Fiona slowly made her way down the winding stone
stairway. Cobwebs and dust were
everywhere. Occasionally she heard the
heard the sound of a rat scurrying away just before she rounded a corner. And every so often she saw that whole chunks
of the outside wall were missing. Fiona
paused at one or two of the huge jagged gaps in the masonry to examine them,
wondering whether they had been made by some assaulting force or by the
dragon’s wrath.
She noted as she descended that it was growing hotter, and
when at last she reached the bottom of the stairway and stood before an archway
that opened upon the thirty or so foot stone bridge that spanned a lava inlet,
connecting the tower to the rest of the castle, she felt sweat popping out on
her brow again. She reached for her
handkerchief and found that it was missing.
“Rats!” she muttered. She briefly
considered going back and looking for it, but then decided against it lest the
retreat blunt her resolve. Besides, for
all she knew she could have lost it in the flight from or to her tower room. Putting further thoughts of it aside, she
took another deep breath and started across the stone bridge. She tried to keep her eyes focused forward as
she walked, and tried not to wonder about the stability of the ancient bridge
which separated her from the bubbling, boiling stew below.
When at last she had made it across the bridge and stood
upon the threshold that opened into the castle proper she paused and again
released a breath she was not aware that she had been holding. She then dared to turn and look back, at
first across the bridge, and then her eyes traveled up, up, up along the length
of the tall tower. Fiona focused her
ogrid vision, a bit better in the dark than her human sight, upon the high apex
of the tower and thought she could make out the speck of the window from which
she had spent so many days staring out and daydreaming of the day of her
deliverance. A wry smile tugged at a
corner of her mouth. She had never
dreamed it would happen like this. Then she turned away from her past and walked
into the keep.
As she made her way down the stairs and hallways she felt
as if she had wandered into a scene envisioned by Dante. Stone pillars and sections of walls were
crumbled and their debris scattered across the floor, which was itself cracked,
splintered, and even buckled by fissures in many areas, and from those fissures
emanated a hellish glow from the lava below that was so bright that no other
light source was needed. Fiona wondered
how many of the structural wounds were caused from upheavals in the volcanic
foundation, and how many were the result of the dragon’s battles or tempers.
Worst of all were the corpses.
When she was younger a steady stream of would-be rescuers
had shown up at the castle, eager to dispatch the dragon and claim their
prize. As Fiona wandered the castle, she
saw that they had not all been devoured.
Time after time she saw the pile of bones and charred armor and weaponry
where a knight had been immolated where he stood. The remains of one unfortunate lad sat
against a wall just below where a burn outline of his final moments had been
captured in the stone, and where in what must have been a moment of horror he
had raised his arms in a futile attempt to shield himself from the fiery
blast. Fiona shuddered. She wondered, if one of the trickle of recent
rescuers had succeeded in saving her, would she have even noticed the human
wreckage strewn throughout the castle, or would she have dismissed it as the
unfortunate but inevitable expectations of the fairytale scenario. The knights showed up, swords drawn, banners
flying, and performed as they were properly expected to. That some would fall, collateral damage to
the fulfillment of the story’s outcome, was unfortunate but inevitable. It was their fate to fall, as it was her fate
to be rescued. But now, after having
actually spoken to one of the knights and recognizing his unique humanity, and
realizing that each of these other men had their own dreams, their own souls,
and their own stories, she found her faith wavering. And now, having come face-to-face with the
dragon in battle herself, however unorthodox a duel it had been, she found it had
raised her empathy even higher with these poor felled souls, however brave or
deluded they might have been. Again she
felt the touch of irony, for now here, wandering about the castle in her ogress
state, she had never felt more in touch with her own humanity.
She came to what she assumed was the dragon’s kitchen,
with huge vertically mounted vats resting against one wall, oversized utensils
that looked more like pitchforks and shovels – in fact, upon closer inspection
she realized that they were
pitchforks and shovels – hung against another, in front of which sat two five-foot
tall barrels of what Fiona found were salt and pepper. A few feet away a ten-foot high cauldron sat
atop a pile of charred planks and beams.
Beside the cauldron Fiona saw an oversized book, some eight feet tall,
leaning against a wall. The book was
closed, and its worn cover was made of some sort of leather that she couldn’t
quite identify. Upon that cover was
imprinted in large lettering: To Serve
Man.
Three things struck Fiona.
First, that such a grossly oversized book even existed. Next, that such a book in that location
implied that the dragon could actually read. Third, that the dragon would own a book with
such a noble title. Curious, she opened
the cover and looked at the carefully stenciled table of contents. At first the headings confused her: ‘Templar
Tartare’, ‘Stuffed Whole Friar’, ‘Knightly Treats’, and so on. Then she leafed through a few pages, complete
with detailed instructions and illustrations – and she realized with horror
what she was looking at. “To Serve Man…it’s a cookbook!” she
gasped, and shut the volume in disgust.
