Arriane

Princess Dragonslayer slayed the dragon

with swings of her mighty sword,

then she rode off in a wagon

because she was incredibly bored

I winced and took another drink of what this tavern pretended was wine.  The music itself wasn’t bad, but by all the gods, the lyrics… “Sal.” I interrupted.  She stopped playing and looked at me inquisitively. I considered my words carefully. “When I suggested you pretend to be a minstrel… I meant, well, that you could pretend.  As in, not actually do minstrelsy things.”

She looked thoughtful and started strumming her lute again.  “Is that truely a word? Minstrelsy? It sounds imaginary.” She cleared her throat.  “Anyway, here is the next verse:”

She stood as tall and strong as an oak

with a sword as sharp as her wits,

and piercing brown eyes like mud underwater,

and a set of really marvelous-

“Sal!”  I was not interested in her finishing that line.  “Do not sing about my- look. First, aren’t you supposed to be… you know, at least a little accurate?  I didn’t actually slay a dragon. I’m not as tall as an oak. And how can mud be peircing?” I took another drink to collect my thoughts.  I was getting off track. “Anyway. I’m just saying that you have other talents. You don’t actually need to make up songs. Please.”

She peered at me.  Her eyes - which I would have killed to have - were, in fact, piercing.  They were a tawny yellow with a hint of molten gold if they caught the light just right.  “Are you suggesting, Arriane, that I am not very good at composing?”

I considered.  Sometimes blunt was the way to go.  I shrugged. “Yes.”

Her eyes flared, and for a second I tensed.  Then they died off and she sat back with a sigh.  “Arriane, I need to do something. I might as well do… this.  And how will I improve if I never practice?”

She waved a hand.  “As to the rest of your list - ballads are not about truth, my dear.  They are about the story. You did, in fact, defeat a dragon. There is no need to muddy the song with pesky details of reality.  You are rather unforgivably tall for a princess. And you have quite the gaze when you get wrathful.” Her eyes focused lower. “And I do not understand why you are uncomfortable with me singing about your chest.  It seems to attract quite a lot of attention, so surely it should be mentioned?”

I flushed.  “That’s not the point.  I just feel like a fraud.  Even more so, you know?” I waved my hand around, indicating the bar.  “My story’s over, right? I rescued myself. Once I get home my father will marry me off, assuming he can find someone who will take me, and then I get to learn how to knit or sew or something and pop out babies the rest of my life.”  I slammed down the rest of the wine, then signaled the barmaid. I stared morosely at my empty cup. “There’s nothing heroic left, Sal. So you don’t need to learn how to sing on my account.”

I sighed, then looked over at her.  And winced - her face was like stone.  “Look - I know it’s my fault that you need something new to do, instead of doing-”

“Sal-type things?”  Her voice was ironic, and I grinned at the memory of what I’d called her other activities when I was young.  Since I had no idea what she did when she disappeared, I’d been understandably vague. Her voice was gentle. “Arriane, you did what you had to do.  I would not have you still locked in that tower. If this is the price paid for your freedom, then it is one I satisfied to pay.”

Her next words were tinged with amusement.  “Besides, do you really think your story is over?”

I frowned at her, then narrowed my eyes.  “Explain.”

Her eyes glittered with flickering amusement.  “You are a literal fairy tale princess. Fairy tales have two things you need to worry about - momentum, and symmetry.”  She cleared her throat and took a sip of her mead, taking on a familiar lecturing tone. “Momentum is simple. Struggle as you may, the tale wants to be told a certain way.  You can fight against the currents,” with a demonstrative wiggle of her hand, “but the overall direction is beyond your control.”

I took my new glass of wine and absently paid the bargirl.  I frowned at Sal. “But I did change things. Almost entirely.”

She nodded.  “Precisely. Which brings us to the second part - symmetry.  Hero and villain, witch and wizard, and…” she drew it out with a pregnant pause.  Her smile was razor sharp. “Prince and princess.”

I stared at her.  The wine was muddling my thoughts, and I wasn’t in the mood for her usual type of lesson.  I let my head thunk down on the table. “Please, Sal. Not now. Just tell me.”

