Fiona awoke after another uneventful night – uneventful,
of course, except for the usual transmogrification followed by crying herself
to sleep. It had been four days since
that vivid dream of the knight crashing through the roof had startled her awake
from her nap. But it was just a dream now, she realized, and
not a vision, for it had faded just like any other dream. Even now Fiona had a difficult time recalling
any detail about that knight. In a few
days’ time, it would be as if his image never existed at all.
The sun was already up, something that Fiona was grateful
for. She hated awakening as a monster;
when that happened, she would simply lay there, waiting, almost counting the
interminable seconds until dawn and the resumption of her proper form. But this morning, she was set to go. She sat up, stretched, got out of bed, and
then went to her mirrorless dresser where she dipped
her cupped hands in the water sitting in the basin there and wet her face, then
dried it with a towel. Fortunately it
had rained overnight – she recalled being awakened briefly by the clap of
thunder and hearing the rain pelting the tower roof – and so the runoff
collection vents around the outside of the tower would have replenished her fresh
water supply, although she would strain it before drinking it so as to remove
any residue left by the volcanic cloud through which the rain fell. That was mostly for the taste, though; one of
the ‘gifts’ of the enchantment was that, in either form, she retained an ogre’s
high tolerance of impurities. Sometimes
it seemed to Fiona that she was more like an ogress who assumed human form
rather than the other way around, but when such thoughts struck her the
princess dismissed them as ludicrous.
One thing that Fiona felt sure of, in either state, was that she much
preferred the fresh water than having to use the magical recycler that had been
left her.
She walked over to a large tapestry and drew it aside,
revealing a stone wall covered by many, many chalk marks where Fiona had been
marking off the days of her captivity.
The wall was nearly full. She
picked up a piece of chalk, marked off another day, dropped the chalk, sighed,
and then let the tapestry flop back into place.
She ate breakfast from her cache of specially
enchanted bread. The bread was adapted
from a recipe that the Fairy Godmother had taken from the elves along with
their bakery, and to which she had added a preservation spell to keep it fresh
indefinitely. Fiona didn’t know that
history, only that the bread supposedly contained all the nutrients she needed,
and just a single piece filled her for the day.
Thus she was only some three-quarters through the trunk full of the
supply that had been left her when she had taken up residence. The food could probably last quite a while
longer if need be, she supposed, but she found little comfort in the thought.
The bread, although nutritious, was bland to her taste, and
so sometimes Fiona augmented it with a slice of fruitcake from a supply which
had been left in another trunk. Much
heavier than the elvin bread, it was also filling,
and although it had no preservation spell placed upon it, its ingredients
included enough preservatives to last a lifetime.
Fiona finished eating and then washed the food down with a
small goblet of water. Her daily
nutrient quotient fulfilled and hunger satisfied, she tried to ignore one other
craving she felt – that for protein. For
the type of protein she found herself craving she should, she realized, find
revolting. Even in human form, when she
thought back to the insect she had eaten that night, she didn’t feel the
revulsion she should have, but instead remembered its crunchiness, its tangy
taste, and its creamy insides. And when
she heard rustling behind the walls, rustling she believed was caused by rats,
she didn’t feel the fear and disgust that a proper princess should, but in the
back of her mind she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if she was
able to catch one and cook it. Such thoughts
actually did cause her to feel disgust, not at the rats, but at herself for having them. She cursed the ogress within her for
intruding its vile tastes upon her pristine palate, and tried to console
herself with the certainty that such socially reprehensible preferences would
vanish once she found her Prince Charming; or rather, once her Prince Charming
found her.
Forcing culinary thoughts aside, Fiona donned a black
leotard and performed a half-hour of tai chi, as her mother had taught
her. Brief rounds of calisthenics and
isometric exercises followed. Afterward
she wiped off with a wet sponge, donned her green felt dress and velvet
slippers, brushed and re-braided her hair, set her gold tiara in place, tucked
her handkerchief under her sleeve, and then settled in for yet another day
of…waiting.
After sitting at the window for a while, one elbow resting
on the sill and her chin propped on one hand as she stared out across the bleak
landscape and occasionally watched one of the half-dozen or so large brown
eagles that made their nests in the other towers around the castle glide by,
she got up and went to the part of her room where she kept her reading
materials – and her audience.
“Good morning, Felicia,” Fiona said sweetly, addressing a two-foot
doll, dressed as a princess complete with its own little tiara, that sat
propped in a chair. “Oh, where did Sir Squeakles go?” She
reached down to the floor and picked up a small squeeze toy about the size of
her hand. Covered in silk sown and
decorated to make it look like a young knight in armor with a raised visor, it featured
a cute smile stitched on beneath its button eyes and, as its name implied, it squeaked
when squeezed. “Felicia, sweetheart, I
believe this is yours,” Fiona said, smiling, as she squeaked the toy and then laid
it in the doll’s lap.
