Layer 24: Rescued Properly

Fiona awoke groggily. As her brain slowly oozed back into consciousness she reluctantly opened her eyes to find that her head was still lying on the table and she was staring at her pink human hand, a ray of sunlight falling upon it through a crack in the door. She had seldom slept through the pain of the transformation before, but apparently this morning was an exception.

She sat up, a blanket slipping off from around her arms and back as she did so, and discovered a new, unfamiliar pain – one that originated inside her head and appeared to be pounding to get out. “Ow,” she moaned, reaching up and grabbing either side of her head, hands coming to rest against unkempt, partially matted hair. There was a loud snore from beside her. Fiona looked over to see Moyre also still sitting at the table, her head resting on her arms upon the tabletop, a blanket also having been carefully laid across her back and shoulders – the work, no doubt, of Groyl when he realized the ogresses were not going to bed. Fiona smiled at the image and shook her head then immediately regretted doing so as she moaned once more.

Moyre snored again and shifted her head against her arms briefly before settling back down. Fiona smiled down at her as well. “Poor thing,” the princess whispered, feeling guilty that her own overindulgence in drink and resulting loose words had led Moyre into her own lapse. Between the guilt and her headache Fiona took a silent vow to limit her intake of such beverages in the future, and avoid them altogether where possible. Moyre was right: the temporary relief, tempting as it was, was illusory and simply wasn’t worth the fallout, in the end causing more pain than it relieved. She just hoped she could hold on to her resolution better than Moyre, for both their sakes. Fiona instinctively reached down to stroke Moyre’s head, but then thought better of it; she wanted to let her get as much sleep as she could, and such a gesture, however well-intentioned, might awaken her.

Fiona drew her hand back, casting an accusatory glance at the bottle sitting on the table as she did so. Then she noticed something lying on the table just beyond where her own head had lain. It was a necklace, made up of a thin rope cord running through what she recognized as the jabberwock teeth, with small green beads and bits of bone separating them. Beside it was a little note. Fiona picked it up and read:

For valor against jabberwocks and with gratitude from an old ogre to a young one. Thanks for being my rescuer. ~ G

P.S. Remember it goes around your neck. Don’t let it go to your head.

Fiona smiled, put down the note and picked up the necklace to admire it. She wondered how Groyl had managed to drill the little holes in the teeth to slip the cord through. If she asked him, he’d no doubt say some smart-aleck remark like ‘With great difficulty.’ She chuckled, and then slipped the necklace on. It was a bit long for her human frame, but she figured that it would be about right for her ogress self. She wondered how her transformations would affect it, since the spell seemed to automagically include her wardrobe in its…adjustments. She hoped it would work out well; she had a feeling that the necklace would prove to be one of her most precious possessions.

Fiona arose from the table and swayed for a moment – her head was objecting to what it apparently felt was too violent a movement. She stifled another moan for Moyre’s sake and crept over to take a peek in Groyl and Moyre’s bedroom. Groyl was lying in there all right, under his own blanket, snoring soundly. No doubt he’d be sleeping in after spending so much time on her necklace and apparently waiting for the two ogresses to finish their drunken bonding session and then covering them. She smiled, shook her head, and left him in peace.

Fiona returned to her own bedroom and took a look in the mirror. She was aghast. She was no ogre now, but she didn’t look much better. Dried mud covered her from the neck down except where it had flaked off, with spatters across her shoulders with smears on both cheeks, and her hair was a disheveled mess. She wondered if the villagers returned now, she could just chase them off as she currently looked. The thought made her smile.

Well, first things first. She needed to clean off and change. She thought for a moment of what to wear – not that her wardrobe was particularly varied – and decided that she’d like to see how the new necklace would look in the first outfit she had thrown together, since that had already assumed a special place in her heart. So she gathered the leather blouse, plaid skirt, and belt, then grabbed a towel and slipped on a pair of flip-flops – she liked how they left her feet feeling comfortable with the breeze on her toes – and headed out of her room.