She sighed.  “Really, I should make you figure this out yourself… but oh, very well.  You rescued yourself, yes. And you took on the attributes of the story’s prince to do so.  You are strong, tall, handsome, well spoken, good at heart, clever in battle and skilled with a sword.”  She leaned back in her chair, regarding me steadily. “In other words, of the two parties, you are now the rescuer.”

I closed my eyes, horror dawning slowly.  “I need to rescue my prince.”

“And?”

I glared at her.  “Seriously, Sal…” But from the set of her jaw, I knew she was going to be stubborn.  I sat back and stared at the ceiling. Ok. So I had the prince powers, and stories are symmetrical.  Which meant… my jaw dropped, and I looked at her in shock. “No.”

Her smile, if anything, grew even sharper.  “I’m sure he’s quite lovely by now. Princesses always are.”

I stared at her in silence for a few minutes, then signalled the barmaid again.  I was going to need more to drink.

* * *

Her hair glistens like the blood of her foes

she sings like the souls of the damned,

when she was younger she had very pretty toes

but now they’re all-

Sal cut off, frowned, and started muttering to herself about rhymes.  I was halfway through the bottle I’d acquired, and I couldn’t hold back my groan.  “By all the gods, Sal. No more.”

She gave a put upon sigh.  “You make a miserable drunk, Arriane.  Go hit something. That always makes you feel better.”

I whined.  “But I can’t just go punch someone for no reason.  That’s not very princessish.” I tasted that last word, and decided it was appropriate even if I’d made it up.

She arched one perfect eyebrow at me and gave me a critical look.  I froze and tried to look as un-drunk as possible. I must have passed inspection, because she pursed her lips, then sighed again.  “I’m sure I will regret this, but those three over in the corner have been making increasingly rude comments about me since they sat down.”  She indicated the corner behind me.

My grin stretched my face.  Perfect. I nodded to her. “You’re a treasure, Sal.”  I got to my feet carefully.

She gave a rare unladylike groan.  “I will definitely regret this.” She snagged my hand, and I looked back at her.  “No weapons, and try to keep them away from your face this time.”

I gave her an exaggerated, wounded look.  “Me?”

She covered her eyes with her other hand.  “Just… don’t hurt anyone too badly. And since I’m sure you’re getting us kicked out, meet me by the stable when you’re done.  I’ll go grab our things.” I handed her my sword, Binder, and she took it with only the faintest hesitation. Then she grabbed her lute, left a large tip on the table and threaded her way to the stairs.  I put her out of my mind - anyone stupid enough to mess with Sal would be lucky to get away with all of their limbs.

I made my way over to the corner, studying my targets as I tried to avoid tripping over chairs.  Laborers of some kind - maybe mills or a smithy. Strong and dumb. Two of them were older and somewhat worn down, but I knew they’d still hit like a mule.  The third was something else again. Only a few years older than I, almost as tall but broader and more muscular. He’d be fun, and I felt my smile widen.

I stepped up behind them, and made a mental note to avoid breaking any limbs.  I’m not above putting someone out of work if they deserve it, but these guys were just convenient.  The big guy tore his gaze away from where Sal had been bouncing up the stairs, and he frowned at me.  The other two turned as well, and all three sets of eyes worked up my body. And then locked on my chest.

To be fair… it’s the one part of me that’s, well.  Traditionally feminine. And they’re not really that big, I’m just a large woman.  I stand six and a half feet - and due to Sal’s tutelage, I’m not a sloucher - and everything is to scale.  I’ve yet to meet a man who ignores them entirely, but this was a bit over the top.

I smiled brightly.  “Hi guys!” I casually put a hand on each of the older guy’s shoulders.  And if I dug in a bit and they winced, maybe that would teach them not to stare, right?  I leaned down and forced myself to a more serious tone of voice. “You’ve all been saying some pretty nasty things about my friend.  I think you owe her an apology.”

They stared, hypnotized, so I squeezed carefully.  The one on the left winced. “Ow! Hey!” I ignored him.

The big guy grunted and met my eyes.  “She’s not here anymore, is she? Guess we can’t apologize.  So fuck off.” He turned and spat on the floor.

My voice was dry.  “Charming. But that’s not good enough, gentleman.  You can apologize to me. I’ll tell her.” I lowered my voice.  “Or I can beat you all up for a while. That works too.”