She took a few steps backward and nearly stumbled over a pile of
weaponry and armor. Fiona just managed
to keep her feet as she knocked what had been a neatly stacked pile askew,
sending the discarded instruments of rescuers past clattering and clanging
across the floor.
Fiona paused, closing her eyes and resting one hand on her
bosom as she fought to regain control of her breath. Enough.
She had to leave this house of horror.
She opened her eyes, and saw attached to the top of an archway a few
yards away a rectangular metal sign with red luminous capital letters spelling
‘EXIT’. She nodded, and started toward
it.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the dragon
roar. Unconsciously, her ogre ears
pricked to rapt attention.
The roar came from outside the castle, from the area where
the beast had fallen into the molten inlet.
It was followed by a splashing and then sucking sound, and then the
sound of the dragon’s wings beating.
Fiona’s breath caught, and she feared the reptile would come crashing
into the castle at any moment. But
instead, she heard the beat of the wings receding as the dragon flew upward.
Fiona was confused for a moment, and then realized that
the dragon was heading toward her now unoccupied tower room, intending to
do…Heaven knew what to Fiona when she got there. Only the dragon didn’t know yet that the room
was unoccupied. She would soon find
out. And when she did…
The princess cursed her luck. Of course
the fiery lava had not killed the fire-breathing dragon. You may as well try to drown a fish. Fiona realized that she was foolish to have
hoped so. Now she struggled to determine
what to do next. Perhaps make a run for
it, out of the castle, across the bridge, and beyond? With the dragon now awake and aware, the
chances of getting even half-way across that bridge were perilously thin. Unlike herself in this form, she thought
ruefully, which made her chances even less likely. Perhaps she could hide behind the recesses
and passages of these crumbling walls, avoiding the dragon like the rats in the
walls avoided her? Even assuming she
could find any such recesses wide enough, that might buy some time, but having
escaped a benign imprisonment in the tower, she did not look forward to trading
that for the life of a frightened vermin.
Besides, the dragon may know this place well enough and her senses may
be acute enough to easily smell her out…and dig her out.
Fiona, her fear rising, took a semi-conscious step backward…and
her foot set upon one of the pieces of weaponry that she had scattered
before. She looked down and saw that it
stood on the cylindrical wooden shaft of a lance. She stared at it for a moment, and then
reached down and picked it up. The shaft
was partly blackened, but still serviceable.
And it ended in a large, wicked looking and – as she found out when she
touched it – still very sharp steel spearhead.
A true Sicarious Dracorum – a ‘Dragonslayer’. It was a pity that it had not worked for its
original owner. Fiona hefted it,
surprised at how light it seemed to her.
But then, she had surprised herself a few times that night. Perhaps she could use the spear to…
But that was a foolish idea. If its owner, who was no doubt skilled and
practiced with it, had failed to use it to dispatch the dragon, what chance did
a rank amateur such as herself have?
Besides, the dragon’s hide was scaly and tough, and unless she connected
right between layers of scales even this weapon might night pierce it. And to have a good shot a doing that, Fiona
would literally need to be on top of her…and the odds on the dragon letting her
get that close were not good.
But then, Fiona had felled the beast once from a distance
– if only temporarily – with just a stone.
If she could do the same with this…
But no. She had
caught the dragon off-guard, and her throw had been lucky. The odds on the dragon giving her that
opening again, and an untrained Fiona being able to hit it, were just too
small.
But then again, that small spot between her eyes that the
dragon had temporarily shown was not her lone vulnerable spot. Fiona recalled that the area around its
breast and underbelly didn’t look nearly as armored as its other parts. If she could just get a clean shot at it…
But mightn’t the spear’s original owner have had such a
shot? If so, it had done him no good.
But as Fiona looked down at the large green hand that now
gripped the shaft, she thought on how the original owner hadn’t the strength of
an ogre to power the weapon. She hefted
it again.
Are you INSANE?
Fiona heard that irritating voice of reason rise again in the back of
her mind. What, now you think you’re a dragonslayer? Talk about delusions of grandeur! Look, the dragon obviously has some degree of
intelligence, so maybe if we throw ourself down and beg forgiveness—
“Stop it!” Fiona said aloud. “I can do
this!” She tightened her grip on the
shaft and her eyes narrowed. Beneath her
fear, she felt something else. Something
primal. Something that not only told her
that she could rise to this challenge, but wanted
it. Where did that come from? Was it the ogre nature trying to assert
itself? She had tried to repress any
feelings, any thoughts, any desires that she suspected might come from that hidden
monster for so long, was it possible that she could now use it? Drop the shields and embrace that part of her
being? And if she did so, and if she
managed to somehow triumph, would she – could
she – then be able to stuff it back away into its guarded little
compartment? Well, that was a question
for a later time. For now, the
imperative was survival. If she failed
that, then all the rest was academic.
From somewhere far above she heard the dragon roar. Her eyes followed the sound, and that little
unbidden smile played yet again at one corner of her mouth.
