Last Winter, The Knight's Solace

The common area is packed with people deep into their cups, making merry conversation in the comfort of a roaring fire and numerous warm smiles. The loudest laughter is from the jolly bald Innkeeper, Jomsy, serving drinks by the armful to patrons. In one corner, opposite the main entrance, a pair of young women sit alongside one another nursing mugs of their own.

"Iffmy!" shouts a young girl, "Are you even listening to a word I'm saying? Is the salt brandy going to your head?"

Bleary-eyed, Iffmy turns to her best friend since childhood and smiles an easy smile, "What? Oh, no. Sorry, Bell, I was just..."

She takes a big sip of her 'medicinal' brew, gesturing for Maybell to continue where she left off, smirking, "I guess I kind of blanked out when you started gushing over how cute Renth is for the fourth time in a row. You were talking about your first date? Something about that anyway, you got pretty distracted by how pathetic he was at asking you out."

Maybell slams her palms on the table, huffing, "He was not pathetic! It was really swee-wait how do you know that?"

Iffmy squints out the corner of her eye, one brow raised, "Who do you think put him up to it? I've been watching the two of you dance around the subject for years, Bell. Tula be praised for her blessings of patience, I would have strangled one of the poor horses if I had to watch another awkward conversation with you stammerin' and doing everything you could to not look at each others blushin' faces."

Hearing that, Maybell shrinks back, sulking, "I-it wasn't that bad..."

Giggling, Iffmy nudges Maybell with her elbow, "It was adorable. But I just figured I'd speed things along, so I spent a few weeks nagging him until he finally went and did it. The whole village breathed a sigh of relief when they saw you both holdin' hands with each other, I tell ya!"

Another glug of brandy goes down the hatch, "Now look at you, finally getting betrothed to one another. How far we've come since you chased him and me 'round the fields tryin' to shove a ball o' fresh manure down our shirts, eh?"

Maybell snorts a laugh, and with a mischievous glint in her eye, decides to pay back the teasing she received, "So, when're you going to get yourself a love of your own, huh?"

The happy smile freezes for but a moment, Iffmy responds in a strained voice trying hard to hide embarrassment, "Weeell...I can't say I've really, y'know, met the right guy yet..."

Maybell grunts into her cup, "Rot and ruin! There's plenty of boys who'd love a chance to take you for a walk 'neath the trees. What about Ashron? He's a real sweetheart."

Iffmy rolls her eyes, "I grew up with the folks 'round here, Bell, I don't feel even a glimmer of romance from any o' them. They're like family almost. I ain't marryin' a cousin."

Pausing to think about it for a second, she gulps down some more brandy, "Some of them actually are my cousins, come to think of it - or near enough. So, no. Not even a little teensy bit interested in any of those godsforsaken perverts."

A cheer goes up from a different table, the result of a different conversation. A young noble squire stands up and raises his mug in salute, before stumbling backwards and tripping over his chair. The cheer is silenced before the group erupts into raucous laughter.

Iffmy smiles sardonically, "...And the errand boys that come from out of Suld and the noble estates to the far east aren't much better if I'm honest."

Drumming her fingers on the table, Maybell sighs, "Is there a man that is not a Hero out of legend worthy of your hand, Duchne Iffmy?"

She laughs, draining the last of her beverage, "Ah, but for a valiant, handsome prince upon a noble, well-bred Gilmy steed to come here dressed in the finest silks, with the express intent to sweep me off my dainty feet in search of grand adventure...and even grander sex."

Maybell blinks, blindsided by the final remark. The two girls stare at each other in silence before echoing the drunkards through mirthful giggling, slapping the table and kicking their feet.

"I think you've had a bit too much to drink," She admonishes her cohort, finishing off her mug and standing up, "Come on, let's get you home 'fore you melt into a puddle of booze and cussin'."