Big guy snorted.  “You’re a girl. We don’t hit girls.  Even ones who think they’re a man.” His smile made me feel dirty.  “We do other things to girls. Don’t we?” They shared a man laugh - you know the one - that made my blood boil, and then older guy number one made his mistake.

He grabbed my tit.  Then looked at it, confused, because when you fight like I do you need some serious support and restraints.  Apparently he wasn’t expecting leather. My grin widened, and I looked down at him. “Hey, thanks.”

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He looked confused up until I took a grip on his head, stepped back, and slammed his head into his neighbor’s.  I measured the force carefully - no point in knocking them out this early - and they were swearing as they bounced apart.  The big guy surged to his feet, but he still looked conflicted. So I braced and kicked the table into his gut. He went down hard and threw up his dinner and ale.  My nose wrinkled. Still, it was my fault, so I guess it would be unfair to hold it against him.

The three of them slowly got up and faced me.  And from the sound behind me, the rest of the inn was following their lead.  Big guy glowered at me, still holding his stomach, and growled out, “Alright.  If she wants it that bad, get the bitch.”

Finally.  I cracked my knuckles, and then they were coming at me and there was no more time for words, or thoughts about stories and curses and princes.  Just clean, simple violence.

* * *

I sat back against the stable wall with a sigh.  The innkeep wanted me gone, but wasn’t stupid enough to come out and make a point of it when I was clearly already on my way.  Besides, I had other things to worry about. I hissed as Sal doused my bleeding knuckles with wine, but I wasn’t stupid enough to voice an actual complaint.  Lots of not-stupid going around tonight.

I watched her as she worked.  In the late evening light her golden skin was washed out, no longer making her look like a southerner.  Her slight frame and fine features just added to the ethereal image. But her hair, a short red flame that seemed to have an inner glow, still shone brightly as it bobbed with her movement.

Sal’s bandages were perfunctory.  I’ve always healed fast and rarely gotten sick… I frowned.  “Sal? Hey, I- ow!” I tried to brush her away as she dabbed at the cut on my face, but she ducked my clumsy waving to continue her torturous ministrations.  My memory was a bit hazy on the source of the cut, but I think it was from being enthusiastically introduced to a chair.

I dragged my mind back on track as she finished up.  “Sal-”

“Shush.  I am still angry with you.”  I looked away, and she sighed.  “Arriane… I know you are upset from earlier, and I gave you permission.  But you cannot always hide from your problems with your fists. Doing so will not change reality.”

I swallowed.  “I know. But- listen.  You said earlier that I took on the- that I got all princy, right?  From the story?” The look she gave me told me what she thought of my summary skills, so I rushed on.  “Does that mean that I’m not… me?” I ran one hand along my muscular forearm. “That it’s just the magic that makes me this way?”

She sat in silence for a bit, and my heart sank.  I told myself I was being silly - Sal always thinks before speaking, at least when it’s serious and not a song about my supposed exploits - but it was a struggle.  I had always been proud of myself. Even if I wasn’t a proper princess, or even really a proper girl, at least what I did have I had earned. I had worked for my strength, for the ability to fight with fists and daggers and a sword.  I’d paid with years of blood and sweat, and the thought that it wasn’t me, that I’d gotten it from some… story magic… felt like a stab to the heart. I wondered how naive I had been to not think of this before.

She cleared her throat.  “With the understanding that this is not-” she paused, then continued.  “That this is not my type of magic, full transformations are expensive.  In terms of both magical ability and sacrifice. I doubt that your story has that kind of power.”  She met my eyes. “However, the magic would act as a… guide, of sorts. It shapes and encourages, molding you to fit the role.”

She leaned forward and placed one hand on my shoulder, her eyes serious.  “Would you be so terribly tall without the story? Quite so handsome and skilled?”  She shrugged. “Probably not. But remember that it is the role you chose.  You decided to rescue yourself, not the magic.  You put in the work. You trained with a- with me, willingly.”  She smiled at me, warmly. “And without all that, you would still be in your tower, waiting on your prince.”

Then her smile turned into a frown.  “The magic did not put you outside of a third-rate inn, sitting here half-drunk and covered in blood and sweat.  That, my dear, you did entirely on your own.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the wall.  My smile felt fragile. “Thanks.” Then I reached out and pulled her into a hug.  She fought me half-heartedly but submitted with a grumble, and in turn I was careful not to push it.  From my sister’s descriptions Sal is somewhat like a cat when it comes to affection - it’s on her terms, or you’d better be prepared to get scratched.