Moyre was still asleep in the main room. Fiona crept past her and to the front door. She opened the door, but then paused at the threshold and looked back, first at Moyre, and then around at the rest of the place – the place that had given her a sense of home like her tower room prison never could, and which made even her childhood memories from her parent’s castle seem cool and sterile in comparison. And for some reason, looking around, she got an odd sense of sadness. How peculiar, she thought. She was just going to take a dip in the stream to wash herself off and then return in not too long. She mentally chided herself for being a bit of a drama queen – well, princess – and then headed out the doorway, closing the door behind her.

Bright sunshine beamed into Fiona’s eyes as she took the first steps across the clearing. She halted, quickly shut her eyes and shielded them with one arm, moaning. Today she was definitely not a morning person. Another residual ‘benefit’ of the drink, she assumed.

After a few seconds she opened her eyes, squinting at first, and then blinking until they adjusted to the sunlight. Then she lowered her arm and continued her trek across the yard, and then headed off down the path through the woods toward the bathing pool beside the shower contraption. The birds were twittering joyfully this morn, and Fiona had to fight back the urge to join them, knowing the outcome might, well, disappoint all parties. Instead she began humming an old tune as she walked, sounding the lyrics in her mind as she did so.

When I was a little girl

I asked my mother, what would I be?

Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?

Here’s what she said to me:

Que sera, sera

Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours to see

Que sera sera…

A wry smile played at one corner of her mouth. If only her mother – and father – had taken that attitude, and not sent her away and tried to…fix her. Of course, now she knew her father had eventually opted for the ultimate ‘fix’. She suddenly wondered a thought that one of her last mental blinkers had shielded her from wondering before: what if her mother knew of the king’s ultimate solution to rid her of her ‘curse’ and perhaps even…agreed with it. Fiona shivered. No, she would not believe that. Her mother’s acquiescence in sending her away had hurt, but she was sure it had hurt both of them, and she could not believe her capable of agreeing with such a heinous scheme. Of course, she wouldn’t have thought her father capable of it either, had she not had proof from the assassin’s own lips. Sorry, my dear. King’s orders. But were they with the queen’s assent? No. Again, she wouldn’t believe that. Not her mother. Not Mom. And if maintaining that faith in her mother meant retaining one last fantasy, then so be it.

She at last reached the bathing pool. She glanced at the shower contraption – no need for that today; she’d enough mud the night before. She hung her dry clothes, necklace, and towel on a branch overhanging the pool, laid the flip-flops by the tree trunk, and then waded in. Once she was out past chest level, she looked around out of habit to make sure no non-woodland creatures were watching, and then slipped off her bathing suit and threw it back onto shore. She reveled in the feel of the cool water against her skin. One of the few advantages that she found her human form had over her ogress one was that the skin, although thinner and less durable, was more sensitive to feel. Fiona took advantage of that now, taking a deep breath, submerging, and then swimming underwater for as long as she could as she felt the water washing away the mud and grime that had accumulated from the previous evening. She eventually emerged and tread water while she breathed heavily and noisily for a while until her lungs were satisfied, then smiled at the invigoration and dove back in.

So into her endeavor was Fiona that she failed to notice that the birds, which had been singing so merrily just a short while before, had mostly ceased their songs. Nor, between her distraction with her splashing and swimming and her inferior human hearing, did she pick up on the distant sounds of commotion up the path from the direction of Moyre and Groyl’s home.

After a long and enjoyable bath/swim, Fiona eventually climbed up out of the pool, quickly dried herself off, and slipped the clean clothes and necklace on. Yes, she mused, the necklace went quite well with the rustic attire. As she vigorously dried off her hair, she finally began noticing the curious lack of birdsong. That was new, she thought. And a bit…alarming?

That was when she first smelled it.

The smoke.

Coming from the direction of Moyre and Groyl’s home.

Fiona’s eyes opened wide.

“No!” she gasped.

