Joy, Growth, Unicorns...Rated T

[oOGarrettOo]

Joy, Growth, Unicorns

Rated T. Short Story.

Warnings: Violence, language, wit.

Constructive Criticism please. I don't mean "You misspelled something here" or "this sentence was awkward". I prefer something that will help me when it comes to story development and character development. Where this story probably won't go anywhere, I could always use what I'm given towards my novels.  

[oOGarrettOo]

Turin had never fancied himself a very good ruler. He wasn’t all that impressive, in stature or skill, and didn’t really think highly of his own intelligence. But as an only son and only able body next in line for the throne, he grew up with the ever increasing weight of having to one day run a kingdom resting heavily on his shoulders. The day his father died of illness, Turin nearly died himself.

Turin didn’t want to be king. Not really.

Of course, his uncle saw to that. Turin wasn’t at all surprised when he awoke in the middle of the night to a rather clumsy assassin. He’d booby trapped his room, naturally, but he hadn’t pictured an assassin clumsy enough to actually set them off. If Turin was completely honest with himself, he’d have been slightly hurt at the knowledge that his uncle thought so little of him.

All that aside, however, Turin had to admit, out of all the surprising things he had put up with, the most was his current disposition as he clung to the reins of his horse’s bridle, thundering through the forest that made up a good portion of his kingdom, attempting to escape the group of men after his life.

No, Turin didn’t fancy himself very impressive at all.

---

Petteline had never fancied herself a lady…and she never bothered trying to be one. Her waking state was evidence enough as she rose in front of the dwindling fire, letting out a full-body yawn and stretching out her tight muscles from sleeping on the floor yet again. Her clothes were disheveled in a rather revealing manner, and she groggily tugged them into place, scrubbing dirty fingers through her matted, curly, brown hair.

Her fire spat and hissed, threatening to die on her if it wasn’t fed, so she tossed some kindling in and gave it a good poke. It sizzled happily and satisfied it wouldn’t die Petteline stood and trumped her way outside, grabbing a bucket to draw from her well and splash some cool water on her face.

Petteline had built the well herself, along with her cabin and her garden and any other odds and ends that made up her secluded little section of land. It helped that she was part elf and living in the woods came naturally, but she also didn’t mind getting dirty or doing things for herself. No, Petteline didn’t fancy herself a lady in the slightest and kept well enough away from any and all who might have expected her to be one.

So imagine her surprise when an unimpressive boy on an equally as unimpressive horse, flew down the path in front of her quiet little dwelling, closely followed by a few other men on much better looking horses.

---

Turin screamed as an arrow whizzed past his head, just missing his horse’s, and stuck deep in a nearby tree. He’d given up pretending to be brave and for the last few miles or so he’d willingly screamed for help as he spurred on. Quite unsurprising, no one had bothered to help him, and he was almost hoarse from screaming.

His horse finally reached its limit and quickly came to a staggering halt, huffing heavily and threatening to collapse. Turin quickly dismounted and attempted to run on foot, but his own bit of clumsiness had him face first in some mud, and he spluttered as the assassins surrounded him.

“He really ain’t all that impressive,” said one of four.

“Not at all. You sure he’s the one we’re after?” asked two.

“Sure enough. Paid handsomely for it and it hasn’t been much of a challenge,” four grumbled, pulling out a knife and giving the blade a once over.

“But he hasn’t even put up a fight. Ain’t these royal types supposed to be battle trained and whatnot” asked three.

“Yeah, well, he who paid said not to expect much. Let’s just get it over with then,” said four and he gave the knife a toss.

Turin, by that point, hadn’t any hope left whatsoever and let out a half-hearted cry, covering his face with his hands. He expected to feel what he called the cold steel of death, but instead heard a whoosh and a ting, all followed closely by a hollow thud. He peered between his fingers to see a brightly fletched arrow protruding from the ground between his legs, the knife caught by a sliver of leather of its handle.

Petteline jumped off the rock ledge beside the party and casually retrieved her arrow, checking the steel head for any damage. She looked up at the men still on horseback and frowned.

The fourth man however, smiled. “Petteline. I’d wondered where you’d gotten to,” he said familiarly.

Petteline plastered on a fake smile. “Jacof!” Her smile fell into an irritated scowl. “Get out.”

This Jacof person’s smile faded. “Well see…Not that I normally have issue with your requests, but that boy there happens to be my target. Got paid a great deal for his head, you see.”

Petteline nodded. “No,” she mumbled plainly.

Jacof huffed. “Look, Petteline, this isn’t any of your business. Just step aside.”

“I’m sorry, I seem to have thought I’d already told you to leave. My sincerest apologies. Get out,” Petteline repeated.

“Hand over the boy to be killed and I’ll be off.”

“Please don’t hand him over,” said Turin from his place on the ground.

Petteline looked over her shoulder at him, gave him an obvious look over, and turned back to Jacof. “What’s this skinny runt worth anyhow?”

“A good deal of gold and possibly our retirement. His head’s worth a fantastic amount and I’m to be sure to get it where it needs to be so’s I can get my due,” said Jacof.

Petteline hummed and nodded. “They ask for his head in particular, then? If I recall, you don’t generally accept quests that require dismemberment of any sort.”

Jacof fidgeted. “There was nothing in particular asked for, but the caller did make mention of heads and silver platters,” he said.

“So any bit’ll do?”

“I imagine so.”

Petteline hummed again and turned fully to the cowering Turin. She took in his ragged, dirty appearance, covered in mud, brambles, and other odd bits of foliage. Beneath it all, Petteline could plainly see fine clothes, fair skin, and a rather thick tail of black hair.

Turin shuddered under the bullheaded woman’s intense gaze. He knew he must have been a sight, dirty and grungy as he was, but this woman’s searching of him seemed to be more exacting than general. Needless to say, his heart nearly stopped when this Petteline pulled a knife from her belt and came at him. He screamed and curled tighter, but gave a surprised and pained yelp when his hair was snatched and his head was tugged forward. Turin made to struggle, but with a quick jerk of her blade, Petteline relieved him of the raven locks and he dropped back to the ground. He looked up to see the tail tossed into the hands of Jacof the Assassin.

Turin gasped at his chopped hair and gaped at Petteline. “You chopped off my hair.”

Petteline looked back at him in annoyance. “Would you that I chop off your head instead?” she bit. Turin scowled but went silent. Petteline rolled her eyes and turned back to Jacof. “Then that aught to sate your man’s need for proof. Now get on out of my woods,” she grumbled.

Jacof flipped the tail around a moment and grinned at Petteline. “You sure have changed. All right then, suppose easy money’s the way to go. You take care of yourself, Pet,” he said and he tugged his horse about. Petteline didn’t wait around to see him off, instead slinging her bow over her shoulder and heading back to her hut.

Turin sat there in the mud awhile, letting everything sink in. He’d only half comprehended the elf woman appearing out of nowhere and saving his life, so the whole situation warranted some careful thought. Moments ago he’d been on the run from a set of assassins and had been certain his life was about to end. Yet here he sat, one life more and a little hair less, but still intact and breathing. Breathing never felt so good.

His horse finally made a reappearance and it wasn’t until a good shove that Turin realized more than just his thought had sunk in.

After carefully dislodging himself from the mud, Turin wandered back the direction he’d come and hummed thoughtfully at the little hut sitting quietly amongst the trees, a garden blooming nearly all around it and a hand built well sitting off to the side. His savior was currently mucking about at the well and even though the trouble was gone she seemed rather angry.

“H-hello?” Turin stuttered as he approached.

Petteline looked up, momentarily startled, and scowled when she saw the man-boy standing there. “What do you want? Didn’t you hear me say git?” she grumbled, hauling up her bucket a little faster.

Turin fidgeted. “Umm…well…mostly I just wanted to thank you for saving me. I’da been dead for sure,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“Yes, you would have. And I didn’t save you, so stuff your gratitude somewhere I can’t see it, it’s a mite unsightly, and get lost,” she said, nearly sighing with relief when her bucket finally reached the top. Petteline didn’t bother transferring like she usually did and opted to just unhook the bucket instead. The sooner she could lock herself inside, the better.

Turin stared, confused. “But… then what do you call what you just did? With me not being dead and all thanks to your help,” he said, following her as she hurried away.

“I call it not having to clean a bloody corpse off my front lawn. Jacof’s a pretty serious assassin. He ain’t usually into needless hacking of the body but once he gets it in his mind how he’ll do it there’s not much stopping him. Now, I don’t know who you upset but I suggest you find yourself elsewhere and in the opposite direction of the four of them,” she said.

Turin looked down the path towards the village that bordered his city. “But…I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he mumbled sadly.

Petteline stopped at her door and sighed. “I live in the middle of nowhere, boy. There’s always someplace to go,” she grumbled and she barricaded herself in her house.

Turin stood where he was as her words sunk in. Middle of nowhere, always someplace to go. He figured it made sense. Nowhere was somewhere, after all, and he was right in the middle of it. He let out a heavy sigh and looked around the well kept little bit of nowhere. It didn’t look so bad.