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A Month Ago, Stable #2

A young woman sweeps dust and stray strands of hay into a pile outside a vacant stall with a broom made from a rotten Klennockwood branch too poor quality for the merchants that left it behind to reasonably sell - the Klennock logging business was already struggling thanks to a shift in the popularity of Klennockwood furniture or something to that effect. Drunk merchants like to complain about all sorts of economic nonsense that don't hold any amount of water. Once, even, a portly man from the Santocracy of Suld, clothed in a stained silk gambeson of surpassing vibrancy and quality claimed that religious statues in the image of the gods made out of monstrous beast bones were hot sellers, and tried to fob his stock off onto his drinking companions, only for a sudden rainstorm to reveal his statues were instead made of rock salt as they melted.

It's rather a miracle that the man wasn't stabbed to death by his incensed clients, thanks to the intervention of Jomsy and some of the rather more sober patrons...

An inhuman screech of agony, preceding another's roar of pain breaks the peaceful sounds of sweeping, alerting Iffmy to the plight of the farrier in Boulder's stall behind her, and while the screeching and distressed whinnying of the horse - one of the best breeding studs Gilmy has - persists, the man is concerningly silent following the dull thump of something heavy against the far wall of the enclosure.

Ignoring the continued screaming of the stallion bucking and crashing against his captivity, Iffmy and other nearby workers rush to investigate. Despite their haste in arriving, the gathered Tenders are not especially enthusiastic about entering the stall with the 7-foot tall behemoth of a horse - not with him bucking so wildly and manically.

However, the comparatively weaker stall cannot hold the raw strength of such a creature for long, and the damage to its walls is marked by exaggerated dents.

"Does anyone have any moorflower powder?!" Iffmy yells, trying her best to be heard over the terrible racket.

One Tender, a young man with strong arms and a lazy eye shakes his head, "Fresh out! All I've got is some Henrose Oil!"

Renth, an old friend to Iffmy, rummages around in his belt pouches, "I don't think I have more than a pinch left from this morning's foaling!"

Luckily, between the half-dozen gathered, enough of the tranquiliser to give Boulder pause is scrounged together and tossed without any real ceremony or elegance into the roof of his stall. The Tenders follow it up by tying scarves dampened in a nearby water bucket around their mouths and noses. Rosy pink-coloured powder almost smokey in appearance slowly falls, coating everything it touches.

They wait.

They wait until at last, several minutes later, Boulder's thrashing is calmed and he falls to the ground unconscious, making it at last, safe to enter the now ruined enclosure.

Muffled, one of the Tenders sighs in relief, and the group relaxes. Nodding to the others, Renth opens the stall hesitantly.

Silence amongst them devolves into gasping, as the broken and trampled body of a farrier named Lester slumps out into the open area, covered in bruises and bloody gashes. One look at the still form is enough to understand that this young man is very much deceased.

Collapsed opposite, his killer sleeps with unsteady breaths, his legs twitching and spasming.

Iffmy steps over the corpse like it didn't even exist, and marches purposefully to the horse, looking Boulder's stunned body over for the cause of his distress.

In his back left leg, she finds it. A bent nail hammered halfway into the leg at an angle just above the hoof. Iffmy scowls, a rare expression; then beckons to her cohorts with a wagging finger. One by one they find the courage to enter the stall, careful not to disturb Lester's body.

The lazy-eyed man, Fare, grunts, "Think the leg's broken?"

Iffmy shakes her head, "Doubt it, but the nail might have made a fracture. It'll heal if he's kept off it for a few days, best case scenario. Either way, he's in a lot of pain, so we'll have to keep him knocked out if we don't want to end up like that idiot farrier over there."

Following her pointing finger to the crumpled body of Lester, the Tenders grimace beneath their makeshift masks.

Renth nods, "I'll go get the boss and some more moorflower powder."

Within the hour, the stables are stuffed with people, to the point that more are crowded around the entrance to the building, all of them muttering incessantly to one another in barely hushed tones about the scandalous circumstances they have found themselves a spectator to.