“And where is Mr. Fluffy?” Fiona asked. “Ah, there he is!” Fiona went over to the nearby corner and
picked up a plush, life-sized stuffed toy cat from off a pillow, along with a
brush that lay beside it. The ‘cat’ had
faded orange synthetic fur and a frayed dull pink ribbon tied around its neck.
“I think it’s time for his grooming, don’t you?” Fiona
asked, taking a seat on a chair facing the doll. Fiona laid the stuffed cat in her own lap. “Who’s a pretty kitty?” she said, and started
carefully brushing its fur – already worn off in some areas after years of such
‘grooming’. As she brushed, Fiona began
to hum a melodic little tune – “Hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm-mm, hmm-mm, hmm-mm”
– a tune that her mother used to hum to her back so long, long ago, back when
Fiona had a real cat named ‘Mr.
Fluffy’ whom they had groomed together.
The real Mr. Fluffy was a somewhat lazy, overweight feline with shiny orange
fur that Fiona had loved dearly and which seemed to love her back – and Mr.
Fluffy didn’t treat Fiona any differently whether she was human or ogress.
When the day was approaching for Fiona to leave for her
stay in the Dragon’s Keep, Fiona had begged her parents to let her take Mr.
Fluffy as a companion.
“I’m sorry, dear,” her father had said, “but trying to
care for a cat in that environment might be a bit trying. Plus, he’s getting a bit old and…well…”
Her father’s eyes had sought her mothers’ at that point,
as if asking for assistance. Her mother
had nodded to him, smiled, and knelt beside Fiona as the princess petted the
cat, which purred contentedly in her lap.
“Your father is right, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Mr. Fluffy is far too old for such
adventures. But we can give you a toy
cat to take his place while you wait for your rescuer. Every time you play with it, you can think
back on Mr. Fluffy and the happy times you spent together.”
“Will Mr. Fluffy be waiting for me here when I get back?”
the saddened child asked.
Her mother had hesitated, a troubled expression on her
face for a moment, but then she smiled reassuringly and said, “Of course,
dear,” and kissed her gently on her forehead.
Years later and somewhat wiser, Fiona realized that this
was the first lie of which she was aware that her mother had told her. The real Mr. Fluffy was surely as dead by now
as any of those knights that had sought to rescue her.
The recollection souring her mood, Fiona laid the toy cat aside.
“So, Felicia,” she said, turning toward a bookcase and leaning down to
peruse the titles on the bottom shelf, which was filled with fairytale books,
“which story would you like Mommy to read to you today?”
Fiona had a wide variety of books on different subjects
and of different maturity levels. The
fairytales were on the bottom shelf, with progressively more mature reading
materials on the correspondingly higher shelves above them. Over the years she had read them all. In fact, she had been given a curriculum to
follow until she was rescued so that her education wouldn’t suffer, but she had
already completed the curriculum before that happy event occurred. Facts on everything from history to
mathematics to science to the intricacies of court etiquette were stored in her
mind. (She’d had some problems with the
science books. For example, Ptolemy’s
model of the workings of the universe appeared overly complex; it seemed to
Fiona that things would be simpler and made more sense if you simply placed the
sun at the middle instead of the earth.
Of course, that only showed how poor a science student she would have
made.) She’d even learned a smattering
of tactical military strategy, for all the good that would do her. But when
she needed distraction, she always returned to the simple storybooks of her
youth, with uncomplicated characters and clear morals, which she could share
with her own prospective ‘child’. After
all, Fiona was as much of a princess in distress as any of those she read
about. She had more than paid her dues,
and so surely she had earned the happily-ever-after that the other princesses,
who had suffered such briefer trials, had been granted.
“Here we are,” Fiona said, picking out one of the
well-worn volumes, “Sleeping Beauty,
one of our favorites!”
Fiona sat down, opened the book in her lap while looking
at the doll, and began:
“Once upon a time
there lived a king and queen who had no children; and this they lamented very
much. But one day, as the queen was walking by the side of the river, a little
fish lifted its head out of the water, and said, 'Your wish shall be fulfilled,
and you shall soon have a daughter.'
