. The world spun as she came to a stop and it took her several moments to realise that there was a face staring down at her.

Familiar, kind green eyes set into a wrinkled, haggard tan face gazed at her.

"Roche?" Sir Harold gasped, his brows furrowing, "What are you doing here, lass?"

Roche was so relieved that she teared up. The knight's eyes bloomed with concern.

"Easy now, you're alright." he soothed, crouching beside her. Roche choked because the words were so right in the knight's mouth. This was the Sir Harold that the princess had mourned for months.

"I'm sorry," Roche sniffed, wiping her tears off her face, "I suppose it seems that I got lost."

"Me too," he said kindly, holding out a hand to help her up. His hair was limp and greasy, long enough to brush his shoulders. His tired face was smeared with grime and gods knew what else, his once luxurious knight's cloak reduced to tatters. Still, he managed to hold a regal, noble air to him as he steadied Roche. "I don't mean to frighten you, lass, but we need to get back to the city. The princess is in grave danger today."

Roche nodded at him, smiling. "I think I know where the path home might be."

"I thought you were lost?" Harold replied quizzically. Roche bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood. She pointed to the footsteps she'd left in the muddy ground.

"Tigris taught me to retrace my steps. That should bring us back, I think. I didn't remember until now."

Harold followed her, a pace behind. He ruffled her hair fondly. "Aye, you're a smart one, aren't you?"

Roche grinned at the knight, and they both broke into a jog.

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As they raced for the city, Harold seemed to come alive, the shadows on his face brightening. He told Roche what he knew about the copy.

"Has Verita heard of anything like it?" he asked desperately, sweeping his lengthy chestnut hair out of his eyes. "The inkblood made it sound like it was invulnerable."

Roche pretended to ponder it. "I've read of something similar," she informed the knight, "It is invulnerable to any normal attacks with steel. But if you manage to touch it, Sir Harold, then it would become vulnerable for as long as you keep contact. At that point, it can be killed."