Shouting for people to make way, a pair of men carry a makeshift stretcher covered in a thin woollen blanket out of the stable, and exposed is a single limp arm swaying broken in the motion in a way that is sickeningly unnatural. Parents cover the eyes of their children as the grim cargo is transported away across the fields to some unknown destination that is perhaps more private.

In the absence of a family, the proper arrangements for the handling of the departed farrier would fall to a collection of volunteers and the Mayor, but at a later occasion. For indeed, a more pressing concern is on the minds and tongues of the Tenders and the Village leadership.

While those crowding around the doors are mostly rubbernecking locals, those inside the stable itself are engaged in fierce debate with one another, though it mostly boils down to two different opinions, the disorganised ramblings of multiple would-be demagogues is drowned out by the angry yelling of disinterested individuals seeking their own resolution to the topic. Iffmy, for her part, is simply doing her best to avoid colliding with embittered Tenders as she makes her way through to the side of the 

Eventually, one man, the Mayor of Gilmy Village decides he's had enough, and pushes his way roughly through multiple Tenders into the centre of the conflicted assembly and stomps his foot, "ENOUGH! BE SILENT, THE LOT OF YOU!"

The effect is not, by any stretch of the imagination, instantaneous. The man, though he may possess authority over the village, is hardly so charismatic as to command a presence demanding obedience beyond the concerns of those with firmly held opinions and fiery tempers.

Instead, it is gradual. An elbow here and there to gain the attention of the more talkative and the steadily building quiet slowly brings the attention of those gathered to their supposed leader. The Mayor, a portly old man of middling height and furrowed brow named Romai, clears his throat twice, once for dramatic effect...the second time to prevent a sputtering cough.

"Are we all..." a cough, "...listening? Good. We're not going to get anywhere on this issue with the way this is continuing - if anything, all it's gonna do is turn into a gods-be-damned riot. We don't need more tragedy today."

The rowdy rabble murmurs agreement, and though most still don't look best pleased, the tense shoulders of a least a few slacken at Romai's chastisement of their ill-mannered behaviour. 

For her part, Iffmy remains tactfully silent, having kept her opinions to herself throughout the arguing.

"Maurice," Mayor Romai turns and points to a tall beanpole of a man with a crooked nose, "We'll start with you. The rest of you can shut up and be quiet while he talks."

Lazily, Maurice lowers his head in acknowledgement, a few strands of long black hair escaping from behind his ears, "So be it. As Head Tender, the well-being of all horses and cattle in Gilmy is, in one way or another, my responsibility. This also extends to the Tenders working under me. The same cannot be said of the Farriers. Therefore, it is my opinion that Boulder should be spared death, given that is, according to the witness of his death, the fault of Lester that this incident occurred, and not that one of our prized breeding studs has become murderous."

Those opposed in opinion mutter angrily, in increasing volume, until the mayor shushes them harshly, "I said, be silent!"

Romai takes a deep, frustrated breath, "Then, pray tell, what do you suppose we do? That one of our village has died is bad enough, when word inevitably spreads that he was killed by one of our most valuable...breeders..."

The mayor grimaces uncomfortably, obviously ill-at-ease with the practice despite having grown up a local, "When word of that gets out, it becomes a black mark on the reputation of our ranch. Not only in the efficacy of our workers and methods, but the entire lineage of Boulder becomes suspect. To then let the killer stallion live to create even more offspring would cause our credibility to vanish like a charlatan's coin."

Iffmy shuts her eyes, chewing her bottom lip. In truth, she would prefer that Boulder not is put down. After all, having grown up in the company of horses all her life, a certain fondness for all those at the ranch cannot be understated or ignored. But though the mayor can hardly be said to be all that concerned for the health and happiness of the animals, his greater concern, in his mind, as to the business side of the ranch is similarly valid and difficult to fully dismiss. And the fact that Boulder had killed a man, whether provoked or not, still, likewise, remains.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

On the surface, there's really only two options: To terminate the equine murderer  - destroying generations of careful breeding and potential profit from Boulder's offspring - and suppress the information...or allow him to live, and thus bear with the stigma associated with that decision. Regardless, the reputation of Gilmy Village's pedigree will suffer, and the already infrequent sales of their thoroughbred steeds would further diminish.