Fiona dropped the towel and took off running back along the path, too panicked to bother with the flip-flops, and ignoring the pain when her too-sensitive bare human feet tread upon pinecones or other sharp impediments.

“Oh, God,” she huffed between breaths. “Please let it just be a cookout, or a little brush fire at worst. Please—”

She bounded out of the path and onto the edge of the clearing, where she came to a sudden halt at the horrifying scene before her.

The house was on fire. Flames leapt out of the windows and flickered out of the tree-trunk chimney, through which dark smoke also poured. Fortunately, Fiona knew that Groyl and Moyre were not in their home. Unfortunately, she knew that because she saw them together in a large cage behind thick wrought-iron bars. The cage sat upon a wagon hitched to two horses, and around the wagon a score of armored soldiers stood, most of which had crossbows drawn and pointed at the ogres. One soldier had just slammed the cage door shut and was applying a large lock. Adding to this waking nightmare was that upon the wagon’s drivers’ bench sat two witches, complete with green skin, long dark dresses, and pointy hats.

It was a sizable military operation, and the apparent leader of it sat upon a white charger in the midst of it all. He calmly surveying the fire and the ogres with a look of smug disdain on a face whose features and lines seemed to indicate such an expression was native to it. He had shoulder-length raven hair, curled at the ends, and although he had no helmet, he wore a suit of armor so polished that the sunlight glistened off of it. There was a cursive ‘f’ on a crest molded onto his breastplate.

Just then one of the soldiers noticed Fiona standing at the edge of the clearing. “Sire!” he called, pointing at her.

The leader looked sharply over at the soldier, apparently annoyed at having whatever meditations were going through his mind interrupted, but then followed his gesture and saw her. A broad but somehow unsettling grin spread across the leader’s face, and he said in a surprisingly light tone, “Ah! Princess Fiona, I presume?”

“What have you DONE?!” Fiona screamed, and rushed across the clearing directly toward the cage. One of the soldiers stepped forward and reached for her; Fiona instinctively leapt in the air, twirled, caught the solder on the breastplate with one foot while shouting “Hii-yah!” and driving him back with an ‘oof!’ noise. Then she lit back upon the ground and continued streaking toward the cage, the move barely causing a delay in her stride.

Fiona reached the cage and grabbed the bars. Moyre was sitting on her knees, a nasty bruise on her forehead. A crossbow bolt had penetrated her right calf, the feathered end still on the front side while the blood-streaked point poked through a nasty looking wound in the back. But Groyl…he looked worse. He lay on his back, one side of his bald head also bruised, and a crossbow bolt buried in his left thigh. Of more concern, though, was a wound in his chest, specifically the right part of his chest just below the collarbone. Moyre had torn off part of her dress and was using it as a field dressing, with both hands pressing down on the site, holding back blood, although some still managed to soak through the dressing. His eyes were closed and a grimace marred his face; his breaths were coming out in painful wheezes.

“Moyre! What happened?!” Fiona said, squeezing the bars tight, fighting back panic.

“’Fraid they got the drop on us, lass,” Moyre said, surprisingly calm. “They tossed torches in the windows while we were still sleeping; drove us out where they were waiting for us. We tried to put up a fight, but too little and too late, sorry t’say. Groyl took a bolt in the chest. The old fool plucked the blasted thing out without even thinking. Been better if he’d left it in for a while.”

Fiona looked down at Groyl, whose eyes had opened upon hearing Fiona’s voice. Seeing her horrified expression, he forced a smile. “Aye, she’s right,” he said. “I’ll have t’remember that next time.” Seeing a tear roll down Fiona’s cheek, he said as soothingly as he could, “Don’t fret, lass. It comes with the territory sometimes, ‘though I hoped we could skip this lesson on the life of an ogre for a while.” He tried to laugh, but started to cough instead. Moyre applied firmer pressure to the dressing. Fiona shot her right arm through the bars, trying to reach the wound to help her, but it was too far and her groping hand came up just short. Groyl reached his own hand up and grasped hers, and they held tight while his coughing jag continued; Fiona gritted her teeth at the pressure that Groyl’s massive green paw unconsciously exerted on her relatively dainty human hand. After a few seconds he settled down and lightened his grip. “Sorry, but this was one of the times where it really does hurt, and I couldn’t quite hide it from the blackguards.”