“What the little
fish had foretold soon came to pass; and the queen had a little girl who was so
very beautiful that the king could not cease looking on her for joy, and
determined to hold a great feast. So he invited not only his relations,
friends, and neighbors, but also all the fairies, that they might be kind and
good to his little daughter. Now there were thirteen fairies in his kingdom,
and he had only twelve golden dishes for them to eat out of, so that he was
obliged to leave one of the fairies without an invitation. The rest came, and
after the feast was over they gave all their best gifts to the little princess;
one gave her virtue, another beauty, another riches, and so on till she had all
that was excellent in the world. When eleven had done
blessing her, the thirteenth, who had not been invited, and was very angry on
that account, came in, and determined to take her revenge. So she cried
out, 'The king's daughter shall in her fifteenth year be wounded by a spindle,
and fall down dead.' Then the twelfth, who had not yet given her gift, came
forward and said that the bad wish must be fulfilled, but that she could soften
it, and that the king's daughter should not die, but fall asleep for a hundred
years.'”
Fiona paused to reflect, as she often did at this point in
the story. The heroine’s ordeal may not
have exactly been brief, but at least it was unconscious. Imagine that, she thought. To simply lie down and close her eyes, and
then when they opened, they would be beholding her rescuer. A century of waiting that would seem like
mere moments. How Fiona envied the
story’s princess.
Fiona then glanced down at the book to begin the next
paragraph, and noticed that she had it upside down. Without consciously thinking about it, she
had recited the first part from memory.
Now that she did stop to think
about it, she realized that she had read the tale so many times over so many
years that she could likely recite the entire story from memory. In fact, she could probably recite her whole catalog of tales of beautiful princesses
being rescued by handsome princes and living lives of happiness and ease from
memory. She could recite them, while
they lived them.
“Argh!”
Fiona cried in frustration, and then, before she realized what she was doing,
she ripped the book in half along its already worn spine. Then she stopped, stared aghast at what she
had done for a few moments, and then bent over the ruined tome and began
crying.
Fiona’s crying jag lasted several minutes, and as her sobs
faded into sniffles and whimpers, she caught a sound from outside – the distant
but recognizable sound of a horse’s hooves clopping on a rocky surface.
Fiona sprang up, the two halves of the book falling
forgotten to the floor as she dashed to the window. She stared out to see another knight dressed
in conventional armor dismounting his horse.
He strode to the foot of the rope bridge, paused, and took out a scroll.
“Oh, no,” Fiona moaned to herself.
As Fiona feared, the knight unfurled the scroll and read:
“I, as first runner-up in the Duloc Invitational
Dragon-slaying and Princess-rescuing Tournament, do challenge thee, foul beast,
and do hereby proclaim my intention to free the beautiful, fair, flawless Fiona
from thy keep and escort her back to Duloc where she
shall wed the manly and brave Lord Farquaad – whose
boots I am not worthy to shine, whose hair I am not worthy to anoint, and whose
cheeks I am not worthy to pinch – and where she may rule as the perfect queen,
subservient to his Perfect King.”
As the knight re-furled and put away his scroll Fiona
lowered and shook her head. Here was yet
another knight sent by this Farquaad, an errand
knight rather than a knight-errant, and one who was about to be killed for his
trouble. Still, there were rules and
strictures, and they had to be honored. She
took out the handkerchief from beneath her sleeve and waved the favor in the
air. The knight looked up, saw her, then
unsheathed his sword and saluted her with it.
Fiona felt herself blush, and she lowered the favor. The knight lowered his sword, turned, and
walked back to his horse. He took his
shield from where it was hung by the animal’s side, and then paused a few
moments to gently pet the animal, as if saying a last goodbye. Then he turned back, trained his eyes toward
the castle, and with sword and shield at the ready he strode toward the bridge.
Fiona started to turn away – but something stopped
her. No, this just wasn’t right. She couldn’t take this anymore, couldn’t sit
aside while another man sacrificed himself in some fruitless, stupid
endeavor. She whirled back around and
screamed at the top of her lungs, “HALT!”
The knight, startled, did indeed halt only a few paces
from the robe bridge. He looked up in
her direction, although at this distance neither knight nor princess could make
out each others’ faces very well. “Are
you Princess Fiona?” he called up to her.
“I am,” Fiona responded.
“And I bid thee to cease thy quest and returnest
to thine home.”
He paused for a moment, and then asked, “Are you not held
prisoner by a foul dragon?”
“Yes,” she replied, but wasn’t sure what else to say after
that.
“Then it is my duty to free you,” he said, and again began
toward the bridge.
“NO!” Fiona called.
“Thou shalt be killed!”
He stopped and looked back up at her. After a moment he said, “It is a risk I must
take.”
“But why?” she
asked. “Thou aren’t
even performing this quest for yourself, but for this…this Lord Farquaad.”