Enviable, the choice before them, is not.

But what if the answer was, well, not exactly a third, unspoken option, but both of these divisive choices?

Iffmy nods to herself, chewing on a dirty thumbnail. Yes, there is a way out of this, surely.

Before she can voice her opinion, however, another woman speaks up.

"Can't we just blame it on Lester? He is the one who stuck a nail in Boulder's leg, so why not let him take responsibility?"

A farrier snorts, "If it were only that simple..."

Before she can retort, the Mayor, once again, interrupts the growing ire, "That doesn't solve the issue of what to do with the horse who killed him, true or not."

The Head Tender takes the opportunity to speak, albeit quietly, "I believe we should kill 'Boulder'."

The assembly of Tenders and Farriers express shock in all manner of ways, from calling out insults to staring slack-jawed at the man who, just moments ago was all for preserving the stallion's life. Perhaps the only exceptions are Iffmy and the Mayor.

Romai stares hard at Maurice, "Explain."

"As I said, I am responsible fer the well-bein' of all animals in Gilmy. I do not wish to kill one of our finest horses. But 'Boulder' must be punished appropriately for the sin of killing Lester. These two desires need not be different in the end."

The people are silenced, trying to make sense of his words.

A laugh, hearty and maybe a little high-pitched, echoes through the stable, emanating from the rhythmically shaking jowls of Romai's mouth, "I see, I see. 'Boulder' must die, huh? Then, in that case, I have no objection. I'll leave this matter in your hands, then. As for the rest, Lester will take proper responsibility for his mistake."

He pulls himself up into a more authoritative posture, "That will be all, then! All of go home! Maurice, Iffmy, Renth, you stay for a minute. I'd like a word in private."

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3 Days Later

An uncharacteristically chilly morning breeze floats gently through the open stables, stealing warmth with subtle contact and disturbing stray stalks of scattered hay. The dawning star shines through the wide-open doors dimly, with a strangely burnished radiance, burning the sky from blue to a sickly red, signalling perhaps, a night of poor weather.

If Gilmy were a farming village of poor means, this omen might bode ill, but unlike Yarm Village to the northeast, such a problem is vastly diminished by the absence of large amounts of crops and properly built shelter made by a Carpenter from Klennock Village some generations past. Rainstorms are frequent on the Dragonhunt Plains this time of year, making agricultural development a chore, but the horses, people and cattle will be safe and warm indoors.

Again, Iffmy concerns herself with idle musings about the growing difficulties of life out in the west, far away from the capital with its bustling sea trade and magnificent architecture said to light the way for merchants far better than any lighthouse. Whether they mean that in the literal sense or if it's because the opulent appearance of Kingshore attracts profit-minded businessmen and ocean-faring traders, it's hard not to take the tales with a bit of cynicism.

Oh, but living there would certainly make a world of difference from waking up before the sun crests the Klennock Woods to wade ankle-deep in horse dung brandishing a stinking old shovel. Dreams of sitting in closed conversation with an eligible young noble heir in a tearoom drinking the finest blends of the central continent and sampling foreign delicacies, all the while draped in the latest fashions in jewellery and clothes...

Well, she could probably do without the more voluminous dresses. Skirts are ill-advised for work as a Tender, and the image of herself walking around like some sort of decorated birdcage instead of a solid pair of boots and leggings strikes as unnatural.

Iffmy sighs wistfully as she enters a stall, "I suppose it's because of thinking like that I'll never have it."

At her feet lies a massive stallion, with a grey coat, completely unconscious and breathing steadily. Around one of its legs is a wrapped cloth bandage made of an old, torn tunic.

