(no subject)
Here is Anne's fairy tale for Cal, without her random breaks to make him eat and drink and stuff. Because I felt like it. Also with the part where I forgot what tense I was using corrected.
Once upon a time, there was a great King Parlin. King Parlin reigned over his kingdom with wisdom and honor. But he did not know how to fight a war. The kingdom to the west, Ishal, was full of barbarians and scoundrels, and King Parlin knew that should Ishal ever turn its sights on his country, they would be destroyed.
"My son," he said to the Prince, "you must find us a warrior. In this world, there must be a man who is powerful enough that he can save us."
The Prince was quite a young boy, and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Not knowing his father's worries about Ishal, he rode there at once to find a warrior, since they were rumored to be the most powerful fighters in all the world.
The Prince had never seen a dead body before, but as soon as he rode into Ishal he saw one, a young man impaled on a sign post. His eyes were blank and blood oozed from his mouth. His hands were limp at his side, and the Prince could see his heart stuck atop the sign like a warning.
He at once went to be sick in the bushes, but it was only the beginning. It seemed the farther the Prince went into the Ishal lands, the more gruesome sights he saw. There was one man with his hands cut off and stuck into his mouth, another with his legs broken so they pointed the way towards a town. All of them were covered in flies and vultures, and the Prince despaired what would happen should he ever arrive at a town. The further he went, the more sure he became that he would never leave alive. But he knew that his father needed a warrior, and he knew that here must be a man with enough power, so he went on.
When the Prince finally reached a town, it was all he had feared. Bodies and half-bodies stared at him from the doors of the shops, and there was a foreboding silence pressing on his ears. He had never been in such a terrible place before. Blood was running into the gutters, and the Prince treaded lightly, trying not to step in the bodies and entrails littering the path. What had happened to this place?
In the middle of the square, there was a man. All the Prince could see of him was black: hair, clothing, hands covered in black gloves. His sword was out and dripping blood into a puddle on the ground. In front of him was a man with no throat. Next to him was the man's throat.
He turned at the Prince's unsupressed gasp. His skin was pale and his eyes were black as his clothes.
"What are you doing here?" asked the man. His voice was like a coiled spring.
"I am looking for a warrior," said the Prince.
"You have found one," said the man.
"I am looking for a warrior," said the Prince, his voice unsteady, "to help my father."
"And who is your father that I should help him?" asked the man. He pointed the sword at the Prince's throat.
"M-m-m-my father is the King of Parlin," said the Prince. "He looks for a man who can defend his kingdom. W-w-w-were you to help us, he would reward y--"
The man lazily flicked his wrist, and the Prince felt a seering pain in his neck. The cut was shallow but it stung, and the Prince could feel blood trickling down towards his shirt. He swallowed.
"I care not for money," said the man. "Money I have. It is adventure I seek. I have not found a man in all this country with skills to challenge my own."
"P-P-Parlin is a powerful nation. Our rule is challenged by men of all stations, the most powerful of men..."
"I cannot work for a man whose skill I do not respect. If you wish to have me for your servant, you must defeat me."
The Prince shook. He had no weapon, no experience. His father had taught him of politics and diplomacy, not swordsmanship.
"Give me a sword," said the Prince, "and I will fight you."
"You are foolish," said the man. "I like that." He threw the Prince his sword. "You may take it. I will fight you without. If you make me bleed, you win."
"And how do you win?" asked the Prince.
"If you are dead, then I have won."
The Prince had never held a sword before, and the weight of it was unfamiliar in his hands. He sliced the air once, twice. "Can you really kill me without your sword?" he asked.
The man smirked and reached for the throatless body, ripping the head off with one hand.
"I shall manage," he said, his teeth glinting in the sun.
The Prince swallowed. He held the sword up. "Well then, shall we begin?" he asked, trying to sound confident. His voice shook.
The man moved almost before the Prince could see him, leaping up in the air and bearing down on him. The Prince held the sword up in the air, trying to push the man away. He sliced just as the man hit, but the man lashed out with his hand, nails scraping skin off the Prince's arm. The man skidded along the ground, pushing up dust and blood with his boots as he slid. But no blood of his own.
"Better than I expected," said the man, licking the Prince's blood off his fingers. "But you will have to do better than that."
The Prince lunged, and the man caught the sword between his fingers. Reveling in his victory, he stuck his tongue out to lick the blade, taunting the Prince with his mastery.
Summoning every ounce of strength in him, the Prince thrust the sword forward. It moved just enough, and a drop of blood escaped the man's tongue.
Instantly, the man released the sword. He smiled, a predatory expression without any warmth. "Very well," said the man, "I will go with you."
The Prince learned that the man's name was Simion, and that he came from the land of Yutick, to the north of Ishal.
