Candlelight flickered upon the panelled walls. Rich curtains draped across the arching Windows, masking the poverty that lay and prospered beneath the grey stones of Vulgersaille. A full moon shone in the sky but the bright light was not permitted to enter the chambers of the palace: it was too warm and the two creatures who reigned were not inclined to let such warmth, though how little, into their sinister domain.
Aramina was sitting at a lavishly carved table with a chess set at her paws. Only a couple of hours ago, a game had been in full play but now was left abandoned as the opponent had retired to bed. But Aramina was vacant of sleep, her thoughts were permanently fixed on one thing: meeting once more with Flamiro to discuss matters.
The young Royal squirrel's paw was clenched upon the table: her other arm was still out of use due to her fathers abusing actions and her mother did little if next to nothing to help her daughter. To be honest, Aramina did not need much help as Dmitiro had gone a good days work on treating the injured Raresheen.
But still, Aramina was lonely in her pain and solitude as being a princess restricted her from holding many dear friends in the palace court and Dmitiro had left for a few days vacancy whilst Raldinya was confined to working in the kitchens as punishment for helping Aramina in times of need. It was strange, in such circumstances the Royalsheen King and queen would have had the offender thrown into prison or even slain as they were notorious for showing no mercy and word of their horrific acts had passed round the squirrel kingdom, striking terror and obedience into most of the creatures very souls.
Aramina stood up, pushing the chess board away from her as her eyes glowed like peridot flames in the dim candlelight. She drew out her sword with her free arm whilst taking great care not to further hurt her injured other. As her own entertainment she proceeded to lunge, parry and fight with an invisible fiend around the room, confident that no one was watching her as they were all in bed.
Her blade flashed like lightning and it was little wonder that Raldinya often resorted to calling Aramina 'Quicksilver sabre" as that was what the skilled Princess often turned her blade into: a mere flickering bolt of metal that so often struck her opponents down.
The young squirrel danced around the table, fencing of her own accord but if there was a visible partner she was fighting with, he would be long dead with a blade between his ribs.
Aramina's eyes flared with searing passion that often overtook young fencers whilst in the midst of dual or practice and she became lost in the desires and metal with which she fought the air. Her only task now was to entrance herself and forget about her worries and the outside world. For now, she was a prisoner in an imaginary dual: and she was winning.
If any creature in the inside world could have peeped into the mighty domain of the palace, they would have seen the Royalsheen princess duelling her way around the room.

Flamiro entered his house and took of his hat swiftly. His eyes held a vacant, terrible look in them as he rushed up the foreboding stairs to his son's room. It smelt of illness, of sickness and decay.
He entered, closing the door beside him as he struggled to keep his tears in but already his eyes were sparkling with the unshed emotions. He sat down on a wooden chair beside his son's straw mattress and looked down.
His son lay in his makeshift bed, pale and trembling with heat and coldness. It was too late. His son was succumbing to a wasting fever that had no known cure. Flamiro's eyes were glazed, unable to take in what was happening to him.
He had his faults but he loved his only child like no parent could ever love. Flamiro felt that his world was falling apart with the fact that death was drawing in, luring and lurking before the time came to claim his son's life.
"F- f- father" the dying child's voice was barely heard, a mere and broken whisper that was waning as death drew nearer.
"Father... give me... your paw". His own paw stretched out feebly and grasped his fathers. It was hot to the touch and Flamiro felt a lump rise in his throat.
His son spoke once more "A-am I going to die?"
Flamiro replied in a hopeless plea "No son... y-you're going to g-get better" His face was one of pitiful heartbreak and his whiskers were trembling as his loved one struggled to take in a breath, his breathing becoming more and more ragged as if the next was not coming.
"W-when I die... w-will I go to heaven?" His son finally asked softly, his eyes fixed upon only something he could see. He was being engulfed by red hot flames: such was his fever. He knew he was going to die.
"Off course you will... b-but you're not going to die. Y-you're going to get better" his father tried to sound certain, assertive and consoling but he knew the situation was hopeless and tears slid from his eyes.
"But I'm burning... it's so hot... I think I'm already dying in places..." The child looked at his broken father. "Take my paw... and hold it tight" Flamiro did so though his paws were shaking with uncontrollable grief.
"Will you promise to pray for me... and I will pray for you... so that we may meet merrily in heaven. According to Thomas More... that is what he said..." His son's voice was dying, ebbing away and soon to be lost forever and his eyes were losing their living, natural brightness. "Will you tell me... the story of you... and the battle of... treetops?"
Flamiro grasped his son's flaming paw with such compassion that it was heartrending to see a father in such emotional agony. Tears were freely flowing down his face as he understood that nothing could save his beloved son.
"Off course I will..." He struggled to smile through his grief. His voice stammered and stuttered between gasps and tears as he struggled to grant his son a last favour "It was the battle of the treetops... I leapt up on the branch first... and m-my fellow s-soldiers came on a-after me. Y-y-you should h-have seen the l-l-look on the m-martens faces when thirty nine squirrels..." He wavered and broke off. After a grief stricken glance at his son, the good father raised a paw to his face and fell upon the bed, weeping and sobbing like a lost soul.