Dragon was furious.
Furious at herself for dropping her guard and giving that ungrateful
little ogress an opening to knock her out, all because Dragon had actually felt
concern for her! (Compassion,
Dragon reflected about herself. That was
her problem. She just had too much compassion.) And she was furious at the perfidious ogress
for taking advantage of that compassion.
Well, that wouldn’t happen again.
Dragon wasn’t sure exactly what
she would do when she reached the ogress’s room, whether she would just simply
terrorize the creature or end this deal now, and dictate to the Fairy Godmother
and her kingdom a new deal. Dragon had tried to be nice, and having the
occasional delivery instead of having to go take-out was a plus, but keeping
the ogress was becoming more trouble than she was worth. As for what the Fairy Godmother might do with
her wand…well, Dragon had a suggestion for that.
Dragon reached the tallest tower and alit atop it. She paused for a moment to shake off the last
drops of lava, both those that were still molten and those that had cooled into
little back rocks, from off her scaly hide.
Then she curled her lips back to bare her teeth and carefully looked
into the hole in the roof.
Dragon frowned. The
ogress must be hiding. Well, Dragon
couldn’t say she blamed her; the ogress had probably heard Dragon coming, and
feared she’d get what she deserved.
Dragon looked a little closer.
There weren’t many places in the room that could conceal her…not in her stout
beastly state. She couldn’t be under the
bed, not without it having a prominent rise somewhere in the mattress. And the tapestry had no bulge that would have
to have been left by her bloated shape.
After a few more moments of examination Dragon lifted her head, shifted
her perch, and then leaned down to look – upside-down – through the
window. There she saw the open door
across the room.
Dragon moaned as she lifted her head, and then rolled her
eyes. Idiotic humans. Didn’t they know enough to reinforce the door
sufficiently so that when the ogress reached adulthood she couldn’t just force
the wretched thing open if she became sufficiently provoked to do so? Well, obviously not. Dragon sighed. Her charge was more than just becoming more trouble than she was
worth. Still, Dragon couldn’t help
feeling somewhat impressed by the princess’s newfound determination – even if
it didn’t make Dragon’s job any easier. She
was sufficiently impressed that she decided she wouldn’t kill her charge. Not tonight.
She’d need to recapture her, of course.
But how to prevent her from escaping again, now that her prison door had
proven insufficient? Well, there were
alternatives. Perhaps Dragon would
collapse the stairway, and when the Godmother’s son arrived instead of just
letting him pass she’d go and fetch her for him. It was hardly the romantic rescue the deluded
princess had imagined, but it was never intended to be the innocent fairytale
she presumed anyway. Besides, Dragon
suspected from the events of this evening that the princess might finally be
outgrowing those delusions.
Enough rumination, though.
First things first: she had to recapture her charge.
Dragon spread her wings, lifted off from her perch on the
tower, and glided downward, circling the tower and alighting in front of the main
entrance. She dropped to all fours and
strode into the main corridor, the slit pupils in her luminous eyes dilating to
take in more of the crimson and orange light cast through the cracks in the
masonry as she scanned the area for any trace of the princess. Then she sniffed, and her heightened
olfactory sense confirmed the pungent odor of a nearby ogre.
Suddenly Dragon caught a glimpse of something flying
through the air, launched from a hidden location somewhere toward her front. It flew well clear of her head, and Dragon
instinctively followed its flight path as it hurtled well past her and smashed
against a wall beyond. It was another
large rock. Dragon grinned
slightly. The ogress’s aim had grown
much poorer. In fact, it was almost as
if she were trying to miss…as if the
rock were simply a—
With sudden realization Dragon spun forward again just in
time to see the ogress – who had donned a baldric with sword, armor shoulder
pads, and wrist and knee shields scavenged from remnants of her would-be
rescuers – rush forward and hurl a spear toward where dragon had exposed part
of her upper torso when she had turned her head to follow the flight of the
rock.
Excitement coursed through Fiona when she saw her plan
coming together. When Fiona had thrown
the rock the dragon turned her head and neck to follow its flight path,
exposing part of her upper torso just as Fiona hoped she would. Although the beast had turned back around
much too soon and too quickly for the princess’s comfort, Fiona was already in
the midst of her next delivery. Although
the spear’s flight was more wobbly than if thrown by an expert javelineer, it
had power behind it, and it flew true enough.
Fiona began to feel a little thrill as she realized that there was no
way the dragon could move her massive form out of the way in time.
Unfortunately, just before the spear struck home, the
dragon – showing remarkable reflexes and dexterity – lifted one of her hand-like
talons and snatched the spear right out of the air, halting the point only a
foot or so from her skin. Fiona stood
there, mouth agape, staring. The dragon
also froze for a moment, looking down at what Fiona realized must be the
ridiculous sight of an ogre wearing a princess dress accessorized by battered
knightly apparel. Then the dragon
smiled, used the spear to pick between her teeth for a moment, then held out
the spear and casually snapped its shaft between her fingers. After seeing the defeated princess’s shoulders
slump sufficiently, the dragon tossed the remains of the spear back over her
own shoulder, and then reached forward toward Fiona.