She smiles pleasantly, kneeling down to check it remains securely wrapped around the wound left by that clumsy oaf, Lester's incompetence. Satisfied, she stands and turns to leave, when a voice, just on the periphery of her hearing speaks up, if quietly.

"Excuse me, if you would be so kind as to spare a moment of your time, milady?"

The young Tender pauses, visibly confused, turning her head this way and that trying to locate the man who spoke.

 "Who's there?"

A little clearer, the voice speaks again, bringing to mind a regal personage, accompanied by a shuffling noise from behind, "That would be me, on the floor here. Forgive me, but I find my strength rather difficult to access, so I shall remain, ah...seated, so to speak."

With a growing sense of unease, a suspicious frown spreads across Iffmy's lips. Slowly, she turns around to see the formerly unconscious horse staring directly at her.

Confused, she chews her bottom lip, "B...Boulder..?"

The long-faced animal slowly shakes his head, "Yes, and no. Certainly, that is the name this form was given originally. Though I suppose nowadays it would be Regal - perhaps a more fitting name for one of my station. Or should I say, former station?"

The horse snorts, sadness tinges his eyes, "It has been quite some time, I would imagine. But where are my manners?"

Iffmy can't help but stare in shock at the talking horse. True, it's mouth does not move, but undeniably, speech emerges from its general direction, passing the distance instantly.

Unperturbed by her disbelieving frown and limp arms, Boulder(?) continues as though the whole situation were nothing out of the ordinary, and instead in fact, very normal.

"My name is Elotto Valnezi, Prince Luminary, Lord Protector of Haavesh, and Heir to the Ivory Throne of Calmeqt."

Boulder - Prince Elotto, bows his head deeply, and slowly, in an imitation of courtly graces. For a horse to act so might be considered comedic, were it truly an act, but there is no audience here save for Iffmy herself, surely?

"I..Hello? Am I still...asleep?"

Iffmy shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose and massaging her eyelids, not wanting to believe her own sight nor hearing. Talking horses may fit quite snugly into the legends and fables passed around by the odd Bard stopping by to fleece the infrequently visiting nobility, but as fantastical as such a thing sounds, to be confronted by a fairy tale creature made flesh is quite something else altogether.

Elotto responds with amusement, his voice a little clearer, "Not at all, milady. Truly if this were a pleasant midsummer's dream I should hope that I, at least, was the dreamer, for me to be trapped within this animal's body and accompanied by such a stunning beauty...It could only be such if I were not fully aware of the events that led me here."

Feeling her lips starting to dry, Iffmy nervously proffers the obvious question, doing her very best not to blush from the shameless flattery, "What events are those?"

"Before that, might I have the pleasure of knowing your name, fair maiden? And where, precisely, we are?"

Iffmy pauses, looking shiftily from side to side, feeling strangely unsure about introducing herself to the self-described Prince, but the location is easy, "We're in Gilmy Village, in umm...The Righteous Monarchy of Herod, Mr Valnezi. I'm just a Tender who looks after the horses. Nobody important."

Her faked smile withers quickly under the evaluating stare Elotto gives her, and he closes his eyes, "For such a delightfully pretty young woman to be 'Nobody important'...I confess I am having some difficulty believing your words. Truly, you would not blend in at all with the ladies of my old court. Rather, your effervescence far outshines even Lady Menesh's eldest with far less finery."

Unbidden, a smile perks at the corners of Iffmy's mouth at such lavish praise, the blush breaks free and burns across her cheeks. The Prince chuckles, "To answer your question, however."

There is an odd pause. Elotto raises his head after a moment, "I was cursed, to put in the simplest term possible."

Iffmy blinks, "Cursed?"

He nods, "Yes. By a jealous former lover and the chief rival for my rightful throne. I am not familiar with this, Righteous Monarchy, did you say? But it is likely some distance from my homeland. To think that I would be banished so far..."

The Horse Heir looks off to the side, ponderously, "I wonder too, how many years it has been since I assumed this base form. I admit, I only awoke recently from this simplistic beast's vacuous mind. Only to be forced beneath the eddies of consciousness once again by an unusual powder."

