Phfinaesque Fairy Saga

Once upon a time ...

This faery tail (starring faeries, and lots of tail) begins as all stories begin, you, the fair maiden (sort of), a damsel, the darling daughter of the distraught Duke offered in sacrifice to appease the dastardly dragon of dangerous destruction.

A faery tail like every other faery tail. And the 'tail'? Yours, that is?

It is currently tied to a tree in Naughtyham Forest.

And being left out in the forest, well, it isn't all that bad, being it's the end of summer, so it's a bit cooler in the forest, but it's pretty damn boring waiting to get eaten by the dragon. I mean, at least they could have left some books with you, but those darn superstitious villagers are simpletons after all. I mean, really, sacrificing a fair maiden, who just so happens to be neither, to a dragon so it'll leave you alone? Won't that actually encourage MORE bad behavior from the terrible lizard (which is the translation of 'dinosaur' not 'dragon' but that's just an oh-by-the-way FYI for ya) so it can get MORE meals of stressed damsels?

I mean DISstressed, JEEZ!

And, you being tied to the tree? TOO TIGHTLY!

1. When you get untied to be eaten the blood-rush to your pinched-off limbs is going to be EXCRUCIATING!

2. Wouldn't you know you have an itch on your nose that just won't go away and is DRIVING YOU CRAZY!

And let's not talk about the ants ambling around the tree bark.

And the mosquitos.

But there it is. That is: you, tied to a tree, waiting to be eaten.

And it's past lunch time.

But then a terrible scream practically rends the sky, driving all these petty concerns from your mind, and you feel the ground shake in one-two-three-four-time as you sense the lizards approach. You smell the fiery stench of brimstone and know your end is near.

Chipper, bright sunny day for an ending, you note casually.

But then, in front of you, a vision appears, a knight in polished, shining armor comes galloping at full tilt, clop-de-de-clop, clop-de-de-clop, and he reins up sharply, stopping suddenly in front of you.

He lifts his visor, and you see crystal blue eyes, just barely reaching above the bottom of the visor.

"Fear not, fair maiden," he calls out, somewhat muffled from his armor, "I shall defendest thine honour and rescue thee!"

You look up at your salvation, this youth on a grey mare, and several thoughts collide in your overloaded brain that was all too recently on the lunch menu:

1. Did he really just say 'defenest' 'thine' 'honoUr' and 'thee'? 2. They are recruiting these guys younger and younger these days, aren't they? Like, I could be his mother, for goodness sake! (Ashamedly: being no spring chicken anymore) [ed: but that's okay, sweetheart, and did I just kill the buzz?] 3. And 'fair' ... he's like pasty-faced, does he never get out into the sun at all? 4. Blue. Eyes. Oh, my gosh! If he weren't a guy, I would so ... stop it, stop it! Behave! 5. How?

So the last thought, being one of the more pressing ones, is the one that is ripped from your throat in desperation.

"How?" you ask ... desperately (obviously)

The knight unsheathes his sword, schwummmmm! and holds it aloft.

"With mine vorpal blade, Schwannstucker!" he declares determinedly ... in his rather high-pitched voice.

This does not reassure you so much as raise more questions, like:

1. "Schwannstucker"? Really? 2. Oh, my God; his voice hasn't even broke yet! I wonder if his balls have even dropped! 3. Not that that matters ... 4. ... as given the tremendous size of the fiercesome dragon, with gun-metal-green scales that clank against each other in an awful din, you're thinking yon knight is the appetizer to you, the banquet. 5. Did I just think to myself 'yon knight'?

You'd slap yourself, if your hands weren't very securely tied behind you against the tree. (Very uncomfortable).

'Yon knight' is undeterred by your questioning look, slams his visor down, and shouts out a muffled "Gloriana!" as his horse rears up (epic pose that) and charges into the fray, heedless of the smoke and flame issuing from the rampant monster, charging toward its own prey.

The fight is at an inconvenient angle, being behind the tree, but you hear the charge, and a clang, and a loud bellow from the dragon, and a not-muttered oath of: "Shit!" from 'yon knight.'

'Yon knight' has a potty-mouth.

He comes back into view. His vorpal sword did not go 'snicker-snack' as in Jabberwocky, ... or if it did, that's how it met its end, being now snapped in half. The knight casts aside 'Schwannstucker' (you titter at the name, and then mutter, 'well, it looks like no schwanns are being stuck tonight!' (you impertinent thing, you!)) and grabs his lance stuck in the ground behind a tree 50 meters outside the fray.