“This…this is all my fault,” Fiona said, a great guilty weight falling upon her shoulders at the realization.

“Now, none of that, lass,” Moyre said immediately.

“But it is! If I hadn’t drank too much last night, you wouldn’t have too, and you two wouldn’t have stayed up so late, so when the soldiers came—”

“Stop it, now!” Moyre said sternly. “Don’t do that to yourself! It just happened. Sometimes things just happen. That’s fate. That’s just our fate.”

Fiona turned briefly to the nearby soldiers. “Get this man a field surgeon!” she yelled, and then turned back to the ogres.

Moyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “There’s no field surgeon that can do anything I can’t. Knowledge of such things is another…necessity of living an ogre’s life,” she added with a sad rueful smile.

“Forgive me, Princess, for the mess,” Fiona heard the leader’s voice behind her, and then his footsteps drawing nearer. “It was unavoidable, I’m afraid. But you needn’t wait upon your captors any longer. You are free now. I am your rescuer. I am Lord Farquaad.”

A chill ran down Fiona’s spine. “Lord Farquaad?” she repeated coldly.

“Indeed,” he said, his voice calm and somewhat haughty. “Forgive me if this unruly scene startles your delicate sensibilities. But finally seeing you in the flesh has startled me, for I have never seen such a radiant beauty before—”

In the space of a second Fiona let go of Groyl’s hand and the cage bar, then took a whirling, calculated leap backward, whipping her leg around so that her foot would impact with the side of Farquaad’s head. She was greatly surprised when her foot instead encountered empty air. Unprepared, she tumbled awkwardly to the ground, where she ended up sitting in an undignified squat, butt on the ground, legs splayed before her and her arms slightly behind, propping herself up.

“Oh, Good Lord, she’s gone native!” Farquaad cried, finally rattled as he stepped beside one of his soldiers, who immediately trained his crossbow on her, as did the other soldiers in her immediate vicinity.

Fiona looked up from her spot on the ground to see Farquaad standing much shorter than he had appeared in the saddle; not only were his legs short and stumpy, his arms were also disproportionally short. Confused, she looked back at his charger to see that those arms and legs had been sitting in specially molded armored extension casts to make him seem far larger when astride his horse than he actually was.

“Now, Princess,” Farquaad said, stepping from beside the soldier and more calm now that so many weapons were trained on her. “I don’t know what these creatures have done to you, but you’re back in civilization now. They can’t force you to behave like a barbarian any longer. It’s time to resume your God-given station in life as the royal personage you are.”

“Princess?” Groyl said derisively, gasped a breath, and continued, “What princess? She’s just a poor village girl we abducted from her home and taught t’be our servant.”

“That’s right,” Moyre agreed. “Her name’s not Fiona. It’s Rose.”

Fiona looked back at the cage. Not knowing this Farquaad’s intentions – thinking he might be another assassin – they were protecting her. Even now, they were still protecting her.

“Oh ho ho, nice try, monsters,” Farquaad said, stepping forward until he was just a few paces from Fiona. Then he stood, peering at her. “But I know that face too well. Every mole, every freckle. It’s one of the advantages of having a magic mirror, you see. True, currently her hair is a mess and that outfit…hideous. But a visit to our boutique for a new wardrobe, and an afternoon at Maxine’s beauty salon, and she will once more look perfect. Just like the image in the mirror. Oh, Princess –” He smiled at Fiona and addressed her directly. “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve beheld your lovely face and comely form and fantasized about…meeting you.”