"In Yutick," said Simion, "there is no one strong enough to tempt me, nor even anyone strong enough that he is worth fighting. So I went to Ishal. The moment I entered, they began to fight me. Ishal and Yutick have never been friends. I have been laying a path of destruction through Ishal since I came here a month ago."
The Prince said nothing. Simion kicked a body idly as they passed it.
"I hope for your sake someone strong attacks soon," said Simion casually. "Because if they don't, I will."
The two arrived back to be greeted warmly by the King.
"My son," said the King, beaming, "who is this warrior you have found?"
"I am Simion," he said, bowing. "I await your orders, my leige."
"Perhaps a show of strength is in order." The King smiled and gestured to two guards. The Prince knew them, Allen and Kilin. Neither was such a good fighter, and Simion could destroy them without a thought. "Perhaps you could spar with them."
"Don't kill them," hissed the Prince as Simion passed him.
"If you insist," replied Simion lazily. He drew his sword.
Allen charged first. As if it was almost too much effort, Simion parried, and then struck Allen, slicing into his arm and rendering it useless. The assembled court gasped.
"That is quite enough," said the King, his voice fearful. "I trust your skills."
"I will protect you, majesty, from any who wish harm upon you or this kingdom," said Simion. With that, he turned and stabbed a pageboy. The shocked youth feel forward, blood oozing onto the carpet.
"What is the meaning of this?!" demanded the King, rising from his seat in anger. The nobles whispered, panicked, thinking the Prince had brought a monster into their midst.
Calmly Simion picked up the paper from the page's dead hand. It was stained at the corner with the boy's blood. "Here," he said, handing it to the Prince. "Read it."
The Prince scanned the letter. "Father," he said, "this man is an Ishal messenger. It is a declaration of war."
"You are ill-prepared for a war, my King," said Simion. "Your guards are no match for Ishal men. In fact, the only man I've seen here worth anything in battle is your son?"
"My son?" asked the King, paling.
"Me?" asked the Prince, incredulous.
"You didn't back down," said Simion, not looking at the king. "Even after you saw what I had done for days and days. And you made me bleed. No one else has done this. No one else has come close."
The Prince looked away. "I don't know how to fight. I cannot fight an army."
"I can fight an army," said Simion. "All you must do is fight men."
"I can fight men," said the Prince.
"Yes, you can," said Simion.
I think I shall skip their training, as it probably long and not so very interesting, and I will go straight to the killing. But we may assume that the Prince has become a little better at fighting. And so did the rest of the army, but they are not very good at all, and the Prince is not so very good. But Simion is.
"I have never been in a war," said the Prince.
"None of you have," said Simion. "It puts us at a disadvantage."
The army of Ishal was not a large one, but their armor was better and their swords heavier. Simion smirked. "I took out quite some number of them already." He held his sword high on the field of battle, and the sun glinted off of it, a signal.
The Ishal charged.
The Prince fought admirably, but he could not help but stray his gaze to Simion. To watch Simion fight, one would think he was water or fire, something elemental, something of the earth. It was perfect, his sword visible only as a blur of silver and sunlight, the blood flying into the air, and the men's bodies falling onto the ground, their hands and heads and legs strewn across the battlefield, their owners unclear. Sometimes it seemed all other fighting ceased and the whole of both armies watched Simion, breathless, his sword devestating half the men as he ripped the others apart with his free hand.
It was not a war. It was a massacre.
"They are trying to surrender!" yelled the Prince to Simion, stabbing a soldier he'd been fighting. The man fell to the ground in front of him and another took his place.
"Then why are they still fighting?" shouted Simion, slicing three men in half with a single blow.
"Someone has to stop fighting. They are showing a white flag!"
"Let them stop fighting, then. A wise leader never puts down his sword, Prince. That is asking someone to attack him."
The enemy was becoming sparser and sparser. The Prince saw a few of his own uniformed men littering the ground, but for the most part it was the limbs and bodies of the Ishal, their blood tinting the grass and the dirt a deep red.
"They won't retreat," said Simion, beheading one man with his sword and a second with his hand. Their bodies fell with an unpleasent thud onto three others, all served in a similar manner. "The Ishal are too stubborn to retreat." He tried to look upset, but it came out as manaical glee. "We are going to have to kill them all."
The Prince sliced an arm off one of the men near him. They were on their way to doing just that.
By the end of the day, the field was red and covered in men's bodies and vultures. The Prince's arm was bleeding steadily and his leg would need attention. Simion was untouched.
"It is just as I told you," said Simion, inspecting the Prince's arm. "Not one of them compares to you."
"If you had tempted fate with them as you had with me...ouch!"
"To appear weak is its own kind of advantage," said Simion. "This will need bandages, Prince."
"I know it will. Are you hurt?"