"What's the name of your lance?" you can't but help to shout out to yon knight.

"Deus ex machina" he answers gravely and charges back in the fray.

Odd name for a lance, you think. But then the battle is joined again, and you hear a scream of agony from the beast.

Mine knight! Mine hero has struck a blow in the dragon's underbelly! you rally to hope.

The hope is soon turned to surprise when you hear a furious: "You bastard! That was my asshole!" a deep, rumbling voice that you can only assume is coming from the dread lizard itself.

Dragons can talk?

The young knight's piping voice is affronted: "I am NOT a bastard, I'm ..."

But before he can continue, he's interrupted by the dragon's sarcastic retort: "Whatever!"

Then a more reasonable, "Look, if you don't want me here, you could have just asked, you know! Jesus H. Christ, I'm going to be shitting fire for a week!"

The youthful knight is not the only one with a potty-mouth, you think, and you note, surreally, that your thought has a sardonic tone.

Too many surprises and stressors today for a 'fair maiden.' That must be it.

"Dragon," begins the knight, "begone from these ..."

"Yeah, yeah," the dragon says tiredly. "I know the drill. Damn, I haven't had a virgin in weeks! What am I going to live off of now? Carrier pigeon, again?"

Hm. No wonder why the messages the Duke has been sending out to his allies have been ignored for these many-a-month.

The young knight is unmoved: "I care not your discomfit, foul beast! Leave now and ... hey!"

'Hey'? you wonder ... and then gulp in shock.

Right in front of you is a long, reptilian face, much like a horse's, but as long as you are tall, hazel eyes the size of saucers, and smoke curling out of fist-sized nostrils.

The dragon looks into your eyes, you feel its hot, sulfuric breath blasting onto your bodice as it snorts an exhalation.

It pulls back a bit; looking both surprised and disappointed at the same time.

"Looks like I wasn't going to get a virgin, anyway," it grumbles to itself.

You feel heat suffuse your cheeks, and you hope to God yon knight didn't just hear that, but then the dragon's face is right in front of the knight on his horse, and something of a sneer curls the dragon's lips.

You can't quite hear what the dragon says to yon knight, but it's something about appearances.

Can a knight seat ... embarrassed? ... on a horse? Yon knight shifts uncomfortably on his ride.

"Oh, well!" the dragon gripes, the spreads its enormous wings, and, crouching, POUNCES into the sky, the wings flapping in loud thunderclaps as it flies, limpingly, away toward the distant mountain range known to be terrorized by the monster.

The knight walks his horse up to you and solemnly proclaims, "Fair princess," he begins ...

"Actually," you interrupt, "I'm not a princess."

The knight pauses, lifting his visor.

"Huh?" he asks ... 'intelligently.'

"My father is a Duke, so I'm just a Dame, see?"

The knight blinks and mutters a "Whatever," and disparaging: "Nobles."

You bristle. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never saw a day's work in your life, have you?" he retorts hotly in his youthful voice. "Did you break a nail, fair lady?"

"Excuse me!" you say hotly, as hot as your cheeks feel with the anger burning them brightly, "but you're one to talk! You're not the one tied to a tree about to be eaten!"

The knight looks away and blushes ... a light pink lemonade, you note, and whispers an ashamed "Sorry."

He dismounts. Quite an effort with all that armor, probably weighing as much as him, it looks like, and takes out a short sword.

He says a mismash of sounds, something like "washy-touchy" in an explaining way.

"What?" you asked in utter confusion.

But then in two swift strokes, he cuts the coils of rope binding your upper body.

The strokes also happen to cut into your dress, exposing your shoulders.

But not cutting INTO your shoulders, you notice, thanking God.

"HEY!" you exclaim.

Everybody is saying 'hey' these days, it seems.

"What?" the knight snickers unapologetically: "it could become the latest fashion in court."

You find no humor in his snide observation, and explain your point of view in royally pissed-off tones as he infuriatingly and calmly ignores you as he (now carefully) severs the remaining bonds with his short, but very sharp and deadly looking sword of oriental extraction.

MEN! you think angrily to yourself. Please with your resolve NEVER to marry one of these stupid and callous oafs.

A promise you've kept for more years than has pleased your father you ruefully reflect.

You find your reflections take a new turn now that all the coils binding you to the tree are cut, for your limbs that up to now have had their circulation cut off, feel gravity again from the ground and the rush of blood.

It's all too much for you: your weight that you now have to support, and the pin-prickly pain of newly awakened appendages.