Something in Farquaad’s face as his eyes examined her caused Fiona to shudder. She self-consciously crossed her arms across her bosom and curled her bare legs closer to her body.

“Not to mention,” he continued, turning away to Fiona’s relief, “we have demonstrable proof of your identity. Sir Thomas!”

“Yes, m’Lord,” said a knight as he stepped forward through the group of soldiers. His visor was up, revealing a mostly nondescript man with dark facial hair. But in his hands he cradled a scuffed green slipper. Fiona gasped involuntarily. She recognized it as one of hers.

The knight paused beside Farquaad, who turned back around to face Fiona as he spoke. “Inform Her Highness where you acquired that footwear.”

“I found it at the dragon’s keep, Sire. Alas, I arrived too late to rescue the princess. When I entered the keep, I found the unconscious beast, and an empty tower room. I searched inside and out, and eventually found this slipper sitting amongst the debris near the base of the castle. When I traveled back across the wooden bridge, I examined the area, and I noticed footprints of the same size leading southeast, and realized that by some miracle that the princess had escaped. I have some knowledge of tracking, having hunted with my father growing up, and so I tracked her as far as I could. Still, eventually I did lose the trail in the forest, and so I had to start searching about. It took some time – there were many possibilities and I had to backtrack several times – but I did not wish to disappoint you, m’Lord.”

“Yes, yes, finish the story, we haven’t all day.”

“Yes, Sire. Sorry, Sire. It took well past a fortnight, but I eventually spied the princess. She was bathing in a pond, near some ungainly wooden contraption set by the water. She was…most striking, m’Lord.”

The knight raked his own eyes over Fiona, and she felt herself blush. So she wasn’t being paranoid after all; unfortunately she found little comfort in the justification. She was just glad now that she had mostly concealed her figure behind towels, giving the peeping knight only fleeting glimpses as she transitioned into and out of the water.

Farquaad glanced between the two, and his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed suspiciously. “Go on,” he said to Sir Thomas, a hint of warning in his tone.

“Oh, yes, Sire,” the knight said, blushing himself and averting his eyes from the princess. “Well, I would have attempted rescue myself, but there was an ogre about. I stayed around for a couple of days, trying to bide my time to free her, but there always seemed to be ogres about. It was obvious they were keeping her prisoner. They wouldn’t let her out at night at all. There were these two –” the knight gestured toward Moyre and Groyl “– and occasionally a third, slightly smaller and I think younger one. And female – obviously female if you take my meaning, m’Lord.”

“Yes, so you mentioned,” Farquaad said, and turned to the ogres. “Where is the other one? I assume it didn’t perish in the fire or we’d have heard its screams.”

“Like we’d tell you,” Moyre hissed.

“You’d best tell me or I could have more pain inflicted upon your mate there,” Farquaad said casually.

“Awk, what’s the point?” Groyl said, and then addressed Farquaad. “We ate her.”

“You ate – one of your own kind?” Farquaad said skeptically.

“We’re ogres,” Groyl said. “It’s what we do.”

“But you didn’t eat her,” Farquaad said, gesturing to Fiona.

“Na’ah, she was too handy around the house. Besides, she’s too skinny. Meat woulda been stringy. Eventually when it got colder we’dve fattened her up for a harvest feast.”

Farquaad stared at Groyl for a moment. “I don’t know that I believe you,” Farquaad eventually said. “But regardless, if there are any other ogres about –” here he raised his voice, looking around at and addressing the woods surrounding them “– I trust that they will take heed of what they’ve seen happen to their kind here and will turn themselves in now and not force us to use such aggressive means to secure them later.”

Farquaad waited several seconds, hands on hips. Fiona looked over at the wagon. She could only see Moyre’s head from where she sat; Moyre seemed to note that there were no other eyes on her at the moment – the soldiers appeared to be scanning the surrounding woods like their leader to see if there was any response to Farquaad’s ultimatum – and she almost imperceptibly shook her head, bidding Fiona to be quiet. Fiona bit the inside of her mouth.