As the dragon’s talon was about to close upon her, Fiona
snapped out of her malaise and reacted, drawing the sword and thrusting it hard
into the relatively soft flesh of the tip of one of dragon’s huge fingers. The dragon howled in pain and surprise, and
drew her talon back. As she did so,
Fiona whirled and scampered away, re-sheathing her sword as she went.
Dragon looked down at the blood pooling in a small (for
her) drop on her injured finger, then reared her head back and roared again,
again furious both at the irritating ogress and at her own carelessness. She had
to stop underestimating the little…beast.
She looked down again in time to see the fat little freak making her way
up the stairs toward the kitchen. Dragon
leaned forward on her haunches and roared as she unconsciously swung her tail
in a long arc behind her, unintentionally smashing a column and sending a small
cascade of stone falling behind her as a balustrade that it had been supporting
collapsed. The incident was mostly lost
on Dragon as she stared hard at Fiona, but the ogress paused in her flight up
the steps to stare back, and then after a few moments of what seemed
consideration she turned and took the last couple of steps upward and began
running across the cluttered floor.
Dragon sprang forward after her.
Fiona ran as quickly as she could toward Dragon’s kitchen,
cursing the excess bodyweight that slowed her down and was already causing her
to gasp for breath.
“I’m…not…used…to…aerobics” she muttered to herself, then stopped the
muttering as she realize that she was going to need that breath for her backup
plan. It was at first just an idea to
slow the dragon’s pursuit if the lance attack failed, which it miserably
had. But now, having seen the balustrade
fall, her racing mind had quickly concocted another – if desperate – plan of
attack.
The princess heard the dragon roar again – terrifyingly
closer this time – as Fiona reached the kitchen area. Fiona skidded to a halt – nearly stumbling –
right beside the barrels of salt and pepper.
She grabbed the lip of the salt barrel with one hand and the lip of the
pepper barrel with the other, then paused for a few seconds and looked back as
she tried to calm herself and catch her panting breath – not an easy task to do
as she saw the dragon only couple of hundred feet away now and striding toward
her, narrowed yellow eyes glowing in intensity and face twisted in anger. Fiona took a deep breath, and then
concentrated all her strength on tipping the barrels toward herself. She groaned with the effort. For a few horrible moments she thought the
weight of the barrels would be too great for her as they teetered near but not
quite past the tipping point, but with one last strenuous effort – aided by a
scream – Fiona managed to pull them past the tipping point. She had to skitter back out of the way as
their contents spilled onto the kitchen floor.
Now two piles of spices lay between Fiona and the still charging dragon,
now less than a hundred feet away. Fiona
stared at the monster for a moment longer, fighting down her fear, caught her
breath, and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs to their utmost capacity. Fiona tried to recall that night in her room
where she had unintentionally let loose with that horrible, embarrassing ogre
roar. Now she shoved those thoughts of
embarrassment aside. She was not a prim
princess at this point; she was a warrior fighting for her life and the lives
of future rescuers against a powerful, primal force and she needed all the
resources at her disposal, including those she could pull from within the
depths of her ogrid self. She thought
back again of the many, many years of wasted life, of dashed hopes, of the
sounds of the lives her would-be heroes being crushed by the monstrosity
bearing down upon her, now just a few yards away. Fear and anger both boiled within her,
fighting for supremacy.
Anger won.
Fiona roared.
It was a loud, long roar, full of frustration and fury,
and all the other emotions Fiona was feeling, all rolled into one great long
bellow. The great rush of air emanating
from the ogress swept with it much of the pile of salt and pepper between her
and the reptile and then smashed against the dragon’s face like a tidal wave
against a cliff, sending salt and pepper filtering into her nostrils and glowing
yellow eyes.
The dragon came to her own screeching halt – too late
shutting her eyes. As Fiona ran out of breath
and her roar ceased, the dragon – eyes still shut – reared back and let loose a
roar of her own. But hers, even louder
than Fiona’s, was purposeless fury, and was cut short – almost humorously –
with a sneeze, albeit one that spurted out a flame that set fire to an old,
molding tapestry. As the dragon reached
up to rub her closed, swelling eyes, Fiona looked up at the remnants of the
castle about her, and the supports that were still holding keys parts of it
up. Then Fiona dashed over to stand beside
one of those 4-foot wide stone columns, a few yards away from and parallel to
the dragon’s right haunch. “Hey, you!”
she called teasingly. “Wow, I thought my backside was big. But man, even for a dragon, yours is enormous!”
Dragon was enraged.
She had had enough of the arrogant green creature. She had been debating earlier whether to
continue to honor the Godmother’s deal, or no.