You collapse to your knees right in front of the knight. You would have crashed into his armor, face-first, if he didn't react quickly, catching you in your fall.

"Jeez, princess," he begins, surprised and annoyed, "no need to worsh-..."

His scathing remark is cut short by your cry of pain and your obviously complete lack of motor control. His face softens, and he gently guides you to the soft, fern-covered forest floor, laying you down on it, and rubbing your limbs back to life.

His touch seems somehow ... wrong. Somehow ... delicate. The pain, so recently incapacitating, is soon dissipated, and you are able eventually to sit up, resting in his support.

He smiles kindly down at you.

Well, you think, perhaps not all men are jackasses.

But then the knight looks up sharply into the forest, at the same time the horse's ears go right back into its skull. You can see the whites of its eyes as it looks in the same direction in terror.

A low moan comes from the forest, and you can hear a shuffling sound and the branches sway in a breeze that isn't there.

The knight utters another oath, holding tightly to the reins of the now panicked horse. "Zombies!" he curses.

"What?" you say again.

You hate being the one who appears to be the dunce. Years of schooling, but you still have that terror of being exposed as a dunce.

The knight looks very, very grim. He pulls a long, slightly curved simple wooden scabbard from the saddle and lets go of the reins.

The horse immediately gallops off.

"I'll collect her later," the knight mutters, and then darkly, "if we're still alive."

"What?" you say again, and you know you have that dumb expression on your face that you so hate.

The knight lifts you from the ground and squares off to you.

"Look," he states impatiently, "we don't have time for questions now. Can you ..."

The he breaks off and looks away quickly.

He bears down: "Can you ... close your eyes or look away or something?"

You're just standing there, dumbstruck.

"Look, this armor is going to be in the way of the coming fight. I have to be nimble and fast, and I can't be either in this stove I'm wearing; I have to take it off, okay? So can you look away or something?" he asks, hot with embarrassment.

"Oh!" you exclaim, and turn away quickly, fighting two conflicting twin urges, one to giggle at his silly modesty, and the other, welling up rather strongly and quite a surprise to you, and that feeling is "aw! poor baby!" in a very tender motherly feeling, of all things!

The knight quickly casts off pieces of armor; you hear them clanking onto the ground, and then you hear disrobing and new clothes being slipped on.

The urge to peek is almost as bad as the urge to scratch that itch earlier tied to yonder tree.

And there are no ropes this time ... only your willpower.

Your willpower wins: you are quite pleased with your little victory.

"Okay," says the youth, and you turn back to take him in.

You almost scream ... or laugh ... in shock. Before you is a very young boy, maybe not even into his teens yet, but unlike the fashion of this day, his hair is uncut.

It's long, and straight, and raven black, and descends past his waist. His face is smooth, almost girlish ... heart-shaped, you observed with a button nose.

And those crystal blue eyes.

And tiny lips.

God, he's a babe just weaned from his mother! you think, almost angrily, and now fighting dragons to rescue fair maidens.

Well, neither fair nor maiden, you add ruefully, but still ...!

He's dressed very oddly: a loose-fitting black ... kilt? with legs? and a ... well what is that cotton blouse of a cobalt, almost indigo blue over his lithe form?

A word springs to your mind: elfin.

You wonder if he is fey.

He gravely extends his scabbarded short sword and commands: "Listen to me, whatever you do, do not go near them. If the tide of the battle turns against me, run. Run as hard as you can and try to get my horse, Winnie, and ..."

Not a very knightful name for a horse. You smirk.

"What?" he demands hotly as his cheek color. "Listen!" he demands. "Run if I'm overcome, do you understand?"

"Overcome by what?" you ask.

He points a small index finger from his delicate hand toward the forest: "That," he says flatly.

You look. Out of the forest shambles what has to be orcs. You've heard of them. Pale, almost green, flesh, vacant faces, limbs loosely by their sides ... or missing, the stumps not even oozing pus.

And the stench.

You thought the dragon stench was hellish. You were wrong.

The smell of decaying flesh makes you gag, but the creatures are unmindful of their own excremental scent, unmindful of everything, except you ... their intent glare is horrifying and they raise their arms and stumble forward.

A horde.

Well, you amend immediately: a dozen or so of them.

The knight ... the boy ... the youth ... the elf ... whatever he is looks at you and says, "Remember: run."

And then leaps forward, screaming loudly in a high-pitched cry.

The scream works. The monsters' moans are ecstatic as they divert their shambling charge toward the youth.