“So,” Farquaad said after several seconds, “perhaps you monsters are cannibals in addition to being big, stupid, ugly beasts after all. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“No!” Fiona blurted.

Farquaad and the others looked at her.

“The other ogre is…gone for the day,” Fiona said. “She won’t be back until after sunset.”

“Ah,” Farquaad said, “so they’re not cannibals, just liars.”

“They were protecting her,” Fiona spat. “She’s…their daughter.” Fiona spared a quick glance at the wagon. Moyre looked back at her; the ogress’s expression softened, and an acknowledging smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

“Really?” Farquaad said, and then added mockingly, “How touching. We’ll just need to leave a patrol here to meet her and make sure that she and her parents have a proper reunion.”

Fiona glared at him. “How can you be so cruel?” she said.

“Cruel?” Farquaad said, seemingly taken aback. “I don’t mean to be cruel. If these two had surrendered when we fired their home instead of fighting to defend it, they would have come to no physical harm. And if their daughter surrenders peacefully, no harm will come to her. I don’t wish these creatures dead. I simply wish them out of the province of Duloc. Duloc is for Dulocians – people with a proper, refined, and shared set of perfected beliefs and standards. Is that really so cruel? Were you not raised with similar standards – standards that did not abide beings such as ogres and their ilk?”

Fiona felt herself blush again – this time with guilt. She dropped her eyes. Farquaad smiled at her indulgently. “My dear Princess,” he said. “I think it is so sweet of you to care so much for these ogres, and that you believe them capable of returning such feelings. But may I humbly suggest that this sense of loyalty you’re feeling might just be the result of a case of Stockholm syndrome?”

Fiona’s eyes shot back up and she glared at his benignly smiling face. No one said anything for several seconds.

“Um…m’Lord?” Sir Thomas ventured from where he still stood beside Farquaad.

Farquaad looked up at him irritably. “Yes, what?”

“Shall I finish my tale?”

“Huh? Oh, Good Lord, yes, wrap it up.”

“Yes, Sire, I shall try to be brief. Well, I considered a risky rescue attempt, but realized that if I failed not only would my life be forfeit, worse yet it would rob you a chance for your chosen bride. Therefore I returned to Duloc to impart my tale and present you with this evidence of my adventure.”

“Discretion does seem have paid off in this case,” Farquaad said. “Your service was acceptable. You may keep your estates.”

“I…have but one estate, m’Lord.”

“Do you? Well, you may keep it.”

“It’s a small one.”

“Really?”

“Only a couple of acres, actually.”

“Oh? Sounds homey.”

“We would like to move up to something bigger.”

“I can understand that.”

“If we just had more capital.”

“Yes, that would ease the skids of upward mobility.”

“I was hoping…for my services rendered…you might…provide some assistance?”

“Certainly. When you apply for a loan, mention my name. I’ll give you my highest recommendation.”

“Actually, Sire, I was hoping perhaps…if your Lordship would deign…a more direct form of monetary recompense—”

“Now, Sir Thomas, don’t get greedy. I hate greedy people.”

“Yes, m’Lord. My apologies, m’Lord.”

“Very well, you’re forgiven. Now on to more important matters.” Farquaad turned back to Fiona. “Well, Princess, shall we settle this little charade now by trying on the slipper? And, as they say, if the shoe fits…”

Fiona sighed resignedly. The slipper was obviously the one that had fallen from her foot when she had attempted her avian escape from the Dragon’s castle. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, getting up from her undignified sitting position. She stood up straight, arched her back and lifted her chin as her mother had taught her as a girl.

“I am Princess Fiona of the kingdom of Far Far Away,” she announced, infusing her voice with royal bearing as she had also been taught.

A general “Oooo” of awe arose from the soldiers, who knelt accordingly. Farquaad’s mouth curved into a self-satisfied grin, but he also knelt courteously, as did Sir Thomas beside him.