“That is true. And
Lord Farquaad holds dominion to my land. If I do not perform this duty, then I shall
find myself a homeless pauper.”
Fiona was surprised.
Did this knight not know that if he rescued and married her, that he
would be in line to inherit an even superior kingdom? She began to say that, but halted
herself. If she did so, that would only
encourage him on – into the dragon’s maw.
“Please,” she said.
“Property is not worth your life.”
“Perhaps.
But my honor is.”
“I don’t doubt that you are honorable – and brave and
skilled as well. But that is no match
for the fierce beast below!”
“You are quite kind and thoughtful, m’lady. And that is all the more reason to free you
from that diabolical dragon that captured and imprisoned you.”
“I wasn’t captured by the dragon,” Fiona responded without
thinking, “my parents sent me here.”
The knight paused, staring up at her for a few
moments. Then, with a trace of pity in
his voice, he said, “Why did your parents hate you?”
Fiona blinked.
“My…my parents don’t hate me.
They did this…for my own good.”
He silently stared up at her. Fiona could almost feel his disbelief…and his
sympathy.
“You don’t understand,” she said, frustrated, knowing she
couldn’t explain. “My parents love me!”
“May God save us from such ‘loving’ parents,” the knight
said, lowering his head and staring at the keep’s front. “As I shall attempt to save
you.” He began carefully walking
down the plank bridge, sword held at the ready.
“NO!” Fiona screamed.
“DON’T!”
“Fear not, m’lady,” he said,
neither breaking stride nor looking up. “I
shall see you soon. Adieu.”
“PLEASE!
DON’T! You’ll DIE!”
He continued down the bridge, ignoring her pleas.
“STOP!” Fiona cried as he disappeared
into the keep beneath her. “Sto-o-op,” she choked, sinking to her knees. She felt new tears sting her eyes. “I don’t want another death on my head,” she
whimpered, and again began crying.
After a few seconds Fiona tried to pull herself
together. “Just stop it,” she chastised
herself, forcing herself to stop crying and wiping the tears from her eyes hard
with the heels of her palms. “Blast it,
maybe this is the one. Have you thought
of that? Where’s your faith? He seemed brave, and even caring. After all these years, he could surely be—”
From within the bowels of the castle, Fiona heard the
dragon’s roar, followed by the knight’s scream – which was abruptly cut off.
Fiona closed her eyes, bowed her head, and for several
minutes wept with despair until no more tears would come.
She had never spoken to any of the other knights
before. Surprisingly, she now reflected,
it had not occurred to her. They had
their role to play, as did she. Had she
even thought of them as individuals? No,
she realized with some shame, she supposed she hadn’t. But now that she had spoken with one, things had suddenly become more personal. She realized abashedly that she hadn’t even
learned his name, and so in the end he was just the latest in the string of
nameless knights that had died trying to rescue her. But they all did have names. They were
all people, too, with their own hopes and dreams, none of which included being
digested or immolated by a dragon. She
wondered now at the motivations of such men, the ones not sent by Farquaad. What would
drive them onward toward such peril? The chivalrous desire to save an endangered maiden, as she had
assumed? Or
perhaps the want of a princehood, with its riches and
prestige? Did expectations of
their profession or their peers drive them?
Or maybe the thrill of the ultimate extreme sport? Combinations of any of
those? Perhaps. But now, men were dying because they were
being coerced to, by some cowardly lord without the guts to attempt the deed
himself. And even if either of the last
two knights had succeeded, could she really share True Love’s kiss with such a person
as this Farquaad?
Even if it would end her curse? Fiona wondered. Perhaps if the previous knight had
succeeded…or if she had not felt a bond with this last one…maybe in her
desperation to rid herself of her curse she could have tried talking herself
into it. But now she could feel nothing
but contempt for the Lord of Duloc.
Something else that this last knight had said haunted
her. ‘Why did your parents hate
you?’ He obviously didn’t know her
history, and so couldn’t understand. But
the words – spoken with such pity in his voice – had triggered some unwelcome
thought processes, and reawakened memories long suppressed; memories such as
her father’s stern chastisement when, as a very small child, all she had wanted
to do was attend a slumber party with her friends at Princess Aurora’s
castle. Of course, Fiona knew she would
transform overnight, but the other children were her friends, and surely they
would understand. She assumed so, anyway. But her father had been aghast at the idea,
and had reiterated quite vehemently that she was never to set foot outside their castle, or even to leave
specifically designated areas of it, during the nighttime hours. She recalled the picture she had drawn of the
scene in her diary, the way she had drawn his face, trying in her young,
innocent way to capture the expression there, the stern expression that she now
realized was caused by…shame.