After releasing her she swiftly moved away, and I sighed and stared into the night sky.  I knew I should get up and help Sal prepare by retrieving Churchmouse from the stable, but I couldn’t make myself move quite yet.  I also knew that I’d be thinking more about stories and being strong. I hated the fact that I’d always wonder now if it was me, or some silly fairy tale.

But I thought of Sal’s words and her hug, and I smiled, my heart feeling lighter.  And I levered myself up to help her prepare our wagon.

* * *

I groaned as the sun stabbed into my skull.  I wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the blow to the head, but the light seemed to amplify the pounding headache that was still plaguing me, rapid healing or no.  I took a quick swig from my waterskin. “Sal?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“If I ever get drunk and decide to start a fight again, stop me?”

She didn’t dignify that with an answer.  She was balanced precariously in the wagon, bent over her collection of parchment, and staring down with a disappointed look.  I kept myself from frowning. I couldn’t figure out why she was so insistent on creating music and singing, and she can be incredibly tight-lipped when she wants to be.  But the fact was she could have done so much more, and this obviously wasn’t her forte. So why was she banging her head against it?

I gave a mental shrug, and filed it away as something to worry about later.  And then I chastised myself and looked around carefully. This isn’t exactly bandit country, but two travellers alone is asking for trouble.  Better to be watchful and avoid it if possible. I scanned the sides of the road, reflexively picking out tracks and the small animal signs of the wilderness.  Three deer had passed there earlier, two does and a buck, and there a hare had crossed ahead.

I paused and knelt, staring at the cat print in the road, and it was like reading a book.  Easier, even. A male lynx, old and canny, early this morning. Tracking the hares. I grimaced and stood, obliterating it with my boot, feeling the ashes of my pride like a sharp ache.  Yet another skill I had picked up not because I was actually competent, but because the magic thought I should have it.

I shook my head and went back to checking for trouble.  I eyed Churchmouse carefully - the mule had a sixth sense for danger - but he was marching along without a care in the world, and I relaxed slightly and tried to force my mood away.  I walked closer and knuckled his forehead, and he playfully tried to bite my hand off as I dodged away.

The road to Bannerstown is cut through old growth forest, and the morning fog and sunlight gave it a primeval, old world look.  I frowned. There was something small, subtly off about the scene, and I slowed as I tried to figure out what my instincts were yelling about.  I reached up carefully and drew Binder, then winced again as the sun reflected off of him. I swore and lifted a hand to block it… and then stared.

At my hand blocking the morning sun.  Coming in front of me. Meaning we were heading east.

Bannerstown is to the south.

I realized I’d stopped, but Churchmouse and Sal were chugging along away from me, and I sheathed Binder and jogged to catch up.  Sal favored me with an amused glance. “Took you long enough.”

I opened my mouth to ask why we were heading east, but a lifetime of lessons made me shut it and try thinking first.  Sal can get exceptionally, drily sarcastic when you ask stupid questions. I rolled the problem around in my mind for a bit, added in our conversation from last night and felt things lock into place.  “You know where my prince is.”

She looked at me neutrally.  “No.” Then smiled with a teacher’s pride.  “But a good guess. And close.” We walked in silence for a few minutes, me thinking furiously, before she took pity on me.  She sighed and put down her parchment. “I don’t know where he is. But I know where to find out.”

I closed my eyes.  I was not up to puzzles this morning, but the bad guys rarely wait for you to be fully prepared, so I forced myself to consider the problem.  I also took the time to do another scan around us, and by the time I finished I thought I had the answer. But I took a page from Sal’s book and made it a question.  “How are fairy tales created?”

This time her approval was unfettered, her teeth flickering like firelight in the sun.  “Very good. It varies, of course. Fairies - not Fae - are the most common, followed by dragons and wizards.  Your story, however, was created by a witch.” Her smile dimmed near the end, and I felt my own expression drop.

Witches are kind of like nature.  They’re not exactly evil, but they’re also not exactly good, and they’ll rip out your liver and eat it if they’re hungry.  If we had to go talk to a witch, we’d need to tread carefully. And from what I recalled, there would be a price, and not one we’d be happy to pay.