“And these two remarkable beings –” She gestured to Moyre and Groyl “– were not keeping me prisoner. They saved my life when I was attacked by robbers. They took me in, healed me, fed me, and kept me safe. Do what thou wilt with me, but I demand that thou shalt release them at once!”

“Ain’t happening, sister,” the nearest witch said from her perch on the driver’s bench. “We and Farquaad here have a deal.”

Farquaad rolled his eyes. “Alas, what the witch said is true,” he said as he stood back up along with the others. “As much as I detest dealing with such creatures, the bounty that their King Rumpelstiltskin offers for ogres caught in the wild will increase our kingdom’s coffers substantially. Especially for the bull. So when Sir Thomas informed me that your captors were ogres, I contacted them to let them know that we had a pack of such creatures that would soon be ready for pickup.”

“But you never mentioned anything about her,” the witch said, nodding toward Fiona.

“Because she is none of your business,” Farquaad said testily over his shoulder, his expression one of disgust when he addressed the witch. Then it softened again when he returned is attention to Fiona.

Fiona squinted. King…what was the name? Well, she had obviously been out of things for a while; there were doubtless a number of changes in leadership among the various smaller kingdoms since her imprisonment. But a bounty on ogres? Why would that be? And something else Farquaad had said she didn’t like the sound of. “What do you mean by our kingdom?” she asked.

“Ah, my princess!” he said. “You asked what wilt I do with you. But isn’t it obvious?”

Fiona looked at Farquaad hesitantly, thinking she did know exactly what he meant, but repulsed at the thought.

“Oh, you must know how it goes!” Farquaad said, and then placed a hand on his chest and began stepping toward Fiona, his held tilted back as he began speaking as if quoting a story. “A princess, taking refuge in a forest, in the home of fairytale denizens, is rescued by a brave champion, and then they marry and live happily ever after. In our case, as the king and queen of Duloc.” Farquaad now stood before Fiona, looking up at her. “And so, my dear Princess Fiona –” he grasped her hand and fell to one knee, pulling her down several inches with him and causing her to utter a short cry of surprise. “My beautiful, fair, flawless Fiona, I ask your hand in marriage. Will you be the perfect bride for the perfect groom?”

Fiona felt a wave of revulsion sweep over her. She found the thought of his being her husband was actually worse than if he’d been another assassin. She looked back over at the soldiers. They had drifted together into a loose bunch for better views as they watched the interplay between Fiona and Farquaad. Some still had loaded crossbows, although none were aiming at her any longer; their wielders too transfixed by the scene before them. She calculated that would give her a second or two of free movement. Her gaze shifted back to the wagon. The two witches were still sitting on the driver’s bench; Fiona couldn’t make out the face of the one further away, as her view of the wagon was from the side, but the witch’s expression closer to her, the one whom had spoken, was somewhere between disinterest and annoyance at the interruption of her agenda. She and Farquaad obviously didn’t care for each other, and Fiona suspected she would not be quick to come to his aid if he were endangered. At least, the princess hoped not.

A desperate strategy formed in Fiona’s mind. It was a terrible gamble, and the stakes were high, but if she played her hand right it might work. The witches in the wagon were the wild cards, but if she could eliminate the knavely soldiers and their would-be king quickly enough, she could then deal with those jokers, and hope they didn’t have any magical trumps up their sleeves.

Fiona looked back down at Farqaad’s expectant face. “I am so…flattered,” she said, forcing a smile. “But prithee, my Lord, what else did the mirror tell you about me?”

“Oh, uh, just some babbling about pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, I think. Why?”

“Before we commit to such a…holy union,” she said, “I have a secret that I think you should know.”

“Really?” Farquaad said, curiously cocking an eyebrow. “What might that be, my love?”

Fiona glanced furtively back at the soldiers, and then leaned down closer to Farquaad until her lips were beside his ear. She whispered, “I’m afraid that I’m a bit bipolar.”