Now her rage tipped the balance: No
deal. She turned her head toward the
sound of the voice and roared. Still
unable to see, Dragon swung her tail blindly in the direction of that
voice. It impacted one of the stone
columns, smashing it to bits. Dragon
roared again, which made her oblivious to a brief groan from the building’s
structure above her. She then gained enough
control of her temper to pause and listen to determine whether her aim was
successful or the urchin was still breathing.
For a moment there was nothing.
But then she heard the shrill voice again, this time from an entirely
new position several yards away and to Dragon’s rear. “Ha! Missed
me! Your aim’s as bad as your
breath. By the way, do you floss with
cow intestines or something? Because your breath stinks!”
Dragon growled as she turned toward the voice. She decided to give Fiona a full taste of
that breath. Dragon took a moment to
fill her lungs with air, then let loose with a full blast of flame. It spewed forth and surged like a wave across
the stone castle floor, igniting tapestries, melting armor, and – unbeknownst
to Dragon – turning two thick wooden support columns into charcoal. Then, her breath and some of her rage spent,
Dragon took a few seconds to reach up and rub at her watering eyes as she
listened for other sounds from the obtrusive ogress, although she was pretty
sure this time that she’d heard the last of her.
She was nearly right.
Fiona rolled away from the smoking, sheltering pile of
debris behind which she’d dove and covered the rest of her body as best she
could with a shield in anticipation of the flame. The shield, itself smoking and quite hot, she
tossed aside. Underneath the
now-scorched sleeve of her dress, the arm which had held it was blistered. Had she still been in human form and not
protected by the tougher hide of an ogre, it would have been badly burned.
The Dragon tensed at the sound of the shield clattering on
the floor, dropped to all four talons and tried staring in the princess’s
direction, but the beast could only squint uncomfortably as her eyes continued
watering badly. Fiona took a few strides
from the debris pile and then halted in a wide-legged, defiant stance. Other parts of her green felt dress were now
torn or singed. Her face was scratched
and darkened with soot. In all the
activity her the parts of her hair not tied off in her ponytail had become
unkempt, with some forming awkward uneven bangs that hung, dripping sweat, over
her forehead. Her tiara had somehow
maintained its position in that hair, although it now rested askew, almost
accentuating the parody of the one-time prim princess it adorned, for the being
upon which it now rested looked like anything but that. With long ears pricked forward attentively,
mouth open with lower jaw thrust forward and lips curled back in a snarl that
revealed inhumanly large teeth, Fiona stared at the scene before her. The two wooden support columns had been
reduced to black splintery remnants, as she had planned. The second floor was now noticeably sagging
downward – well, noticeably to Fiona, but fortunately not to the dragon, under
which it sagged. There was just one more
stone support column a few yards in front of and to the right of the reptile.
“Missed again, jailer,” Fiona called. “You rely a bit heavily on that flame of
yours, don’t you? Are you too lazy to
fight hand-to-hand? Or just too cowardly?”
The dragon growled, still trying to focus through
squinting, watering eyes. Fiona hoped to
end this before that vision completely returned. The princess drew her sword. “Lay on, lizard,” she said.
The dragon roared, and then began charging forward. As she did, Fiona sidestepped to her left,
keeping herself facing the dragon in a fighting stance, calling out, “C’mon!”
with each step, hoping to make it appear like she was naturally repositioning
herself for the fight and not raise any suspicions.
Fortunately, it worked.
The dragon shifted the direction of her charge in order to keep bearing
down on its prey. The half-blind beast
didn’t seem to notice the support column until her right shoulder struck it in
full force, smashing it into sections. A
moment later, as Fiona had hoped, the ceiling above the dragon began to
collapse. Fiona turned and leaped into an
alcove as behind her the roar of tons of stone and wood raining down upon her
adversary sounded, and the rest of the castle trembled with the impact. Moments later the air was filled with great
clouds of dust, blinding the princess as surely as the dragon had been
blinded. It filled Fiona’s lungs,
triggering a coughing fit.
After what seemed like interminable minutes Fiona regained
control of her breathing and could finally begin to see the results of her
effort. The section of the ceiling above
the dragon had indeed collapsed. Most of
the beast was covered in tons of the resulting rubble. Only the head, its red scales now covered
with gray dust, poked out. The dragon
was unconscious again, but breathing.
With all that weight on her, Fiona assumed the reptile was trapped. “But one can’t be too careful with dragons,”
she said, and carefully climbed the debris pile and onto the dragon’s neck and
then on until she was standing atop her head.
Then Fiona took her sword, picked a spot between scales above where she
assumed the brain would be, and then raised the sword, concentrating on the
spot as she grasped the hilt with both hands and prepared to plunge the blade
downward.
Then she hesitated.
She took a moment to recompose herself, and then readied
the sword again. Holding her breath, she
took aim at the spot, bit her lip in determination, and then…
She couldn’t do it.