Iffmy's lips form a tight line, a suspicion bursting at the seam, "Did...did you kill Lester? On purpose?"

Elotto turns to face Iffmy once again, "I assume you refer to the clumsy oaf who hammered a nail into my leg."

She nods, biting hard on her lip to steady the nerves.

He pauses, suggesting an inaudible sigh, "Nay. The shock of pain may have shaken free my will, my soul, but I cannot claim to have been in control of the panicked creature, so pained and scared it was. Perhaps, instead, I owe the buffoon a great debt for freeing me of that soporific prison. So, nay, again I say."

The Prince stares directly into her shaking eyes, "I did not kill that man. Know this as truth."

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3 Weeks Ago

Ever since that day, the day the Prince Luminary of Calmeqt, awoke from his cursed slumber within Boulder and revealed his existence to Iffmy, the Prince's jokes and flattery have never been far from Iffmy's ears. Day through blessed day, he shares numerous stories of life at the royal court of his homeland.

Tales of whirlwind romance, murderous intrigue and subtle sorcerous manipulation. To hear him tell it; the overblown tales of Bards who have never seen the inside of even the outhouse of a Nobleman's Mansion servants, all of them are true - No, they barely even grasp half of the truth.

It was everything Iffmy had dreamed about as a little girl and more.

Prince Elotto had a rapacious appetite for conversation, and the lack of a need to breathe between sentences often left Iffmy at a loss to understand the nobleman's ceaseless rambling. It was starting to affect her behaviour, and her father was beginning to become suspicious.

Mercifully, the only person able to hear the Prince was Iffmy herself, and as his strength returned to him over the recent days, the distance at which his voice could travel was rapidly increasing, along with a curious ability to transmit images - memories of his old life.

Glad of the interesting company, Iffmy played along, in spite of a nagging voice of her own making huddled in a deep corner of her mind, whispering how she has surely gone mad to be talking to an imaginary prince trapped inside of a horse. She did, of course, recognise the sheer absurdity of the situation. Perhaps with that, Iffmy could claim to still possess some semblance of a sound mind, despite it all.

But in truth...

This kind of fantasy, real or not, was immensely enjoyable. For once in her small, closed off life, she felt like she truly mattered in the world - that finally, after years of waiting, she had been given the right to be the Heroine of her own story, instead of just a feckless observer. Elotto appreciated her for who she was, and was not afraid to speak his mind on the matter, at length.

If it is little more than a daydream brought by loneliness and isolation from the rest of civilisation...Then that's ok, too.

For now, at least, the Prince has not been very forthcoming as to the details of how he came to inhabit a horse's body. Whenever the topic is brushed upon, he catches himself mid-sentence and changes the subject. Should Iffmy ever try probing around the issue or, more recently, asking him directly, he either refuses to answer - turning uncharacteristically silent for a while - or otherwise, again, changes the subject to one more palatable to his tastes.

More often than not, he prefers to fall back to ridiculously over-the-top flirting.

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2 Weeks, And 3 Days Ago, Iffmy's Room

Iffmy sits cross-legged upon her old, somewhat worn horsehair rug. It is hard, owing to the tightly packed weaves, and scratchy to sit out bare-skinned. But it is perhaps one of the few things left by her long-gone Mother, and it was in turn, an heirloom passed from her own parents, supposedly, but who knows where it came from beyond that. Nevertheless, since she was but a wee little tyke, she would insist on doing just about everything better suited to a proper chair or her own bed on that ratty old rug.

Even now, a woman grown, she sits upon it still, deep in conversation with a Prince who through curious circumstance, found himself cursed to inhabit the body of a horse in a foreign land. But no longer does she speak to a disembodied voice, no, now the Prince has become able to manifest a projection of himself for her to see.

The memory transmission from the early days was mere practice for this new trick, which he has grown remarkably proficient in controlling.