Not far from the house was a small spring, obviously fed by some underground water source, and Turin chanced moving into the wood a ways to it. The calm surface acted as a looking glass and Turin grimaced at his reflection. He had mud everywhere, smeared across his face and completely covering his clothing. Raven locks fell in uneven layers around his head, one side longer than the other even, and he quickly felt around his person for the only knife he carried.

Dipping hands into the water, he eagerly went about cleaning his face and hands. He tugged off his tunic and boots, tossing them into the water to soak, grateful it was warm at least so he wouldn’t freeze sitting there half-naked. Relatively clean, Turin tugged at the hacked pieces around his face, a frown marring his features. Long, kept hair had always been a sign of nobility. Seeing it chopped and shattered, he was reminded again how he was obviously no longer nobility, nor welcomed in his own home.

“Well, what is, is, Turin. No use feeling sorry for yourself anymore, is there?” he grumbled and he tugged a long strand and slid the edge of his blade into the fine mess.

He worked at it for most of the day, stopping now and then to fiddle sadly with the lost pieces and occasionally toss a stone at his reflection. He was so absorbed in it that he didn’t notice Petteline poke her head out the cabin door and glare at him every so often. By early evening his hair was shorter and less of a mess and Petteline was tired of his trespassing.

“You’re a mite pathetic,” Petteline snapped. Turin jumped and quickly looked over his shoulder. “I thought I’d made it abundantly clear that I wanted you gone,”

Turin fumbled to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Petteline arched a brow. “I’m sure you are,” she grumbled sarcastically, turning and walking off in favor of tending to her vegetables.

Turin huffed. “If you’re so bothered with me then why did you convince them to leave me alone?”

“Are you complaining then?”

Turin frowned. “Well no,” he mumbled in annoyance.

“Really? So then you normally outstay your welcome and trespass on other people’s property?” she asked, kneeling and tugging up some weeds.

Turin fumed at the blatant disrespect. “I’ll have you know that you’re the one squatting on my land, thank you. If I wanted to I could have you removed and you’d have to find a whole new nowhere to put yourself,” he threatened. It wasn’t much of a threat, not really, considering there wasn’t much conviction in his voice and he just wasn’t impressive enough for anyone to take his threats seriously. Judging by the angry and annoyed look Petteline was giving him he figured he would have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

“Are you…threatening me?” Petteline seethed. It would have almost sounded sincere if it weren’t for the obvious amounts of sarcasm dripping from practically every syllable.

“No, I’m sorry,” Turin easily caved.

Petteline rolled her eyes and pushed to her feet. “You’re so pathetic. Don’t you have any backbone at all, some little segment of spine anywhere?”

Turin blinked. “What?”

Petteline practically growled in frustration. “Stop slouching, stand up straight. Be a man when you speak and look me in the eye, put some confidence behind those words,” she drilled.

Turin flushed and quickly followed her instruction. “I—,”

“And for gods sake stop apologizing for everything. If you mean to do it then don’t be sorry for it and if you must be sorry for it then don’t bother doing it at all. It’s a wonder you’ve made it this long,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Thoroughly humiliated, Turin stood there, cheeks ablaze, and chewed his lip. “You always this personable?” he spat.

“There’s nothing wrong with me not liking folk. I told you to leave and you insisted on sticking around which leads me to believe either you’re a masochist or you’re doing it for some other self-gratification nonsense. Either way, I’m too busy to play games so if you’d please,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. She hadn’t expected him to leave and he didn’t let her down, remaining right where he was, watching her pick away at the garden. Petteline was almost disappointed that he didn’t have his arms crossed and his lower lip wasn’t out in a pout.

Turin fidgeted. “So…you know the assassins pretty well then?” he questioned.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just curious. They seemed to value your word, anyway,” he mumbled with a shrug.

Petteline sighed and knelt back to her vegetables. “They’re a lot of idiots is what they are.”

“And you know this for certain?”

Petteline glared up at him and he shrugged, that overwhelming sensation of being naught but a fly on the wall making him feel all the more insignificant under her gaze. She turned her attention back to the weeds at hand and seemed to think about his question honestly.

“I lived there once, back when I could stand people. I’ve always been good at fighting and I’ve got a deadly aim. The assassin’s guild grabbed me up when they saw I was practically homeless and threw me in with their life of by-the-pay killing. Only been a year or so since I left.”

Turin hummed. “Any particular reason?”

“Guild Master didn’t suit me as a title. I did what I needed and went on my way. Not that it matters seeing as how you were chased here. So my rules obviously didn’t mean much,” she grumbled, a bitter expression crossing her face as she ripped up a weed and tossed it aside.

Turin furrowed his brow. “Your rules?”

“Indeed,” she breathed.

Silence dragged on between them. Turin would occasionally look up and examine the little homely patch and let his mind wander.

“Why do you have a well if there’s a spring right here?” he broke the silence with. Petteline sighed heavily.

---

Days went by, only a couple, and Turin showed no signs of leaving. He’d taken to sleeping in her currently empty wood shelter, lying on his horse’s saddle pad and using his cloak as a cover. If he wasn’t sleeping then he was by the pond brooding and Petteline was highly annoyed with his superfluous amount of self pity.

“You really intend to sit there forever and just stare at yourself?” Petteline asked one afternoon as she dropped a bucket into the well.

“Nothing else to do,” Turin mumbled pathetically.

“Well how about you put some of that focus into finding your own clearing and building a shack? At least then you can stop sleeping in my kindling shed,” Petteline grumbled.

Turin sighed and glared at her weakly. “Sorry I’m such a bother,” he said sarcastically.

Petteline huffed and hauled up the full bucket of water, letting it thud onto the stone rim. “Would you appreciate a complete stranger helping himself to your sitting room?” Turin was silent and tried very hard not to react. Petteline just snorted angrily and started back for her house.

“You’re an elf aren’t you?” Turin mumbled. “Why are you out here instead of in the elven city not far off?”

“Don’t see how it matters to you,” Petteline grumbled.

“Was just a simple question. You needn’t be so sore about it,” said Turin.

“Why do you feel the need to ask such personal questions?”

Turin scowled. “Well pardon me for trying to get to know you,” he spat. Petteline just rolled her eyes. “Oh, what now?”

“You throw a fit every time you don’t get your way, that’s what. Just because you were a high class upstart there, doesn’t give you any rights, out here in the uncivilized wood, to know everyone’s business. I’d rather not be all buddy-buddy with you, in case that has slipped your attention,” she spat.

“No wonder you don’t have any friends,” Turin mumbled. He hadn’t expected a freezing bucket of water to be dumped over his head, followed closely by one good cuff. He almost saw stars and braced himself against the ground.

Petteline was fuming. “You want to know why I don’t have any friends, brat? I don’t have anyone because I’m a damned half-breed. Simply put, that means the elves don’t want me and the humans don’t want me. So I don’t have anywhere to go because according to both my blood is tainted. Get it, human? Are you happy now?” she seethed, eyes alight with anger and hatred. Turin didn’t speak, choosing instead to stare into the spring and rub the back of his head. A vein in Petteline’s jaw throbbed and she chucked the empty bucket at the well. “No, I don’t suppose you would understand.” She marched back into her hut.

Day turned into night and both parties were left brooding and unhappy. Petteline had thoughts and memories flying through her head she had tried to repress and Turin felt like a complete and utter jerk.

Curled up in the wood shelter, he mulled over Petteline’s words, torn between feeling sour or guilty. He knew he was in the wrong. This was Petteline’s home, regardless of whose land it was on, and Turin had been nothing but rude the entire time he squatted there. But he’d never admit it, not completely. After all, Petteline was anything but hospitable. There was no way Turin would take all the blame.

It was the rummaging sounds of wild dogs and the nervous baying of his horse that pulled Turin from his musings and he went stiff as a board, listening carefully. He’d heard them further off earlier in the night, but never thought they’d come any closer. However, from the sounds of it, there was one right outside the shelter. At least one, anyway. Turin had never been good at listening out his surroundings.

Soft growls and grumbles reached his ears, claws on wood and noses snuffing about. They were right outside, nothing but a few slabs of old, rotting wood between them and the house. Either end was open to them, leaving him cornered and at their mercy. But if they were as hungry as he was, Turin didn’t think they’d be merciful for very long.

The sound of the front door caused him to jump and judging by the startled yips the wolves jumped as well. The glow of a fire reached around the corner from the front and Petteline appeared shortly after, a large mallet in hand.

“Get on, you damned dogs. Nothin’ here for you,” her gruff voice could be heard. The dogs growled and snarled, but moved away, the gentle rustle of leaves the only sign.

Turin sighed with relief, only to scream as a strong hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked him from the store. He blinked and stared up at Petteline. “Evening.”

Petteline arched a brow. “You’re lucky I woke up, you know that?” For once, Turin reluctantly nodded his head. A slightly surprised expression crossed Petteline’s face a moment and she just harrumphed. “So long as you know.”

From his spot on the ground, Turin could see the whole of the front lawn. There was a fire pit he hadn’t noticed before, not far from the front steps, and Petteline sat herself beside it, stoking the hot embers. Then Turin saw the venison.

