Chapter 0

It stung.

The gash on his thigh wasn’t fatal, but gods did it burn. Stung might have been an understatement. Matisse winced, his left hand with the palm opened held in front of him, hoping that whatever pushed her away the last time would do so again. He was keeled over, other hand covering the wound, warm liquid pouring from the gaps on his fingers. The snow beneath him crunched and he could hear the pitter patter of his blood on the ground. It was rhythmic, something he would have found amusing, if he were still back home. But Matisse wasn’t home. Matisse was somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t know where. Someplace that made no sense. His mind was in shambles, thoughts reeling for answers, for reason; but none came.

Matisse looked at his thigh and his head began to spin. He knew it wasn’t because of the sight of blood, it was because the pool of red around him had grown. If he was ever any good at estimations, maybe he would have some idea of how much he had lost, but he wasn’t. He almost smiled at this, thinking of this one character he used to play as in a video game. Back home, which is not here. This is fu -

Before his train of thought could continue, the girl, who was roughly 50 metres in front of him, swung her spear to her side. There was a loud ‘swoosh’ noise, for the better lack of words, and Matisse saw the ebb and flow of something vibrating on the weapon’s tip. She was determined, to do what, he wasn’t sure. If she wanted to kill me she could have done that ages ago. He swore under his breath.

“If only I could grab her,” he muttered, wincing and looking at his thigh. It was deeper than he thought, and while he couldn’t see bone, he could see muscle.

He focused his eyes back on her, the sudden vertigo he expreienced just moments ago fading. Matisse didn’t know who she was, why she was out to kill or subdue him; then again, for once in his life, he didn’t know anything. Hell, he didn’t even know why she had a spear. I thought they only had those during Renaissaice Fairs. He entertained the thought of her needing a license for one, something he actually chuckled to.

That was a mistake.

Matisse blinked, and the next second, the girl was gone. His senses perked, and suddenly, his wound didn’t hurt so much anymore. He had nothing to protect himself with, nothing but that chance event of her being sent flying after he pushed his palm out to save him. He assumed guard, hands over his head, and his right leg back should he need to kick, if he could even kick. Should it be the other way around? Do I even get power from a wounded leg?

There was nothing but silence, silence and the sound of Matisse’s heart thumping in his chest. He was frantic now. The girl had been gone for far too long. He recalled the countless games, shows and movies he had watched where they do the exact same thing during a battle, disappear for several seconds, then appear out of thin air, delivering a delibitating surprise attack.

He wasn’t sure what he could do against a spear, but anything -

Matisse saw it coming from his right, travelling at what felt like Mach speeds as he barely managed a swivel to the side. The tip of the spear caught his jacket, ripping its pocket and barely missing his ribs. He felt it brush past him, the force knocking him over onto the ground. Time didn’t slow for him, but he knew that if he had been a second, no, half a second late, a gaping hole is all that would have been left of his right torso.

He scrambled on the floor as he heard the spear connect with a tree in the distance, a thundering boom rocking the leaves and bushes. Before he could properly gather himself, the girl was in the air above him, seemingly suspended, her hand cocked back, open palmed and holding a ball of fire. Shit!

Matisse pushed off the mound of snow on his right, rolling to his left side as the ball of fire from the girl’s hand exploded on the ground behind him. He felt the searing hot flames bite at his back, but he didn’t have time to register the pain. If he wanted to stop her, this was his best chance. Without thinking twice, he turned, and to his surprise, the girl’s hand was stuck in the ground. He had a second to take in the frustration on her face before wrapping his arms around her waist, locking his fingers, and, with all the might he could muster from his legs, swung her to his side.

It was barely a suplex, but with his battered thigh, it was the best he could manage. Yelling in exertion, he pulled as hard as he could, using her resistance as momentum. Once she was in the air, he let her armour’s weight do the heavy lifting. He didn’t know what he was aiming for, but he knew that as long as he landed her on the nape of her neck, that would at least get her off his back. But then again, if she could shoot flames out her hands, who’s to say she won’t be able to repair her own spine?

Matisse felt her connect with the ground with a deep and harrowing thud, and while he did not hear a crack, he wasted no time. Matisse released his grip on her waist , turned around, and mounted her back. He slipped his left arm under her chin as his right elbow mounted on her right shoulder. Holding his other forearm as tightly as he could, Matisse squeezed, feeling her kneck’s skin strain under the pressure. The girl roared in anger, her hands and nails raking at his forearm, pain that was negligble. Matisse squeezed tighter, feeling his own neck pulse against the effort.

The girl, who had been kneeling when he mounted her, now fell on her back alongside Matisse, who, in response, locked his legs in a triangle over her waist. The armour was cold, blood and snow seeping through his jeans. The girl continued to grab at his arms, digging her fingers into his in an attempt to pull them off. She was kicking wildly, attempting to push his legs off but to no avail. In response, he pushed his own body closer to her back, digging his head into her left shoulder, her blonde hair almost suffocating him. In all the chaos, he picked up the scent of lilac and gooseberries. Strange, he thought.

He was hoping that the sudden tear from the ground had done some damage to her hand, but as squeezed harder, he realised that the girl had stopped pulling at his arms. Matisse’s first mistake was, even though slightly, loosening his grip. His next mistake was peering over the girl’s shoulder.

Matisse saw her face, her eyes looking behind her, wearing a look of pure determination and hatred. The next thing he saw was her open palm, resting on his left elbow, a swirling force of both hot, cold and a scent of saltiness levitating and permeating in the open air. He saw, from the corner of his eyes, a small smile grow on her face. He let go of her, swearing as he did so, but it was too late. The next thing Matisse felt was an overhwleming pressure bearing down on his face, before his vision faded into nothingness.