With that, Fiona jerked her hand away from Farquaad’s, grabbed one of his wrists, used that leverage to swing herself down and behind him until she was on her own knees and his body was between her and the soldiers. The she released his wrist and quickly wrapped one arm beneath his chin while wrapping the other arm around his head, securing her suitor in a tight headlock. The action had taken just over a second; some of the soldiers had raised their crossbows, but found that their leader was now between them and their target.

“Don’t move!” Fiona snarled, “Or I’ll snap his neck!”

“Do what she says!” Farquaad said, suddenly frightened again. “She’s obviously gone mad!”

The soldiers looked around at each other, then back at their hostage/leader. Those holding crossbows eased their hands on the triggers.

“Fire the bolts into the ground!” Fiona ordered.

The soldiers looked at Farquaad, who was trying unsuccessfully to pry Fiona’s arm from around his throat. “Stop that!” Fiona snapped at him, tightening her grip more.

“Really, must you do this?” Farquaad said, his irritation rising to the level of – but not quite surpassing – his fright. “It’s so melodramatic, not to mention controversial—”

“Shut up and tell your soldiers to obey,” Fiona said.

Farquaad stopped trying to pry her arm away, sighed, and nodded to his soldiers. Those with crossbows pointed them to the ground and fired the bolts into it.

“Now throw the crossbows into the woods,” Fiona ordered.

The soldiers hesitated again.

Fiona tightened her grip again.

“Do it!” Farquaad croaked out, his windpipe partially obstructed.

The crossbowmen followed the orders, flinging their weapons into the nearby woods.

“Now do the same with your swords and other weapons,” Fiona ordered.

Again the soldiers looked at Farquaad, who just gritted his teeth and nodded.

The soldiers with swords unsheathed them and flung them into the woods as well, followed by a couple of maces and a few sundry other weapons. Feeling safer, Fiona loosened her grip – a little.

“Happy now?” Farquaad asked churlishly.

“Getting there,” Fiona said. She looked over the weaponless soldiers – the soldiers who had so viciously assaulted her friends and destroyed their home. Her home. Her…family. “Now,” she said to the assemblage, her upper lip curling into a snarl, “remove your helmets.”

“Remove their helmets?” Farquaad echoed, puzzled. “Why on earth would you want them to re—”

“I said I want them to remove their helmets and I want them removed now!” Fiona snapped, again tightening her grip.

“Okay!” Farquaad again croaked out. “Easy! As you command, Your Highness.” He nodded toward his soldiers, who again looked around at each other for a few seconds. Then each removed his helmet.

“Drop them!” Fiona ordered. “On the ground!”

The helmets hit the ground with soft but satisfying thuds and rattling of metal.

“There,” Farquaad said. “Are you happy now?”

“Yes, actually,” Fiona said, a smile not born of happiness but of something more primal parting her lips as she felt adrenalin surging into her muscles. “That is just…perfect.”

“Good,” he said. “Now, release me!”

“Certainly,” she said. She released the headlock and stood, but quickly seized his wrist again with one hand as he also stood and tried to step away.

“Not so fast, dear,” she said. “You offered your hand to me. I think I can use it now.”

She seized the wrist with her other hand as well as she pulled back and started to spin in place. She didn’t know if it was power from her adrenalin-charged muscles or she somehow managed to channel some of her ogrid strength, but her momentum lifted Farquaad off of his feet as she spun. Fortunately his ‘armor’ was thin, light, and ornamental; befitting a man who had no intention of taking part in actual combat himself, she mused. “Gaaaah!” he wailed as she twirled thrice, picking up progressively more momentum like an Olympic hammer thrower winding up, lifting Farquaad higher until he was perpendicular to her. Then she let him go. He flew through the air and impacted the group of soldiers who were beholding the scene in goggle-eyed incredulity, knocking several of them down like a bowling ball smashing into a set of tenpins. Before they could recover, Fiona shrieked a battle cry and launched herself into the midst of the soldiers.