His stomach audibly growled and knotted up. He hunched over and muffled an uncomfortable groan. Stealing an apple here and there from Petteline’s small tree just wasn’t enough. The smell from the now cooking meat wafted over and Turin’s mouth watered fiercely.

“Come sit,” Petteline grumbled. She’d heard his stomach growling for the last couple days. Before the dogs came about she’d considered cooking something anyway, just to get him fed. Unfortunately, her slab was right against the wall of the wood store and she could hear his stomach gurgling every night. Needless to say, it made sleep rather difficult.

Turin wandered over and took a seat across from her, the smell of food causing his stomach to tighten up again. Petteline gave him a sideways glance and he flushed. “Sorry.”

“You haven’t eaten anything since you got here?” she asked, a semi-subdued annoyed edge to her voice.

Turin shrugged. “Couple apples. Haven’t really felt like food,” he said, unconsciously reaching up and wiping his mouth.

Petteline snorted. “Yes, that’s obvious.” Turin chewed his lip. “I knew you were spoiled, but even Lords do some things for themselves. So how high up are you?” she asked, moving the venison around.

Turin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I am…I was…a prince.”

Inside, Petteline was in complete shock, but she was sure she handled it well on the outside. “Prince…really…”

Turin sighed. “I know, what are the odds, but it’s the damned truth and please tell me that’s ready,” he said as Petteline fussed with the steak again.

“Yes, yes, here,” she said, lifting it out and slapping it onto a wooden plate. She passed a knife off to Turin and the boy withstood the heat to dig in. “Should’ve caught yourself a rabbit.”

“N’er been huntin,’” Turin said, mouth full.

“Never? Thought that was the sport of choice?”

Turin shrugged. “Spent more time with my tutor, learning etiquette and the like. Father kept me pretty well shut up.”

Petteline hummed. “Why’s that?”

“Can’t say. But I have to be the worst likely ruler in the world.”

“So, Prince, who was it wanted you dead?” Petteline asked, throwing some brambles in the fire that gave off a god-awful stench as they burned.

Turin grimaced and had to take a moment to settle his stomach. “My uncle—what is that disgusting kindling?” he asked as Petteline broke a few more and tossed them in.

She grinned evilly. “Smells awful, don’t it? Keeps any beast away for miles. Those dogs were coming in for the meat, but this’ll send them off right quick. But any way… your uncle wants you dead? No honor in the family or what have you?”

Turin fanned his face. “He wanted the crown. Just as well. I’d have made a shite king. My father would be furious he were alive to know it.”

“Hmm, pity. I thought you said there was schooling for it,” said Petteline, stirring up the embers. The smell was beginning to die, but Turin was certain it was forever ingrained in his senses.

“There was plenty of schooling, but I never said I was good at anything,” Turin confessed.

Petteline nodded. “Right, so, let’s recap then. You’re a shite prince so your uncle tried to have you killed so as to take the crown for himself and you’re just fine with someone like that ruling in your father’s stead?”

Turin hummed as he chewed a bite of venison. “Pretty much, yes,” he said easily.

“And you’re not at all worried that your uncle will destroy any good your father may have worked towards?”

At that, Turin snorted. “If anything maybe my uncle will inadvertently do some good. Lord knows my father didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold and worth a fortune. The kingdom is in shambles. My uncle is pretty similar to him. Chances are nothing will change, for better or worse.”

Petteline stared at him, waiting for some kind of reaction. “And…that’s all right with you?”

“Well it’s not like I can do anything about it, not now that I’m dead and all,” Turin grumbled defensively. When Petteline huffed and stood to march off he rolled his eyes. “What now?”

“Nothing at all, just baffled that you can dismiss the ruin of your kingdom so easily,” she said tersely.

“Well what would you have me do? I was nearly killed and chances are if my uncle discovers I’m still alive he’ll have people after me again, whether I make it through my coronation or not. I’m as good as dead,” said Turin. It almost sounded like an excuse, but it was true. He’d be dead before he could even walk through the gates.

“Ever thought of fighting back?” Petteline spat.

Turin fumed and jumped to his feet. “Did you ever happen to look at me? Does it look like I can fight anyone?” he practically yelled, motioning to his tall, gangly figure. As far as he was concerned he wouldn’t be able to lift a sword let alone defend himself. Petteline shook her head and slammed the door behind her.

---

Neither of them were certain of why, be it Petteline’s life threatening manner or Turin’s view of himself, but either way, Petteline walked out of her hut the next morning to Turin hauling a pail of water out of the well.

He looked back as Petteline approached and feebly held out the bucket. “Um, I’m sorry…about last night, and some of the other things I said before. I didn’t really intend to be so cruel,” he said.

Petteline frowned and snatched her bucket. “I don’t think you really are, but I appreciate you trying to be,” she said flatly. Turin scowled a bit but kept his mouth shut. “So what do you want?”

He looked up, confused. “Eh?”

“Well you wouldn’t go through all that just because you felt bad. So what do you want?”

Turin sighed and fidgeted. “You…know how to fight, correct?”

Petteline’s frown deepened and she sighed. “Yes…But if you want my help you had better take it without complaint. I moved out here because I don’t like people. You complain and I’m done,” she said firmly.

Turin nodded furiously. “Understood. I just…need to know how to defend myself, at least.” He stared at Petteline pleadingly and for once the angry woman smirked.

“About time then. I’ll get you a sword and…try to teach you everything I know.” There was a glint in her eyes that sent a chill up Turin’s spine.

---

Saying it wasn’t easy was an understatement. Petteline forced Turin through drills and challenges that he’d never even heard of or witnessed during his training in the palace. Her sword play went beyond traditional sparring and moved right in to cunning and trickery, doing whatever it took to block and disarm the opponent. Endurance was stretched and forced by utilizing natural obstacle courses in the woods, some bearing signs of previous folk or animal succumbing to the hardships. Turin feared for his life daily.

The end of the harvest season drew ever nearer and Turin felt his training coming to a close with it. Petteline had moved from trying and daunting tasks to tedious and meticulous ones instead. He helped her clean the garden out and while she filled her store he tilled the soil and mixed everything back in. Every time he was certain he’d done enough Petteline would tell him to continue. The soil did look different by the time he was finally through.

On top of that, Turin had filled Petteline’s wood store, and then some, devised his own makeshift hut just past the spring, and helped her ready her hut for cold weather.

“Turin, stop working for awhile and sit down. That shack’ll never be winter worthy,” said Petteline one evening, stoking up a fire and throwing a pot on for stew.

Turin frowned at her. “Well I’d like to at least try so I don’t freeze to death,” he said, lashing some limbs together.

“Don’t be silly, boy, you’ll be back in your palace ruling your kingdom before the first snow hits the ground,” said Petteline.

Turin sighed. “You keep saying that,” he grumbled, walking the short distance to the pit.

“Only say what’s true. What you think I went ahead and trained you for?” she said, dumping some water in the pot to boil.

Turin hummed and shifted, rolling up the tattered sleeves of his tunic. He was lucky his clothes still fit at all he’d grown out so much. Even chopping wood had done him some good. “Might be stronger and swifter, but I can’t run a kingdom,” he said.

“You’re smart, too. Don’t doubt yourself. Besides, I’m sure you’ll do better than your uncle’s been. I’ve heard some talk, last I went down. Villagers say he’s taxing them for everything they’ve got, limiting their resources. All the evil things kings can do short of kill everyone. I know you’re spoiled, but you’re not that blinded by it,” said Petteline.

Turin sighed and rested his chin in his hand, gazing at Petteline in the firelight. It was a revealing light, shinning past that elven youth to her more human features. She always looked older, wise, as though she’d already experienced everything life had to offer her and now she was just biding her time, waiting her turn.

“You’re older than I think you are,” Turin mumbled. Petteline arched a brow. “I thought when I met you, you were…closer to my age really, still starting out. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? To think that.”

The half-breed woman sighed and ruffled her curly brown hair. “Well, I’m definitely older than that, that’s for certain,” she said, grabbing a basket of cut vegetables and tossing them into the pot.

Turin grinned a little. “How much older?”

Petteline hummed. “Let’s just say that, about the time your father was born…I was well on my way up the chain of command in your kingdom’s assassin’s guild,” she said.

Turin’s grin faded. He hadn’t been expecting that. That made Petteline at least sixty years old. “Oh…”

She snorted. “Well…I’ve been around awhile is all. Just like any other elf. Granted, I won’t live as long, but I’ve still got plenty of years left,” she said as though the very idea was bothersome.

“About how long then?” Turin asked out of curiosity.

Petteline shrugged. “From what some elves tell me, about a hundred years more or so. Not too much longer I suppose.”

Turin snorted. “Dunno. I think a hundred years is a bit more than I could take. I’ve barely been able to handle the few I’ve been around.”

Petteline smirked. “There’s still time.” He grinned and she chuckled, grabbing a small knife from her boot. “Your hair looks ridiculous, by the way.”