“Blast!” Fiona said, chiding herself for her weakness and re-sheathing
the sword. “So much for being a
dragonslayer,” she said as she stripped off the armored padding from her
shoulders, wrists and knees and tossed them into the rubble. She just hoped now that the dragon really couldn’t escape. Once she returned to Far Far Away, she’d
explain the situation to her father and then he could send some men back to
capture the beast or…well, do what needed to be done. Yes, she thought, Dad will know best about
how to handle such monsters.
She had just finished climbing down from the debris pile
when she heard a noise from the doorway closest to the castle’s entrance. She had drawn her sword again and taken a
fighting stance before she even realized what she was doing. But then, illuminated by both the hellish red
glow of the lava and the flickering golden light cast by the fires started by
the dragon, she made out the figure of a knight in shining armor.
Fiona froze, gaping.
“Who…who…” she began.
The figure stepped forward and Fiona could see a cape of
fine scarlet fabric trailing behind him.
Then he reached up, pulled off his helmet, removed a hairnet (a hairnet?), and then shook out full,
thick flowing golden locks. He halted a
few feet before her. He was
gorgeous. A face…like an angel, she
thought. He smiled tentatively and said,
“Princess…Fiona?”
“I am,” Fiona said, dropping the sword without thinking
about it, and proved oblivious to the clatter as it hit the stone floor, so
mesmerized was she by his gorgeous blue eyes and handsome features. This was it!
This was what she had been waiting oh, so long for. Then her mind started to kick back in with
how she had fantasized this meeting would go.
She cleared her throat and then added, “Awaiting a knight so bold as to
rescue me!”
The knight glanced over at the trapped, unconscious
dragon, cocked an eyebrow, and looked back at Fiona. “It would seem that my opportunity to claim
the title of ‘rescuer’ has recently flown.
Or, rather, been buried.”
“Oh, no! Not at
all!” she protested, suddenly ashamed of her accomplishment. “I just—” she gestured toward the fallen
dragon, and was suddenly aware again of the green mitt of a hand sticking out
of her sleeve. “No!” she gasped in
terror, and then covered her blushing face with her hands. “I’m sorry!
I never meant for anyone to see me…like this.”
“It’s all right,” the knight said comfortingly as Fiona
heard him stepping toward her.
“I really am
Princess Fiona,” she whimpered, suddenly afraid. “I know this is not how a princess is meant
to look, but—”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said as he halted before
her. “I am quite aware of your plight,
and I am here to put an end to your dreaded curse.”
“You are?” Fiona said meekly, lowering her hands and
looking again into his beautiful eyes, so close now. With her ogress height, she was as tall as he
was, if not a bit taller.
“Indeed,” he cooed reassuringly.
He didn’t even seem repulsed by her appearance. Relieved, Fiona remembered another of the
lines from her oft-dreamt fantasy. “Then…might
I know the name of my champion?”
“I am…Prince Charming,” he replied.
She blinked.
“Y-yes, you are,” she said, meekly.
“But really…what is your name?”
“That is my
name,” he replied with a tinge of irritation.
“Prince Charming.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously” he said, a bit more annoyed as his smile
started to falter.
“I’m sorry!” she said.
“It’s just that you are…” then she began to lose herself into those blue
eyes again. “So very aptly named.”
His full smile returned as her compliment seemed to stroke
his ego. “Thank you, my dear,” he said.
She stared at his mesmerizing visage as he began to draw
closer, then…
“Oh! Wait!” Fiona
nearly shrieked, startling Charming and causing him to recoil a step. “There’s something more I must do!”
Charming regained his composure. “No, my dear,” he said. “There’s really—”
“It will just take a moment!” she insisted, then cleared
her throat and reached within the front of her sleeve as she had rehearsed
countless times before. “I pray that you
take this fa—” she began, but then realized the handkerchief was no longer
there. Confused, she at first thought
she must have stuffed it up the other sleeve.
She started reaching within that with her other hand, and began
again. “I pray that you—” But it wasn’t there either. “Oh, no!” she wailed, now remembering that
she had noticed it missing on her way down from her room. “It’s gone!
The favor I was to give you upon our meeting! It’s not here!”
“Oh, is that
all?” he said, and then added soothingly, “Don’t worry, Fiona. I need no favors from you.”
“But this isn’t right!” she protested. “I must
give you something.” Then her eyes alit upon the sword that she
had dropped. “Ah-ha!” she said, an idea
springing to mind. She reached down and
seized the hilt.
“Fiona,” Charming began, suddenly concerned, “what are
you—”
Fiona reached behind her with one hand, grabbed the end of
her ponytail, and then pulled it tautly up and to one side and with the other
hand frantically sawed at the hair with the sword, ignoring the pain as she
pulled the hair a bit tauter than it needed to be. After a few moments of working with nervous
energy she had successfully cut through it.
She then looked at Charming, smiled tentatively, then curtseyed slightly
as she held the foot-long shorn section of her ponytail, still bound with a
hair ribbon, toward him with one slightly trembling hand as she continued grasping
the sword with the other. “My Prince,”
she said in a formal voice which she fought to keep calm, “I pray that you
accept this lock of hair as a token of my gratitude.”