Even her mother, although ostensibly more understanding
than her father, had in her own way registered her own displeasure. The queen expressed it more subtly, in ways
she probably wasn’t even aware of: a little less kindness in her voice when
addressing her ogre daughter, a shifting away of the eyes rather than keeping
them fixed on Fiona’s ugly green visage, things such as that. But even her mother could forget herself
sometimes and be more blatant. Fiona
recalled one instance when, eating a particularly tasty but messy cake with her
hands after dinner one night, she had accidentally smeared frosting on her face
and dress, and her mother had remarked with distaste, “Really, Fiona. I know you can’t help turning into an ogre, but do you have to eat like one?” Such remarks were rare, and no doubt prompted
by stress and despair, but they did happen, and over time Fiona learned to block
out such comments when she heard them.
At least, she thought she had.
But…well, so what?
If her parents didn’t love her, they wouldn’t have taken her to all
those mages over time to try to cure her.
And placing her in this tower, it was a part of the final cure. It wasn’t like they were ashamed of her, or
trying to hide her away, like an embarrassing secret.
Was it?
No, she chided herself, of course not. Her parents loved her. And if she could walk out
of the keep today and into their own castle, whether she was cured or not, they
would love her just the same.
Wouldn’t they?
Of course they
would. Fiona realized it was important
for her to believe that.
Because it would have to be put to
the test.
She had to escape the tower. On her own. Before any other knights
died trying to rescue her.
However kind-hearted her parents’ wishes were, the ‘Prince
Charming’ scenario simply wasn’t working.
However much Fiona had fantasized about her life as the wife of such a
hero, it had gone on far too long and cost too many lives. Whatever the intentions, Fiona began to
realize that she was not a prize to be won by would-be rescuers, but bait being
dangled like a worm on a hook in front of their eyes. Fiona had to escape the hook that kept her
pinned in this room. She had to.
Then, she would return to her parents, and then…well, then they would
see. They would try something else. Or they would simply have to reconcile
themselves to the reality that Fiona would live out her life as she was, and
accept her for that...and maybe even help her to accept herself.
They would do
that for her, wouldn’t they?
Of course they
would. Fiona mentally kicked herself for
having such doubts. She just wished
that, now that those doubts had arisen, she could completely banish them.
But first things first.
She had to figure a way to escape the keep. No, actually, the first thing was to escape this room.
She turned toward the door. That ever-present, beckoning,
ominous door. Over the seemingly
endless years she had sometimes, when feeling particularly lonely or
frustrated, wondered what would happen if she ever decided to just open that
door and walk out…to descend into the bowels of the castle and take her own chances and try to sneak by the
dragon. But the certainty of that outcome had always squelched such
fleeting fantasies. But now…Fiona
considered the door again. She
approached it carefully, with trepidation, as a pagan might approach the altar
of a powerful but temperamental deity.
She thought that the smell of brimstone, which she had become mostly
inured to over the years, even to her ogress senses, became noticeable as she
drew nearer. Of course, that could just
be her nerves and imagination. She
slowly reached out a trembling hand.
Her fingers brushed the wooden finish, only slightly warm, but she
quickly drew her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove. She then took a couple of slow, stumbling
steps backward, still facing the door.
No, she wasn’t quite ready to walk out that door.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the only option.
Fiona turned back toward the window. She walked over to it, then leaned out and
looked downward. The height made her
slightly dizzy as she stared down the tower’s long, relatively smooth
cylindrical stone outer wall. She didn’t
see anything that might provide hand or foot holds should she try to scale down
it. She considered constructing a
makeshift rope, but the gossamer curtains were too flimsy to hold even her
human weight, and she had very few bed sheets since the room stayed perpetually
warm due to its location over the lava.
(Although the temperature had
seemed to be a bit lower lately; Fiona wondered if perhaps the lava might
actually be cooling.) There were some
other assorted materials about the room, but even if she could rip them apart
and tie the shreds together, they didn’t provide nearly enough yardage. So a rope to
scale downward seemed out of the question as well. Even if she did manage to climb or scale down, she would still have to sneak
across the bridge. Would the dragon
notice her? The beast seemed inscrutably
attentive, even with knights that didn’t
announce their presence like the last two had.
Maybe if she could catch it asleep.
But when did it sleep? And for
how long at a time? And
how deeply? If
Fiona only knew.
Frustrated, the princess propped her elbows on the window
sill and rested her chin on her hands as she tried to think of an
alternative. As she thought, a couple
more of the eagles appeared, majestically riding the air currents several yards
in the distance. Fiona’s brain continued
to ponder as her eyes distractedly followed the eagles.
The eagles.
The eagles!