“Yes, well, it never grew back quite right after it was hacked off,” he teased.

“Still could have taken the whole head,” said Petteline. She carefully pulled her knife through it, fixing the odd lengths it had begun to grow into. It wasn’t as long as it had been, but all of Turin’s training had spurred the growth.

Turin stared at the flickering flames. “Petteline…you never speak about your life. I know you were an assassin but what of before that? You’re not from here originally, and you had training, I can tell,” he said in reference to her manners.

Petteline sighed. “It’s not important.”

“Well I didn’t ask if it was important, did I?” Petteline thwapped him with the flat of her blade.

“I’m from Cartus. Nothing special. Spent wasted years there, locked away because of my mixed blood, and when I finally got fed up enough I left and found myself here,” she said, plopping back down.

Turin scowled. “What do you mean locked away?”

Petteline sighed. “The King in Cartus was all about integration with the neighboring elves. So my father took an elf for a wife. Unfortunately, there weren’t many, in either culture, who were thrilled with the idea. So, when the half breeds like myself came along…we were shunned. So, I stayed locked away most of the time.”

Turin hummed. “Strange. Didn’t the King marry an elf?” Petteline nodded. “I heard she made him immortal. She was invited to my coronation to renew our treaty.”

“Not immortal, no. But marrying an elven sorceress has its perks,” Petteline mumbled.

“Still strange that they would go ahead and marry each other, but make a whole new group to hate. For no reason at that.”

“Imagining how the princess feels,” said Petteline.

Turin hummed. “Didn’t even know there was one.”

“Exactly,” she said, moving from his hair to stir the contents of the pot. Her suddenly sad expression didn’t go unnoticed, but Turin didn’t press any further. “Well…goodnight. I’ve lost my appetite and the will to stay awake,” Petteline said after a moment, standing and stretching.

“You’re sure?” asked Turin.

“Quite. Remember to put out the fire before you retire,” she said and with that shut herself up in her hut. Turin was left with a pot of stew and a head full of questions.

---

It was early dawn, the sun just starting to brighten in the sky, and Turin was jarred awake by Petteline hauling him out of bed.

“Ouch, what are you doing, you crazy woman?” he asked as she pulled him out of bed.

“Shh, get up, stop struggling” she hissed, hurrying him across the lawn and for the first time ever into her hut. She shoved him to the floor and looked between the slats in her window. “Someone’s coming, a group. Could be nothing, but just in case, stay in here, hide…somewhere if you need to. I’ll take care of the rest.” With that she grabbed a bucket and left the hut.

Turin was left starring at…nothing. The hut was absolutely ordinary. There was a bed, a table and chair, a small fireplace, and on the walls were hung swords, knives, bows, and quivers full of arrows. A wooden chest was locked in a corner, but other than that the room had nothing of interest.

Horses could be heard outside and Turin quickly dropped and scurried over to the only window in the front, peering through the curtains. His eyes widened and his breath caught at what he saw.

“Hail, maiden. Is this your dwelling?” a fancy man on horseback called to Petteline.

Petteline looked up from hauling in her bucket of water. “Indeed. May I ask whose calling?”

A sour look crossed the man’s face. “I am King Orrick. Currently I am on a quest,” he said stiffly, obviously miffed at not being recognized.

Petteline hummed. “King Orrick, eh? And what sort of quest brings you out here?” she asked, pulling her bucket up and letting it rest on the rim. She moved towards the group and Orrick backed his horse up a step.

“My soothsayer had a vision previously that my dear nephew and rightful heir to the throne was, in fact, alive and well. Since it was during a party many officials from neighboring kingdoms have set about in search of him.”

“Right, well I wish you luck on that then,” she said dismissively.

“You wouldn’t have happened to see a youthful lad run through? Black hair, fine clothes, rather scrawny?” Orrick went on.

“Can’t say that I have. When’s it he went missing then?” asked Petteline, screwing up her face in a show of confusion.

Orrick sighed with annoyed frustration. “In earlier months, likely mid summer, early fall.”

Petteline hummed and tapped her chin. “Seems I might recall a young man running by. Looked rather beaten maybe. Tried to cross the river east and got himself swept up by the current. No tellin’ where he got himself,” she said.

Orrick huffed. “You’re cooperation is appreciated.” He snapped his fingers and a man tossed a small black pouch at her. She let it hit the ground and Orrick and his men road off. Petteline growled in her throat and hurried back to her hut.

Turin opened the door and stepped out, still in shock. “He say he was lookin’ for me”

“Lookin’ for you, probably to kill you again,” she said, shoving past him and up to her wall of weapons.

“Well what did he say?”

“Some soothsayer spoke of your still breathing state whilst the room was full of all sorts. So they’re all looking for you. Every kingdom,” she said, picking a bow and grabbing an arrow. She noched it, turned, and drew back.

Turin paled. “Now, Petteline, I know I’ve been a bother but really,” he said, lifting his hands in submission. A grab to his shoulder startled him and as he turned to defend himself an arrow whizzed past, grazing his hair and embedding itself in the assassin’s skull. Turin stared at the masked man as he dropped and Petteline hurried out, another arrow ready to be drawn back.

“He get you?” she asked.

Turin felt around. “No.” An arrow thudded into the wood of the door frame beside him. “Still no.”

Petteline pulled back and fired into the trees beyond. A sharp yelp was their only indication the arrow found its mark. “Get inside, stay low,” she instructed, grabbing a sword and hurrying out into the trees. Turin did, arming himself, and moments later Petteline was back.

“Well?”

“They didn’t know it was you. Orrick commanded any who might have seen you be killed. However, now’s the perfect time to get your kingdom back,” she said.

“How do you figure?”

“Well, your uncle’s away, along with a good portion of his followers no doubt. You could easily waltz in, make your presence known, and while they’re getting you ready for your coronation, he’ll likely be miles away. Perfect opportunity,” she said.

“But, he still has to renounce his title. He’ll kill me on sight,” said Turin.

“Ah, but that’s the best part. To save face, your uncle renounced on the spot. So when you get back your coronation can commence immediately. You’re free to go home. Besides, what did I train you for? You can take anyone out. As long as they don’t sneak up on you anyway,” she teased, motioning to the man on the ground.

Turin sighed. “Well…come with me then. Please? Once I’m King I can give you anything you want,” he said.

Petteline gave him a sideways glance. “There’s nothing you have that I want,” she said.

“I’m serious, Petteline. Please,” he pleaded.

The half-elf sighed and rubbed her face. “Ugh, I’m much too old for this nonsense. Fine, fine. Turn around, keep watch or something,” she said, moving to her chest. Turin did as told, keeping an eye on the wood while Petteline rustled about behind him. “Here, take this,” she said after a moment. Turin turned and barely managed to grip the sword offered him he was so distracted by Petteline’s new look.

She’d discarded her old, worn-out tunic and pants for a fine set of black leather breeches, a black linen tunic, and a black leather doublet. Her new boots looked the most worn, but everything looked well kept and treated. They suit her better than any dress.

“What’re you starring at?” said Petteline as she plaited her hair.

“N-nothing. You…look fantastic,” he said, tying his sword on his hip.

Petteline frowned. “Lucky it still fits. How’s the weight on that?” she asked, equipping various weapons herself.

Turin tugged the sword free. “All right. Thanks.”

Petteline hummed. “Right...come on then,” she said and they hurried off, using an assassin’s horse and Turin’s stronger steed.

---

Turin knew things had been bad as soon as they started passing through villages. The people looked starved and unwell. He loathed himself more and more as they went.

Surprisingly, they didn’t run into any trouble on the way. Turin noticed in the larger villages and through the main city they received strange looks. He wondered if Petteline had been more influential than she insisted.

They dismounted at the palace and hurried up the steps. Turin didn’t even need to announce who he was. The duke left there recognized him immediately.


“Well, all’s well that ends well. Rather boring, actually,” said Petteline, gazing out the window while Turin was fitted for his coronation suit.

“Yes, well, when my uncle returns there will be plenty of excitement,” grumbled Turin.

“Just remember what I taught you. I’ll have words with the new guild master. You’ll be safe till the end of your days,” she said, a sad grin on her face.

Turin looked back. “What…you’re leaving? But…”

“Of course I’m leaving. I’m not fit for these stone walls and all these rules. I’ll go back to the wood, build up a new home,” she said, turning to face him.

Turin stared at her a moment and waved off his servants. They bowed respectfully and left the room. “So that’s it then. I’ll never see you again?”

Petteline shrugged. “Probably not. Not even sure if I’ll stop in these woods. Too much activity,” she said, shifting one of her many straps. A set of knives quivered across her chest.

Turin sighed and stepped off his stool. “What if you stayed here with me?” Petteline snorted. “No, really…Stay here as my Queen.” His gaze was steady as he stared at the half-elf woman and his cheeks tinted pink as Petteline’s own flushed brilliantly.

She stared at him a moment and burst out laughing. “Haha! What nonsense. What makes you think I’d want to be the wife of some young, crazy little spoiled King, eh? For that matter, what’s a young thing like you want with an old bat like myself? I’m old enough to be your grandmother at least. Hahah, no boy, I don’t think so, not a queen, not this one,” she said, reaching up to wipe tears of mirth from her eyes.