Charming stared at her for a moment longer, his face
expression uncertain. Then his suave,
confident demeanor returned. “Why, thank
you, my dear,” he said, striding forward again.
He halted just before her and bowed his head as he took the proffered
lock. She felt a tingle go up and down
her spine as their fingers brushed. The
touch of a human hand…the first time she had felt that in…goodness, how
long? Then he surprised her by reaching
over and carefully taking the hand that held the sword. “If you don’t mind,” he said.
“Oh! Not at all!”
she said, having quite forgotten within that scant few seconds that she even
continued to hold it.
“Thank you,” he said, then his smile slackened as he
looked over at and gently pried the weapon from fingers twice the width of his
own. Fiona noted just a touch of odd
nervousness leaking through his demeanor while her fingers still curled about
the hilt, as well as subtle hint of relief once he had control of it
himself. He tossed the sword aside, and
it landed amidst some debris that burned with one of the several small fires
ignited by the dragon’s breath. He then
looked back into her eyes and his full smile returned. “You needn’t worry about having to use such
ghastly things again, my dear.” He
said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“Yes, yes that will be wonderful!” Fiona said. “I cannot tell you how long I’ve waited for
you to arrive and end my terrible impisonment in this keep!”
“Indeed,” he said, then reached over and stroked her
cheek. Fiona gasped as chills ran
through her entire frame. “Now, my
princess,” he cooed, “just relax, close your eyes, and let me put an end your
curse.”
“Oh, my love,” Fiona sighed. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard and felt him drawing nearer. This was it!
This was what she had been waiting what seemed her whole life for. All those years of long, miserable days and
even worse nights of waiting were finally about to be rewarded! What a fool she was to try to escape. She came so close to missing him. The fairytale had been right all along, and
she had nearly thrown it all away, stupidly thinking she could take care of her
problems herself. That was not her role
in this; her destiny was to await this moment.
This rescue. This rescuer. This kiss.
It was that blasted ogress inside her, she suddenly realized. So close to being extinguished at last, it
had talked her into trying this idiotic escape attempt. That sly, demonic creature. Well, she wouldn’t need to worry about it much
longer. Her prince was about to take
care of that. Now she felt him touching
her…his left hand gently coming to rest on her right shoulder…his torso
starting to touch hers. She could smell
his breath…breath that smelled of peppermint, as if scented. It would not be long now. Fiona’s own breathing came more rapid and
ragged. She felt her heart pounding
within her chest. She felt herself
becoming lightheaded. Her lips puckered
in anticipation, and then—
She felt sudden, enormous pain in her left side.
Fiona’s eyes sprang open, and she found herself staring
into Charming’s face. It still bore a
smug smile, but now she thought she detected some malevolence around the
corners of his lips and eyes. “Sorry, my
dear,” he said. “King’s orders.”
Fiona looked down at her left side…and saw a dagger buried
nearly half its length into her dress.
The hilt of the dagger was held by her rescuer, and as she stared down
in shock she saw the fabric of the dress where the weapon had been pierced turn
dark with her blood. Some even began to run
down the shiny metal blade. After a
moment of her staring at the sight in uncomprehending horror he tried thrusting
the blade in deeper; it didn’t go very far, but it hurt terribly. But it didn’t hurt as much as his words.
‘King’s orders’?
So her father
had ordered this?
Fiona’s looked back into Charming’s face. Now his smile was gone, replaced by a blank,
unfeeling mask. Fiona stared dumbly at
him for a moment, and then a single tear formed in the corner of one of her eyes
and ran down her cheek, leaving a distinct trail in the dust and soot that had
clung there. The prince frowned with an
expression of mixed pity and disgust.
“You poor, pathetic creature,” he said, withdrawing the blade so quickly
from her body that Fiona gasped. He then
plunged it forward again.
But just before the blade struck home, Fiona caught his
wrist with her left hand.
Charming looked down and tried jerking his hand away. But Fiona maintained her grip.
“Let me go!” he demanded.
But Fiona not only maintained her grip, she tightened it.
“Stop it!” he commanded, but his voice was less certain
and a trace of fright crept in. “You’re
hurting me!”
Fiona squeezed tighter.
Charming screamed.
His hand opened, and the blood-soaked dagger clattered to the floor.
His head jerked to where he was staring at her face
again. His expression was now one of
fear and panic, both of which increased as he saw that her own expression had
grown cold and stony.
“F-Fiona, please,” he stammered. “Let me ex—”
His pleading was interrupted as Fiona let out a loud, “Hiiii-yah!” and threw her head forward,
impacting his head just the way she aimed.
She released his wrist as he crumpled unconscious to the floor.
Fiona stared down blankly at her ‘rescuer’ for a few
moments as she rested her left hand against the aching wound in her side. Then the words came back again. Sorry,
my dear. King’s orders.