I forced my voice to stay casual.  “Does this witch have a name?”

Sal’s voice was the epitome of neutral and flat.  “She is known is the Shadow of Twilight’s End.”

I swallowed.  Wonderful.

* * *

We walked throughout the morning, and I felt myself sinking further and further into dark thoughts.  My mind felt trapped in a downward spiral. I needed to keep watch, but doing so reminded me of my woodcraft.  Woodcraft led, inevitable, to my magic skills, and from there to the witch. I kept imagining confronting her, the one who had shaped my life, made me into the mockery of a prince that defined my existence.  Then I would force myself to look around again, and the cycle would start all over again.

I was in the middle of feeling sorry for myself when Sal interrupted.  “Arriane?”

I dragged myself out of my current fantasy, which involved throttling a dark robed figure.  “Uh. Yes?” Her voice was tinged with a hint of amusement, and I narrowed my eyes at her.

“I was just wondering about your prince.”

I caught the emphasis and remembered my earlier words.  And flushed. “He’s not- I just mean that he’s in the same story.  Not that he’s really mine. In any way.” I knew she was teasing me, but I couldn’t help reacting.  It didn’t help that my experience with boys was limited to punching them for stress relief.

“That is not how it sounded.”  She wasn’t bothering to hide that she found it funny now.

I scowled at her.  “I don’t know anything about him.  And if he’s anything like the princesses I’ve met, I don’t want to.”  I forced my gaze to the road. “We’ll rescue him and get this all… fixed, and then we can go our separate ways.”

Her eyes danced.  “But he will be beautiful, no?”  Her eyes unfocused as she stared into the distance, and her voice danced on the slight breeze.

Beauty and steel

shadowed by gossamer threads of fate

the prince awaits in a tower of broken stone

I stopped in shock and gaped at her.  “What in the god’s names was that?” But Churchmouse has no appreciation for verse and refused to stop, so a second later I shook my head and stepped quickly to catch back up.

Her eyes focused back on me, and then she looked away.  “Nothing. Just something I read once.”

I wasn’t convinced, but something told me not to push so I added it to my growing list of stuff I needed to worry about later.  I sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” She looked inquiringly at me, so I elaborated. “How he looks. It’s not important how princes look.”

She frowned.  Sal is generally smart, but she doesn’t really get humans sometimes.  “In all the stories I have read, princes are always handsome and good looking. ”

I shook my head.  “Yes, because that’s nice and makes people feel good.  But they don’t have to be.  It doesn’t matter if he’s ugly.  As long as he has a decent personality, that’s enough.  Or a big enough country, if we’re being honest.”

Her frown deepened.  “So surely if he is beautiful, that is good, correct?  A bonus?”

I stopped, and this time Sal stopped Churchmouse as well.  She was staring at me, knowing she’d stepped into something but not able to comprehend what.  We’d gone over similar things before, and I knew it was likely futile but I decided to try to explain again anyway.

“The problem is that a princess does need to be beautiful.  She needs to be sweet, delicate, and pretty. And I am none of those things.”  I met her eyes, and smiled sadly at the confusion I saw. Sal just doesn’t get gender differences - she knows about them intellectually, but to her a beautiful man is just as nice to look at as a handsome one.  And a handsome girl as nice as a pretty one.

The fact that my features might be “ruggedly handsome” - if you're feeling generous - means that, to her, I am attractive.  Strength over delicacy. And cleverness over sweetness.

If only the rest of the world thought the same way.

I started walking again.  I kept my voice even with an effort.  “The problem isn’t me falling in love with a prince, Sal.  It’s that no prince will ever fall in love with me.” I took a deep breath.  It’s not like this was a new thought - it was a truth I’d learned and accepted a long time ago, and as always I forced myself past it.  No point in dwelling on things I can’t change. I scanned the forest again.

Sal’s voice was tight.  “Arriane-”

I cut her off.  “I’m going to go scout.”  The silence was stricken, and I hesitated before I gave her a smile.  “I’ll be fine, Sal. It’s not your fault.” I strode toward the side of the road, feeling her eyes on the back of my neck until I vanished into the trees.

My turn to be unconvincing, I suppose.