Turin scowled, flushed to his ears with embarrassment. “Well pardon me,” he grumbled.

Petteline laughed. “Oh, don’t be sore about it. I’m serious, Turin, this place isn’t for me. I feel out of it and I’ve barely done anything but stand here,” she said honestly.

Turin sighed. “Well…what if you just…stay here and over look my guard? You’re fantastic at fighting, it’d be perfect,” he tried.

“Turin, please. I can’t stay here. I just can’t,” she said, walking over and grabbing his shoulder. He sighed and frowned and she thwapped him on the forehead. “Hey. It’s not all bad. You’re a good man, eh? You can defend yourself against me so I’ve no doubt you have the strength and skill to keep yourself alive and well. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the only reason, Petteline.”

“Then what’s the other?”

Turin sighed and grabbed her shoulder as well, a motion he’d never been comfortable with for fear of losing his hand. “Because. You’re the only one I have.”

Petteline’s amused grin faltered. “How do you mean, boy?”

“Well just what I said. I don’t have anyone here. No brothers or sisters, no family, no friends or personal servants. In all honesty, you gave me more attention than I’d ever had when you were calling me a spoiled brat. I just don’t want to lose that.”

Petteline sighed and stared up into Turin’s blue eyes. “You’re a sap.”

“Been told similar,” he said, a grin peeking at the corner of his lips.

Petteline frowned. “I’ll think about it.”

“Come to my coronation?” Turin added quickly.

“Fine.” Turin grabbed her up in the first hug either of them had ever had.

---

Everyone had been re-invited to the coronation, mostly to renew treaties that his uncle had either changed or nullified. With Orrick gone the few days leading up to the coronation were relaxed and almost cheerful. Petteline had vanished for most of the down time and returned the night before, assuring Turin that he had nothing to fear from the assassins in his kingdom. There was no money good enough to kill a King.

The coronation went wonderfully. Orrick had yet to return, but everyone was more than thrilled to take his crown and replace it on Turin’s head. The young man was beyond nervous, but managed not to make a fool of himself. Besides, with Petteline right there, watching everything and checking constantly for any traps that might have been previously set, Turin was relaxed enough to think before he leapt.

“You look fantastic, by the way,” Turin mumbled to her during the after party. They stood off to the side, watching the merry making, sipping casually at whatever wine was available.

Petteline hummed and looked at her fresh clothes, still black, fitted and made of fine fabrics. “Thank you, I suppose. Think I brought too many weapons?” she asked, shifting some belts.

Turin looked her over, all her best swords and knives, polished and shimmering. “Honestly, if you hadn’t, I’m not sure you’d have looked right,” he mumbled. Petteline hummed again and nodded. “Want to dance?”

“No.”

Turin grinned. “I didn’t think so.”

Fin  

[ncsweet]

I really enjoyed reading it!! heart heart More please!!  

[oOGarrettOo]

Myself

So, this is a continuation of the above story. I was originally planning to add it to what I first posted, but decided against it, so it remained unfinished for awhile. This just didn't sit well with me, so I decided to finish their story since it was mostly Petteline's life that went unexplained. This does that, as well as finishes up their wayward relationship.

The only thing that bothers me is the end. I'm not entirely sure how I should close it. Ideas, advice, and opinions would be a wonderful help.

Enjoy!

“Petteline!?” a shocked and surprised voice called suddenly. They both looked over and Petteline paled.

“Well…lovely,” Petteline mumbled.

Turin furrowed his brow as the King of Cartus approached, elderly but well. He had a look on his face that was indescribable, but Turin was certain he saw a hint of complete elation beneath it all.

The man stopped before the brooding woman and looked her over. “Good gods, I almost didn’t recognize you. But it’s you, sure as I know your mother’s beauty I can see you. You look just like her, no doubt. Gods how long has it been?” he rambled. Turin looked from the elderly king to Petteline.

“Sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” said Petteline flatly.

“A lie I ever heard one,” the king continued.

“I’m sorry, but, what’s going on?” asked Turin.

The king sighed and shook his head. “Turin, did she not tell you? This here is Princess Petteline, my long lost daughter. And hiding here this whole time? Your mother’s been worried sick.”

Turin’s eyes widened. “Princess Petteline?” He stared at the sour looking woman who refused to meet the king’s eyes. Everything she’d said finally made sense. “You lying little cheat, you were born into nobility.”

Petteline looked up and glared at him, turning the fierce gaze to her father. “So what? What’s it worth? This is the third time he’s found me and he carries on just the same each time,” she spat.

The king balked. “Petteline!”

“Oh shut up. It won’t do you any good. Take me back to Cartus, lock me up again, I’ll leave just as always. I’ve told you every time, I’m not going to stay there, not if I can’t live for fear of someone trying to kill me because I’m either half human or half elf. Mother understands, you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to want to comprehend the situation. Now stop making a scene and carry on, this is a party for another king and I’d appreciate if the attention isn’t turned to myself and my decision to renounce my title,” Petteline hissed quietly.

The king sighed. “Petteline, it’s just that my palace in Cartus in the safest place for you, with all its walls and guards. I simply worry,” he said.

“It’s not safer, I’ve dodged plenty of arrows and narrowly missed consuming more types of poison than I can count!”

“All right, all right, now that’s enough,” said Turin, grabbing them both and tugging them out of the great hall. He turned to Petteline and frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important.”

“Bullshit,” he spat. Petteline gave him her signature stare. “To bloody well know you’re a damned Princess, that’s important no matter how you look at it.”

“It isn’t, I renounced my title. Like you, I was constantly worrying about someone trying to end my life. The difference is they can’t be paid off. The only time I’m not fighting for my life is when I’m not in the palace, when I’m not claiming my title. Now, I won’t be treated like a princess and I won’t go back. I’m eighty bloody years old, I think I’m entitled to make my own decisions,” she said firmly.

“I’m only concerned for your safety, Petteline,” said her father.

“You’re eighty?” said Turin, a blush once more rising to his cheeks at the memory of their discussion a few days earlier.

Petteline sighed and shook her head, reaching up to rub at her face. She turned and marched off without saying another word to either of them. The King of Cartus moved to go after her, but Turin grabbed his frail arm and held him back.

“Unhand me, young man,” he demanded.

“With all do respect, sir, I know Petteline well enough to know not to bother her when she wants to be alone,” he said. The man sighed and grumbled, but turned instead for the Great Hall. Turin simply frowned and stared after the woman, disappearing down the hall and off to find a quiet place for brooding. Turin nibbled his lip and turned back for his coronation party, hand carefully rested upon the hilt of his sword.

--- --- ---

“Thought I’d find you in the most difficult place to get to,” Turin said, carefully climbing out of the tower window and onto a ledge that was generally inaccessible.

Petteline gave him a sideways glance and made no move to help him. “Well, I figure the more difficult it is to get to, the less likely I’ll be bothered,” she said flatly.

“Your father left,” said Turin, ignoring her statement as he settled in beside her. He was dressed casually, having stripped off the obnoxiously fitted suit and its layers as soon as the party was over. He sighed and ruffled his hair, giving a small shiver as a brisk pre-winter breeze rushed them in their high perch.

Petteline sighed. “How much bribing did that take?”

Turin chuckled. “Half my kingdom.” Petteline glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a princess, Petteline?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a prince?”

“Well I did when you asked.”

“Did you ever ask?”

Turin scowled. “No.”

“Precisely.”

“Oh, come on, Petteline. Something like you being the damned princess of a neighboring kingdom is damn important, you should have said something,” he said in exasperation.

“Well I did say it was terribly miserable. Besides that, you weren’t even aware of my existence as a princess, so what difference would it have made,” she said dismissively.

“I’d have been a good deal more proper, is what. To have known you’re royalty, I wouldn’t have been half as indecent.”

Petteline huffed. “So you’d have respected my title before you decided to respect me?” Turin balked. “I left for a reason, Turin. I haven’t been back to Cartus in near on ten years, and the only reason I was there at all was because I was found and hauled back. Took me three whole days to get out of that prison. I refuse to go back a fourth time, just so he can lock me in some other stone cell and I have to go through the whole thing again. Can you imagine me locked up? My sanity couldn’t take another run of it,” she ranted.

Turin frowned. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Petteline sighed. “I’m not a princess, Turin. I never was and I won’t be, ever. My father…to be honest, I don’t even know why he wants me back. To take the throne in another fifty years, perhaps? I’d be overthrown anyhow. It’s not as though I was anything while I was there. I didn’t aid the kingdom, I didn’t go to fancy parties or parade around in front of suitors and their ilk. I stayed locked in my bedroom, arguing with useless tutors, wishing and hoping that some day I could get out of that damned room just for a breath of fresh air. I spent more time teaching myself how to use a sword, or throw a knife, shoot a bow, than I did studying etiquette or fancy dances, and I absolutely loathe dresses. I’m as far from a princess as they come. There was no reason for me to tell you I had, sixty years ago, been the princess of Cartus. I mean, really, you didn’t even know there was a princess of Cartus.”