The last knight’s words then came back as well, the ones
that she had tried to dismiss, but which still left an unwelcome echo
whispering through the dark back corridors of her mind. Why did
your parents hate you?
“But they don’t
hate me!” she said aloud. “They don’t…”
That’s when the tears came.
Fiona reached up, covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed. Memories of those looks of
embarrassment and shame from her father, which she had fought to bury, arose
like some horrid half-decomposed corpse clawing out of its unhallowed grave. She remembered the stick-figure like drawing
she had done in her diary as a child, its caption, ‘Sleeping Beauty is having a slumber party tomorrow, but Dad says I
can't go. He NEVER lets me out after
sunset’, and the stern expression on her father’s face that even her
child’s hand had captured so well. And
was this…this banishment to this castle
of horrors truly for her own good? Or
was it a means to get her out of the way, to hide the source of his…disgrace? But then why the assassination attempt now?
Had she simply lived too long?
Had enough years passed that interest in her and her legend had died
away except for a few unfortunate knights sent by that Farquaad? But that didn’t make sense. The knights before that – they were there to
rescue her, not kill her. Weren’t
they? Or were they? A number of
scenarios suggested themselves to her tortured mind, but now that her mental
barriers had been breached, repressed resentment came flooding forth, poisoning
her perspective, and each of her imagined scenarios in the end involved her
father, the king, as a villain. Sorry, my dear. King’s orders.
Fiona, still sobbing with her hands covering her face,
turned and took a few paces away from where Charming lay along with the shredded
remnants of her dreams and hopes and fantasies.
Several seconds later, when she uncovered her face and blinked away
enough tears so that she could see clearly again, she found herself staring
into a grime-streaked mirror. Not
comprehending what it was at first – just that she was beholding the nearby
face of a monster with one side of that face smeared with blood – she
screamed. Then she realized that she was
seeing her own terrible image for the first time in oh-so long, and that the
blood was her own from the hand she had used to grasp her wound. As she stared at herself, the words that she
had thought earlier after sparing the dragon returned to her mind, now mocking
her: Dad will know best about how to
handle such monsters. Her lips
curled back in a snarl, and she threw her right fist forward, shattering the
glass. Some of the small splinters of
glass buried themselves into the tops of her fingers and knuckles, and droplets
of blood began oozing out around the splinters.
Fiona didn’t care. She leaned her
palms against the rough stone wall, lowered her head, closed her eyes, and
tried choking back the sobs caused by the deeper pain that gnawed at her soul.
Suddenly Fiona began to feel light-headed. She opened her eyes and gasped as she noticed
a nearly foot-wide pool of blood by her feet.
A moment’s examination revealed that it was forming from a steady drip
from the hem of her dress. She looked
back at her left side, which was now starting to throb, and saw that the
section of her dress from the wound site downward was soaked dark with
blood. She reached down and tore at the hole
in the fabric that was left by the dagger, making it larger, and she saw a
three-inch long slit in her thick green flesh that was still bleeding freely. The sight made her ill at a visceral level. She had to stop the bleeding. But how?
Would direct pressure be enough? She
tried pressing her hand against it again, but after a few seconds blood started
seeping out from under her hand and between her fingers. Unthinkingly, Fiona cursed. Should she attempt going back to her room and
try to sew the wound up? That thought alone
made her even queasier, but then she realized she may not be able to climb all
those stairs now anyway before she passed out.
She glanced about the room to see what was at hand, and
her eyes came to rest on the sword that Charming had cast aside into a pile of
flaming debris. The top half of its
blade was resting in the flames, but its lower half and the hilt were outside
of the fire. Fiona gulped. She remembered reading about cauterization of
wounds where necessary, but just picturing it her mind, even then, made her
squeamish. Still, if was the only way…
As Fiona stared at the sword her vision started to blur,
and she just managed to stop herself from swooning. Well, what had to happen had to happen. She strode over to the debris pile and carefully
picked the sword up by its hilt; it was hot, but bearable. She stared at the blade’s red-hot tip for a
moment. Fortunately, it appeared clean;
she was apparently lucky. Lucky? She chuckled wryly at the thought. Then she signed resignedly, cautiously switched
the hilt to her left hand, picked up a short piece of charred wood with her
right hand to help her better guide the blade near the wound site without
burning that hand, carefully positioned the sword so that its point was near
the wound, took a deep breath, and then poked the tip of the blade into the
wound.
Fiona’s painful roar resounded throughout the castle, and
would have been audible to anyone for miles around if anyone were there to hear
it.
Once she was convinced that the wound was sufficiently
sealed, Fiona dropped the sword and sank to her knees…and tried to ignore the
smell of her own burnt flesh. She bowed
her head as yet more tears, this time of physical pain, poured from her
eyes. After a while she looked back up
at the still unconscious bodies of her former jailer and her
rescuer-turned-assassin, and wondered just what she was supposed to do now.