Who draws his long blade, holds it high over his head, and cuts the leading monster in half, right down the middle.

The monster takes another step forward before the halves separate and fall to the ground.

The halves are still twitching, you observe dispassionately.

And not bleeding at all.

The youth is not observing anything, however, for he is a whirling dervish, leaping, springing, and dodging between the shambling monsters, hacking and slashing, cutting them in half where possible, and cutting off limbs where not.

The monsters don't care. They press on, implacable. If the youth is all energy, practically flying as he flits from orc to orc, the monsters are the opposite, plodding, but fearsome in their determination.

It seems to take forever, the desperate, frenetic fighting, and, at the same time, it's over in a moment.

One combatant is left standing. The youth, panting, barely able to keep his wicked blade off the ground, eyes tightly shut, stands amidst a pile of body parts freely scattered in clumps on the forest floor.

"I shouda ..." he pants, "I shouda tied my hair in a bun. I shouda ..." he pants angrily. "God, that was fuckin' stupid. I almost ..."

He can't continue as he gasps in big gulps of air through lips almost a slit they are compressed so hard with his effort to breathe in the air.

Your heart goes out to the youth and you utter an "Oh!" as you race toward him.

His face registers shock. "Don't come near me!" he barks.

You stop, surprised. Hurt by his tone and his words.

He spits out the next words in anger: "I thought I told you to run!"

Your cheeks flame. "Only if you were in danger!" you retort, equally angrily. "And you were doing just fine!"

Splendidly, in fact, but you weren't going to admit that to this impetuous youth who didn't know how to address his betters.

The impetuous youth mutters an oath. He's standing there, stock still, eyes shut, gasping for air. After a moment he, and his tone softens, "Can you hand me a cloth?"

You tilt your head to one side, "How can I do that if I can't come near you? Shall I toss it to you?"

"Oh, for God's sake, no!" he exclaims, "it'll be worse that useless if it touches zombie blood."

He pauses, considering.

"Okay," he says, "I'm going to come out to you. Don't touch me or anything until I wipe this shit off me, okay?"

"Why would I do that?" you demand, screwing up your face in disgust at the smell emanating from the area.

"Oh, like you weren't going to throw your arms around me and exclaim, 'my hero,' eh, princess?" he needles dryly.

"I WAS NOT!" you shout hotly, and then add fiercely, "and I told you, I'm not a princess."

"Yeah, whatevs," he answers sarcastically. Then, after a slight pause, adds the address, "princess!"

You bristle.

He chuckles.

Carefully he feels his way toward you, walking at first, but then, when he's sure he's clear of the bodies, he falls to his hands and needs and crawls in your direction.

You feel yourself sneering. COMMONER! you think scornfully.

You swallow your sneer and call out, "Over here."

You rip off the cut shoulder of your dress and put it on top on his hand. He grasps it and wipes his closed eyes, carefully removing the blood splattered on his face.

He opens his eyes and rises.

He's taller than you. You note your slight disappointment at this. It's harder to command, being smaller.

"I have to ditch these clothes," he mumbles, "they're contaminated."

"And I ..." he looks away again, "I have to, um, ... bathe."

He won't look at you.

"C'mon," he says at last, and moves in the direction that his horse fled.

...

Hours of walking. You discover what it is not to go by carriage or on horseback. It's not hard, but it's not pleasant. It's tiring.

And ...

Well.

The day is just full of shocks. The mare, 'Winnie' ... of all names, was rather easily recovered, but only eventually, and a stream crossed along the way to recovering the horse was the bathing spot.

And that's where you got the biggest shock for the day.

The youthful knight, a stick of a boy, was ...

... is ...

... a knightess.

He ... no, she ... eventually disrobed and instead of a knife sheathed in the undergarments, you saw not a dagger before you but a slit, a tiny slit with short, straight black hair.

No chance of this knight's ... knightess' ... balls dropping any time soon.

His ... no, HERS ... her ... well, her tits were tiny. A girl-child. A girl. A baby girl. A baby girl who rode out into the forest to rescue you, a noblewoman of no fortune from a dragon that could have easily eaten you both.

Now the dragons sardonic statement about appearances fit into place.

And then there were the orcs ... or the, what were they? "Zombies"?

And he saved her from them, too.

She did. Not 'he,' SHE did.

She wouldn't look at you.

"Don't ..." she began, then broke off. Her crystal blue eyes glittered in the light of the setting sun. Then they filled, and tears spilled out. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"