They sat in awkward silence, Petteline mulling over her past and Turin trying to find something to say. He wrung his hangs and let out a sigh, staring across the city below, lit up and full of people celebrating his return. Just taking his uncle’s place was reason enough to celebrate.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back? In the future I mean, when your father’s gone?”

“No. It’s no place for me. I prefer my lonely life. It isn’t as horrible as it sounds,” she said, sounding much calmer.

“You’re definitely leaving now, aren’t you?”

Petteline sighed. “Yes.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

Petteline was silent for a moment, old eyes gazing tiredly towards the rising sun. “No.”

Turin hung his head and nodded. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“I’m just a tired old woman, Turin. I don’t want any more excitement, I don’t want kings after me, for whatever reason. I just want quiet, outdoors, knowing I can freely step outside and the only thing there to greet me is the sun and a quiet forest. I’m old. I just want peace,” she said, her voice, for once, losing its fight and sounding as she said, old.

Turin frowned and looked up at her. “I wish you’d stay here with me.”

Petteline gave a half hearted chuckle and clapped him on the back. “Enough of that. Find a good wife, Turin, have children, rule your kingdom, grow old. Live your life right. You don’t need this bitter old biddy to run you down. Now, go on inside. We could both use some rest, I think,” she said, getting to her feet. Nothing about the way she moved said old woman and Turin grinned softly to himself.

They wandered from the tower and back to the main living floor of the palace. Petteline left Turin at his door and headed for her own room, but she stopped and turned, looking towards Turin inquiringly.

“Turin.” The King looked down the hall at her. “What does it change? How different am I, now that you know?”

Turin stood silently and sighed. “Good night, Petteline.” The half-elven woman frowned, but nodded and continued on. The following morning, Turin woke to find her bedroom completely empty, nothing of her left, not even a spare knife.

--- --- ---

Early winter marked Turin’s twentieth anniversary as King and in celebration of twenty successful years of peace and prosperity, Turin decided to lead a year long expedition across his widespread kingdom to bring aid and council directly to the people who needed it and couldn’t make the journey to his palace.

His company was made of soldiers, noblemen, financers, and various and sundered men and women of knowledge, ranging from surgeons to blacksmiths. His two children opted to join him, neither wishing to stay behind alone, especially not on such a long trip where their only remaining parent could possibly not return from. Each had their own valet.

In all, the group was a large one, a band that people would see coming and would be hard pressed to support if they hadn’t provided their own supplies for camping and hunting. There were fifty horses, ten carts, and even people on foot. Turin stood at the top of the palace stairs and surveyed the fine group he’d assembled, certain that he could do greater good than what he’d already accomplished.

“Everything’s ready when you are, father,” said his son, marching up the stairs towards him.

“Very good, very good. Fetch your sister then. We’ll be off,” he said, tightening his cloak. His son nodded and rushed inside.

Snow kissed the ground as their procession marched through an old forest path, frost leaving grasses, leaves, and twigs to crunch underfoot. Turin recognized the area and called a halt, allowing camp to be built. It was the third day and the group was already well exhausted, eagerly setting up camp to cook and sleep. Turin didn’t stay to fuss, instead taking his steed on ahead to a familiar clearing full of fond memories.

The garden was overgrown, the well collapsed, and Petteline’s hut was barely recognizable. His own shack had long since fallen, piles of sticks and old cord the only thing left of it, nearly overtaken by the spring. He smiled softly as he led his horse through the mess of now wild fruits and vegetables sprawled out across the ground, what wasn’t consumed by wildlife well into rotting.

The hut was just as he’d remembered; completely empty. Remnants of furniture sat relatively in their places, the bed frame, devoid of mattress, split and snapped into pieces, the table and chair merely shadows of what they used to be. The stone fireplace was choked by a tree and underbrush, and the back corner of the roof was caved in, leaves and other debris scattered across the floor. It was like a tomb. A shadow of the memories he’d held dear of his time in the forest, learning how to be the king he was, falling in love with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Where did you run to, Petteline? Did you have to mean it so completely when you said we’d never meet again?” he breathed softly to the empty room.

Footsteps alerted him to another’s presence and he turned, hand on sword, to see his son stepping into the house, eyes searching all the same areas without the same depth of emotion that Turin’s had. “What is this place?”

Turin sighed. “An old home full of old memories. Do you remember the stories I told you when you were younger? Of the half elf woman who rescued me from assassins?”

The young man nodded and looked about the cabin in new light. “So this was it? The hut in the woods? It must have been abandoned for years at least.”

Turin nodded. “Likely not a day after my coronation. She’d said plainly that morning that I would never meet her again. I fear she was being very honest,” he said, walking over to the remains of the table and toeing around some of the rotting wood.

The young man watched his father wander around the rickety hut, noticed the pain and fondness flash across his face. “What are we really on this expedition for?”

Turin looked back and smiled. “Exactly what I said, Bastian. Forgive me, I couldn’t resist coming here, not as close as we are. This is where I learned to be a king, after all. This is where life began to make sense,” he said, giving a wall a loving pat. He grinned at the fact that this was merely his second time in Petteline’s hut, and it looked nothing like the first.

“Where do you suppose she went?”

Turin sighed. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Anywhere but Cartus, I imagine.”

“Why’s that?”

Turin turned to his son and smiled, wandering over to deliver a rough pat on the back. “Let us back to the band and your sister. No doubt they’re wondering where we are,” he said. Bastian nodded and together they left the hut, Turin giving it one last longing look before bidding it farewell forever.

--- --- ---

Months passed. Turin’s party had diminished in size, but it wasn’t enough to stop his crusade, and they pushed on, stopping in any and every little village to offer what aid they could. Bastian and Belle were introduced to more hard labor than they’d imagined and Turin almost seemed to be more robust the more he did. They helped in fields, built huts or barns, aided in the insertion of aquifers or dams and even in his old age Turin was delighted to learn how to shear sheep. The crusade was a great success and the people of the kingdom benefited from it greatly. When word finally got to Turin after the harvest season, he knew he’d made the right decision when the messenger informed him that the food stores of his palace had increased two fold.

“We’ve made it nearly full circle, father. There’s home in the distance. It’ll be good to be home,” said Belle one morning as they mounted up and steered towards a few of the remaining outlying villages.

Turin looked towards the palace in the distance, looking so small on the horizon. He felt torn by its appearance. Part of him longed to return to it, to live out his days peacefully and wait his turn. But the other part, the one that had surfaced years ago before he’d been crowned, didn’t want to step foot in it ever again. He almost wanted to hand his crown over to his children, turn his steed into the forest, and disappear. “Yes…home…” he mumbled.

They rode a good part of the day through the forest, traipsing along over grown paths. Everything seemed oddly quiet and Turin kept his hand on his sword, eyes occasionally glancing into the fading foliage, as though expecting someone or something to jump out at him. He really began to worry when his horse started acting up.

“Something isn’t right,” he mumbled to himself, tugging free his sword. As soon as the metal tinged out of its sheath and the sun traversed its sharp edges, the telltale sound of arrows met his ears. “Shields up!” he shouted, grabbing his own. He tugged it up just as a series of arrows headed for him. Most planted themselves deep into the wood, others whizzed by, and one found homage in his leg.

Stomaching the pain, Turin slid from his horse and hunkered close to the ground. “Bastian! Belle!” he cried, praying his children had managed to protect themselves. He limped back towards them, shield up, sword smacking arrows from the air. Relief flooded through him when he saw the two, swords drawn and shields up, surrounded by guards.

“Your majesty!” a few of his men shouted, hurrying towards him. The arrows continued to bombard them, taking out guard after guard as Turin struggled towards his children, hacking them from his shield and knocking them from the air. He reached Belle just as the final guard around her fell and an arrow shot towards her while her attention was on Bastian. Turin drew up his sword and whacked off the tip a foot from her.

“Father!” she shouted as he moved in close.

“Stay low, Belle. Bastian?”

“I’m here!”

They grouped together, the remaining guards circling around them. Their assailants leapt out of hiding, swords up, screaming a battle cry that Turin didn’t catch. The guards attacked, Turin handling whatever got through. By then they outnumbered their meager group, those who weren’t dead already run off to save themselves. Turin was starting to tire and dizzy from blood loss, stumbling as he parried a blow from a man dressed in black, his guard taking him from there.

“Father, look out!” Bastian shouted. Turin whipped around to see a man mere feet from him, but as he raised his sword the man stopped and a bloodied steel tip just peeked from the center of his chest. The man went limp and fell away to reveal a woman Turin had resigned himself to never see again. He watched her gaze and stayed as still as possible as she jumped towards him, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him to the side, only to slide her blade into an enemy just beyond Bastian. Belle supported him as he watched the woman dance around the remainder of his guards and slay the attackers. They fell quickly, either by her sword or by her many throwing knives, and soon everything was quiet, the regal woman gazing around the mess, listening for any she might have missed.

“Father, your leg,” Belle said in alarm, lowering him to the ground. Bastian hurried over.