The projection is Elotto as he truly is, not the equine shell in which his true soul is imprisoned. A stunningly handsome man with a roguish cheerfulness that encompasses his entire being. Black hair tied into an intricate knot and fastened by an ivory comb, tanned skin and piercing blue eyes at once full of mirth and overflowing charisma. His clothes change, depending on his mood, from simple robes to the most elaborate costumes, rarely an hour goes by without his whims dictating a change in appearance.

Tonight, he sits - or rather, appears to sit - on the edge of her bed, hands clasped together as he hunches over to look down at her on as close to an even plane as can reasonably be managed without breaking his non-existent bones. An event he has to be especially mindful of, as occasionally, his concentration slips and the results can be hilariously awkward to behold. All semblance of pride and nobility falls away when you realise your elbow is sinking through your knee.

Iffmy smiles up at him beatifically, "Rather late in the night for a chat, you know?"

Elotto laughs, "Ah, but your father should be quite occupied with his merrymaking, and having made my decision, I see no reason to delay 'til the morrow."

She smiles wryly, "I doubt he'll be absent for much longer, though. He's not a young man anymore, and his head for ale isn't what it used to be."

Elotto grins, stroking his chin, "Perhaps I should consider it a mercy I never reached my dotage if such a fate awaited even myself."

He makes a show of clearing his throat, folding his muscular bare arms across his new sleeveless, green and gold tunic. Iffmy sneaks a brief glance, then gives him her full attention.

"After much thought, I've decided that you are a woman of incomparable integrity. To ensure my safety and secrecy as you have done is a task I greatly appreciate, and for that, you are to be commended."

He places his right fist to his heart, "Thus I will reveal to you the misfortune that befell me and my intentions from here on out."

Iffmy stares at him, hanging off his every word, but offering none in return, content with simply listening to the handsome man speak.

"Colluding with that snake of a man, Uilo, a former paramour of mine enticed me to a private meeting with offers of diplomatic discussion concerning the forthcoming war between our great nation and the sandy wastes of Jir.

In that room, a trap was sprung. My bodyguards were cut down before their weapons could be freed from their scabbards, and I myself found little choice but to throw down my own. At the points of many spears, it was revealed to me that I was to be 'punished' for my callous behaviour of the time.."

Elotto grits his teeth, the handsome features of his face pulling together in a visage of restrained rage, "They had the gall to suggest that truly, no one loved me at all. That the smiling faces I encountered in the palace, the happiness observed when I walked amongst the common folk...All of it - lies."

He clenches his fist, "Of course, the liars were they themselves, and their flimsy accusations held no weight for which to judge the worthiness of their transgression against me. I even reminded them of such.

This is when the Curse was unleashed upon me. Shoved into the middle of a Scriptist's schemata, I felt pain enough to perish, with the only thing I could hear being the triumphant gloating of that madwoman:

'Perhaps one day you might find yourself free, should you find a woman truly willing to stoop as low as to romance a mule!'"

Iffmy giggles loudly, "A colourful send-off."

Elotto concedes the point with a small smile, "Mayhap, that is one way of addressing the insult. But the course, to me, is clear. In you, I sense a radiance unlike any other, and I wish for your earnest assistance in breaking this curse. Then, I will return home to enact bloody justice and take my throne...alongside you, as my Queen."

Iffmy laughs further, "Stop it, I'm not worthy of such a high position alongside you, as nice as that would be."

The Prince opens his mouth to retort but is halted, tilting his head. A flash of irritation crosses his handsome features, before he vanishes completely from sight, leaving no earthly evidence of his presence or existence perceivable by magic-deaf peasants.

The door to the room slams open, and in steps Almecks, the dreamily smiling woman's father, all drunken indignation and fatherly instinct. He looks at his daughter in obvious confusion, then casts a searching gaze around the small bedroom, finding nothing, for nothing was there, to begin with.

The Prince lies safe, and silent in a stable far from the Master Farrier's home, having not moved even an inch throughout.