“Where’s the surgeon,” Bastian asked, looking back towards where the group had been.

“Likely run off with the rest of them,” said the woman. The remaining guards turned their attention on her, but one sharp bark from Turin and she was left alone. Petteline walked over, sticking the blade of her sword into the ground beside her for easy access, and ripped off her belt for a tourniquet. “Your majesty,” she mumbled as she tied it above the wound.

Turin stared at Petteline in disbelief, not only because she was there, but because she was so close, had always been so close, and he’d had no idea. “It’s you…” he breathed.

Petteline looked up and gave him a bored look. “Last I checked.” She gripped the arrow and pulled it free, ripping the hole in his pants to better see the bleeding wound. “I have what we need to mend this back in my cabin. If you’ll all be so kind as to carry him along.” Bastian and Belle nodded and the remaining guards gathered their fallen king, marching after Petteline while Belle gathered the horses that still lived and ended any that suffered.

The cabin was almost a mirror image of the previous, small, with a fire place, a single bed, but no table and chair this time. She let them in and had him put on the bed while she stoked up her fire and fussed about the trunk in the corner.

“Leave us, please,” Turin said to the guards. They gave each other nervous looks and hesitated. “Trust me, this woman means me no harm. Stand guard outside, watch over the Prince and Princess.” The few nodded and hurried out.

Petteline hummed and knelt beside him, tearing the leg of his pants further and pressing a cloth to the wound. “Fancy seeing you here, and bleeding no less. What a small world,” she mumbled dryly.

“Don’t be like that, Petteline.” He reached down and took one of her now bloody hands, giving it a tight squeeze. “Here I was, thinking I’d never see you again, and just like that you appear from the wood and save my life yet again. Yet I must thank you further still, you saved my children as well. I owe you my life, Princess.”

Petteline sighed and her eyes softened as she looked up at him. “Listen to you going on and on. Let go, I need to fetch some water and get it boiled so I can mend you right before you find yourself in a worse state,” she said, tugging her hand from his and getting to her feet. She hurried to the door and grabbed her bucket, leaving him alone in the small room. It didn’t take her long to reappear, his children behind her, and she set to work, putting a pot of water over the fire to boil and kneeling on the hearth to pass her tools through the flames.

“You there, Princess, apply pressure to your father’s leg while I prepare my implements,” she said, not looking up as she carefully heated the needles and shears. “And you, Prince, fetch me a few long hairs from one of those horses.” The two hesitated, but did as told.

“Who are you?” asked Belle, kneeling beside Turin and pressing firmly to the wound.

“My dear daughter…this is Petteline,” Turin answered. Belle’s eyes widened and she stared at the woman through different eyes.

“Told stories of me, have you?” Petteline mumbled.

“Of course. How could I resist spinning tales of the fantastic half-elf assassin whom rescued me when I was naught but a worthless Prince and whipped me into shape so completely? You were Belle’s idol for many years,” Turin teased, resting back against the bed as dizziness began to set in. Belle blushed.

Petteline hummed and put her tools on his stomach, checking the water to find it sufficiently hot. She moved the pot and tossed her remaining cloths into the bubbling water, shifting over to him carefully. “Idol is it? What poor taste,” she said to Belle, waving her off. The young woman moved and Petteline removed the bloody rag. “Didn’t I teach you better, Turin? It could be worse, I suppose. At least it’s stopped bleeding.”

“I’ve lost feeling in it as well,” said Turin, poking at the tourniquet.

Petteline chuckled. “Means to an end. This will sting,” she announced, and she plopped a hot, wet cloth onto the hole. Turin winced but managed to stomach it. “That was quite the group after you. Who on earth did you anger so much? I haven’t heard a bad thing about you since you started ruling.”

“Haven’t he faintest. We were just passing through, heading for the final few of the outlying villages before I retired from my adventure to live out my remaining years in peace behind stone walls,” Turin rambled.

“They’re from Alvalair,” announced Bastian, striding back into the room, a selection of hairs in hand. He passed them to Petteline, who dipped them briefly in the water.

“Alvalair. Methinks they may have been your uncle’s followers then,” said Petteline, cleaning the wound and taking up her needle.

“My uncle’s?”

Petteline shrugged. “I didn’t think anything of it while I watched the b*****d. After you banished him, I followed him across the border and made sure he stayed well enough away. He managed some sort of reengage group, but after he died all those years ago, I’d assumed they’d disbanded. Appears I was very wrong. That looked like most of them though, so I wouldn’t think you have anything else to worry about,” she said, stringing one of the hairs and quickly setting to stitching.

Turin sighed and stared at the woman beside him, taking in her features in the soft glow of firelight. She looked older, finally, but still younger than Turin. Her face had a few fine wrinkles, some extra freckles here and there. Gray dusted her messy brown hair, mostly brushing outwards from her hairline around her face. But still she moved as though she were twenty, eyes as keen as the day she was born, hands perfectly steady.

He sighed. “Twenty one years, Petteline, and you’ve barely aged five,” he said.

“I told you I had quite the stretch left. Down to eighty now. I’ll get there eventually,” she said dryly.

“And yet you live the same way, humble, and just on the outskirts of my kingdom,” he teased.

“Watch yourself, old man, I am holding a needle.” She glanced towards Belle and Bastian. “Either of you hurt?”

“No. We managed to make it unscathed,” said Belle.

“You have remarkable aim. I don’t think any of them stood a chance against you. Lucky you’re on our side,” said Bastian.

Petteline hummed. “Practice. After a hundred years I would expect my aim to be impeccable.”

The two gaped. “A hundred years? You’re a hundred years old?” said Belle in disbelief.

“Give or take. I’ve lost count, it’s been so long.” She closed up the wound and knotted the hair. “That ought to do it. I know I have a cloth bandage in here somewhere,” she said, rifling through her chest.

“I expected you to leave my kingdom entirely, Petteline. When you said you and I would never meet again,” said Turin tiredly.

Petteline shrugged. “Had to pay higher taxes elsewhere,” she said sarcastically. Turin chuckled. “Get some sleep, regain your strength. There will be plenty of time to ask me questions when you wake.” She didn’t have to tell him twice.

--- --- ---

Turin woke well into the following morning feeling whole and rested if not a little sore. He groaned and hauled himself out of bed, smiling when he saw a cane leaning against the wall for his use. With a wince and a grunt, he stood and hobbled out the front door to a grand sight.

The party that had fled so quickly the previous day had returned and set up camp just outside the cabin, it being the center of everything. Fire’s were crackling, people were mingling, and the wounded were being healed. He hummed and ambled slowly down the stairs.

“Nice of you to join us,” said a tight and angry voice. Turin looked down to see Petteline sitting just beside the door on a log, glaring up at him. “Get your army off my lawn.”

Turin chuckled. “Forgive me, Petteline, I didn’t think any of them would return,” he said, smiling fondly.

“Well they did and it took me threatening their lives to keep them from building their tents over my squash and carrots,” she complained gruffly.

Turin grinned and gripped her shoulder, giving a good squeeze. “Thank you, Petteline.”

She sighed and her features softened. “Yes, yes, you’re welcome, again,” she said. He chuckled. “But in all seriousness, Turin, my vegetables.”

Letting out a hearty laugh he started for the tents in question. “I’ll have them move back, Petteline, have no fear,” he said. The owners of said tents looked up at his laugh and he ordered them back a few paces, far enough away that Petteline wouldn’t worry after her hard grown crops and they were still close enough to the rest of the group.

Bastian and Belle hurried over from speaking to the captain of the guard, who’d arrived just that morning thanks to a mounted messenger who rode to the palace so quickly he’d given light a run for its money. As it stood their entire encampment was surrounded by soldiers, all of them incredibly paranoid.

“Oh, father, I’m so glad you’re awake,” said Belle, wrapping him in her arms and giving a tight squeeze.

Turin smiled and held her lovingly. “Hello, Belle. Is everything all right? I hope I didn’t frighten you and your poor brother too terribly,” he said, patting Bastian on the back.

“Worried sick,” said Bastian with a grin. Turin laughed. The young man leaned in and glanced over his shoulder at the woman sitting against the house, glaring at everyone and everything. “Your heroine isn’t very nice, father.”

“I’m part elf you know!” Petteline shouted at them.

“He meant it in the nicest way,” said Turin, heading back for her.

“Certainly.”

“I’ll have everyone gone shortly, Petteline,” he said, sitting beside her. He looked at his leg, his pants stitched up and as clean as they could get. “Fine work. Where did you learn to mend so well?”

“Picked it up a few years ago. Your leg should be just fine. Might limp a bit you don’t take it easy though,” she said.

“Ah, what’s a limp to an old man like me?” Petteline looked up at him and he grinned.

“You are old,” she agreed.

“Says the hundred year old biddy.” A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth and Turin laughed. “So, dearest Petteline, how odd of you to build your new home upon a cliff with a most fantastic view of my palace. What was the thinking?”

She gave him a look and sighed. “It’s a good cliff.” Turin smiled. “What’s that stupid thing on your face?”

Turin furrowed his brow and rubbed his face, feeling nothing out of the ordinary. “What do you mean? You mean my beard? I like my beard,” he said defensively, smoothing down the whiskers.

“If you must,” said Petteline, giving him another look. He frowned, but couldn’t be angry, not when he caught that amused glimmer in her eyes. The sounds of swords drew his attention, and he looked up to Bastian and Belle in the clearing with their sword master, the man reciting verbal instructions and preparing them for drills. Petteline hummed. “What’s this?” Turin would forever marvel at her absolute infatuation for weaponry. She stood and wandered closer, so Turin followed, hobbling along.

“The both of you were very fortunate during yesterday’s attack, no doubt thanks to your vigorous training. However, a few of the soldiers told me you were both very hesitant to wield killing blows. You must remember, that if you won’t kill, then you will be killed. As royalty you’re constantly targeted. Now, swords up, attack me one at a time,” he man instructed. Bastian and Belle did as told and they took turns attacking the master.

Petteline furrowed her brow and looked at Turin in confusion. “Why didn’t you teach them?” He was better than this so called master, she’d taught the King herself.

Turin grinned sheepishly. “Their mother, gods rest her, found it to be inappropriate and nagged at me until I stepped down and allowed a proper teacher to train them. I had no choice, she even took to threatening my life while I slept,” he insisted.

Petteline hummed. “What a fine woman,” she said sarcastically.

Turin gave her a sad grin. “I tried to do better, but the woman I propositioned wouldn’t have me.” Petteline glared at him. “Of course, in that case, I still wouldn’t have been their instructor.”

Petteline shook her head. “Still on about that?”

“I’ll never forget it.” Petteline rolled her eyes. “Be obstinate all you want.”

“I will.”

“That’s fine.”

They watched the prince and princess quietly, Petteline’s fingers itching for her sword so she might teach them real, useful skills. Turin noticed and sighed.

“My offer still stands.”

“I’m not marrying you, Turin.”

“Not that offer, though it’s on the table as well. Join me at the palace, you can be my advisor, advise my children, my grandchildren, train them, show them how to be fearless like you did me.”

“And have to watch you and your children die of old age? How fair is that?”

“Oh come now, Petteline. We both know you’re miserable out here by yourself. You have eighty years left at least, do you honestly want to putter around the woods, building home after home, for the next eighty years? I know you dislike people, and as an advisor the only people you’d have to deal with would be those just below you and my family. You’d have access to everything and anything you want, you could even have your own quiet place on the palace grounds if that be your wish.” He reached over and took her hand, startling her into looking up at him. “I need you, Petteline. After all I’ve lost in life I can’t bring myself to trust anyone else. I can’t leave my children and my kingdom to these underhanded backstabbing…cretins.”

Petteline sighed and tugged her hand free. “Stop talking nonsense, old man.”

Turin gripped it and leaned in closer so that he was sure only she could hear him. “Even together with me in the palace…you could hide your love just as well as you do now.” She smacked him upside his head.

“Get off of my lawn,” she barked, and she turned and marched to her hut, slamming the door shut behind her.

--- --- ---

“Ah, home sweet home!” said Bastian as they entered the palace, quickly reacquainting himself with his servants as he tugged off his heavy travel gear and dropped it. Belle did the same. Turin sighed as he walked in, his injured leg still causing him to limp and wobble here and there. He frowned at his children’s display but was too exhausted to say anything, instead handing over his own travel wear when asked to relinquish it.

“Thank you, you’re very kind,” he said to the servants, who smiled and bowed out.

“Welcome home, sire. I trust your journey was worthwhile?” asked Bartholomew, his personal butler.

“It was indeed. Even after that dreadful attack in the forest we managed to reorganize and make it to the last two villages. I’m sad to say I myself wasn’t as helpful as I wish I could have been, but I made up for it by forcing Belle and Bastian to work extra hard,” he said, giving a soft chuckle.

“Will you require assistance to your chambers, my lord?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Bartholomew, but I think I can manage.”

“Very well, sire. Shall I have water sent up for your bath?”

“Yes, please, that sounds lovely,” said Turin. Bartholomew bowed and turned to march off to the underbelly and back rooms of the palace while Turin limped his way up a flight of steps, down a hall, and finally into his room. He sighed as he shut the door and wandered in, lazily pulling off articles of clothing and tossing them, letting them land wherever. “Twenty years and I’m still not used to all these formalities and whathaveyou,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his face.

“Twenty years and it was still very easy to sneak into your private chambers,” said a voice from beside his fireplace. Turin whipped around, heart practically leaping out through his throat, only to crash back in when he saw who it was. “Oh, you crazy woman,” he breathed, limping over to the set of couches before the hearth.

Petteline smirked from her seat. “I am indeed. How’s your leg?”

“It’s wonderful. Little too much excitement I think, stairs don’t treat it well.” He collapsed across the divan and let out a heavy sigh. “So what brings you to my…chambers?”

Petteline sighed and stood, striding over to the fireplace and tossing kindling into the inner hearth. “I was thinking long and hard about what you said, back in the woods when you’re band of miscreants was destroying my lawn…and I decided to accept your offer,” she said, starting a fire as she spoke. When Turin said nothing behind her she cautiously looked over her shoulder. “Turin?”

Turin was sitting completely still on his couch, staring at Petteline in utter disbelief. When she said his name, it jarred him back to reality and he floundered a moment before finding the right words. “I…I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Petteline frowned. “Well if it wasn’t and honest offer, then I’ll leave, and this time you won’t see me again,” she said bitterly, marching for the window.

Turin jumped to his feet and grabbed her as she walked by. “No, no, Petteline, that’s not what I meant. Of course it’s an honest offer. I just…didn’t think you’d accept. Not in a million years,” he said, a happy smile on his face.

Petteline glared. “Oh ye of little faith…I want all of it, by the way.”

Turin furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I want my own home on the private grounds, as private as it can be, I’ll only talk to those I absolutely have to, you fire that incompetent trainer your poor children are being forced to suffer, and I want my own title,” she said, stepping back and crossing her arms.

“Done,” said Turin.

Petteline’s angry features softened into confusion. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. And whatever else you think of while you stay with us. Your wish is my command,” he said, lowering himself back into the divan to nurse his leg.

Petteline sucked her cheek. “You’re a terrible negotiator.”

Turin chuckled. “There’s nothing to negotiate.”

Silence dragged on between them, both staring at each other, Turin elated and Petteline looking a combination of disappointed and put off.

“I want a unicorn.”

“Well we might run into some trouble there.”

Fin  

[Woa-Namzi]

I rather enjoyed it. The characters kept me well entertained. I agree that the ending is a bit flat, but alas, I'm no writer, nor a connoisseur, so I'm afraid I cannot give you useful advice/suggestions to improve it emo  

[Sanguina Cruenta]

Critique! First post:

"Her waking state was evidence enough as she rose in front of the dwindling fire, letting out a full-body yawn and stretching out her tight muscles from sleeping on the floor yet again. "

This sentence runs a bit long. You might want to break it up, for example, you could insert a dash after muscles to separate out the last clause of the sentence, or break it into two.

"It sizzled happily and satisfied it wouldn’t die Petteline stood and trumped her way outside"

Now, I'm a comma person, so if this were me, I'd put commas after the first "and" and "die". That's a stylistic thing mostly, I think, so that sort of thing is up to you, I just thought I'd mention it.

"but his own bit of clumsiness had him face first in some mud"

"bit of" sounds odd here. It sounds better if you cut it out just leaving "clumsiness", or if you use a different word such as "slight". "bit of" feels like it's referring to something physical and so it's awkward here.

When the assassins are talking, best to capitalise their "names", like "said Three". I thought at first some of them were talking at the same time xp I do like that you refer to them by number, though.

"I seem to have thought I’d already told you to leave."

I feel like there's too many infinitives in this clause. Maybe "I thought I'd already" or "I seem to recall (or remember) already telling you" instead. Although "I seem to remember" has the same number of infinitives so maybe that's not the problem, but I can't put my finger on it.

"“Please don’t hand him over,” said Turin from his place on the ground."

Haha, cute!

"His horse finally made a reappearance and it wasn’t until a good shove that Turin realized more than just his thought had sunk in."

Now here, I'm not sure whether he's shoving the horse or the horse is shoving him. Given the context I suspect the latter but it might be best to insert something to make it clearer like, "a good shove from the creature" or "from a horsey nose" or whatever.

"He let out a heavy sigh and looked around the well kept little bit of nowhere."

I really like this type of stylistic wossname. A tiny thing: if you put a hyphen between "well" and "kept" I think it reads a little better, because there's a literal well in the vicinity.

"Raven locks fell in uneven layers around his head, one side longer than the other even,"

The "even" sounds weird, because you recently used the word "uneven". (Different meanings of the word I know but it sounds strange). You could just remove it and the sentence would work fine.

"It’s a wonder you’ve made it this long"

It's fine, but I think "made it this far" or "survived this long" would sound better. Just imo.

I think I'll take a break now and read through more later.