"Of course not. You were magnificent," said Simion. Without warning, he kissed the Prince.
It took a minute for the Prince to register the sensations, the lips and the taste of many people's blood, and the strangeness of Simion kissing him at all. And then, he gave into it.
Simion remained in the kingdom, of course, as head miliatary advisor, and with his help, they earned a reputation as being unstoppable in battle. He married the Prince, of course, and with the Prince's sensibility and diplomacy, the kingdom remained peaceful and prosperous, except when others were foolish enough to attack them, and Simion left their heads on pikes so that others might learn from their mistakes.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time, there was a great King Parlin. King Parlin reigned over his kingdom with wisdom and honor. But he did not know how to fight a war. The kingdom to the west, Ishal, was full of barbarians and scoundrels, and King Parlin knew that should Ishal ever turn its sights on his country, they would be destroyed.
"My son," he said to the Prince, "you must find us a warrior. In this world, there must be a man who is powerful enough that he can save us."
The Prince was quite a young boy, and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Not knowing his father's worries about Ishal, he rode there at once to find a warrior, since they were rumored to be the most powerful fighters in all the world.
The Prince had never seen a dead body before, but as soon as he rode into Ishal he saw one, a young man impaled on a sign post. His eyes were blank and blood oozed from his mouth. His hands were limp at his side, and the Prince could see his heart stuck atop the sign like a warning.
He at once went to be sick in the bushes, but it was only the beginning. It seemed the farther the Prince went into the Ishal lands, the more gruesome sights he saw. There was one man with his hands cut off and stuck into his mouth, another with his legs broken so they pointed the way towards a town. All of them were covered in flies and vultures, and the Prince despaired what would happen should he ever arrive at a town. The further he went, the more sure he became that he would never leave alive. But he knew that his father needed a warrior, and he knew that here must be a man with enough power, so he went on.
When the Prince finally reached a town, it was all he had feared. Bodies and half-bodies stared at him from the doors of the shops, and there was a foreboding silence pressing on his ears. He had never been in such a terrible place before. Blood was running into the gutters, and the Prince treaded lightly, trying not to step in the bodies and entrails littering the path. What had happened to this place?
In the middle of the square, there was a man. All the Prince could see of him was black: hair, clothing, hands covered in black gloves. His sword was out and dripping blood into a puddle on the ground. In front of him was a man with no throat. Next to him was the man's throat.
He turned at the Prince's unsupressed gasp. His skin was pale and his eyes were black as his clothes.
"What are you doing here?" asked the man. His voice was like a coiled spring.
"I am looking for a warrior," said the Prince.
"You have found one," said the man.
"I am looking for a warrior," said the Prince, his voice unsteady, "to help my father."
"And who is your father that I should help him?" asked the man. He pointed the sword at the Prince's throat.
"M-m-m-my father is the King of Parlin," said the Prince. "He looks for a man who can defend his kingdom. W-w-w-were you to help us, he would reward y--"
The man lazily flicked his wrist, and the Prince felt a seering pain in his neck. The cut was shallow but it stung, and the Prince could feel blood trickling down towards his shirt. He swallowed.
"I care not for money," said the man. "Money I have. It is adventure I seek. I have not found a man in all this country with skills to challenge my own."
"P-P-Parlin is a powerful nation. Our rule is challenged by men of all stations, the most powerful of men..."
"I cannot work for a man whose skill I do not respect. If you wish to have me for your servant, you must defeat me."
The Prince shook. He had no weapon, no experience. His father had taught him of politics and diplomacy, not swordsmanship.
"Give me a sword," said the Prince, "and I will fight you."
"You are foolish," said the man. "I like that." He threw the Prince his sword. "You may take it. I will fight you without. If you make me bleed, you win."
"And how do you win?" asked the Prince.
"If you are dead, then I have won."
The Prince had never held a sword before, and the weight of it was unfamiliar in his hands. He sliced the air once, twice. "Can you really kill me without your sword?" he asked.
The man smirked and reached for the throatless body, ripping the head off with one hand.
"I shall manage," he said, his teeth glinting in the sun.
The Prince swallowed. He held the sword up. "Well then, shall we begin?" he asked, trying to sound confident. His voice shook.
The man moved almost before the Prince could see him, leaping up in the air and bearing down on him. The Prince held the sword up in the air, trying to push the man away. He sliced just as the man hit, but the man lashed out with his hand, nails scraping skin off the Prince's arm. The man skidded along the ground, pushing up dust and blood with his boots as he slid. But no blood of his own.
"Better than I expected," said the man, licking the Prince's blood off his fingers. "But you will have to do better than that."
The Prince lunged, and the man caught the sword between his fingers. Reveling in his victory, he stuck his tongue out to lick the blade, taunting the Prince with his mastery.
Summoning every ounce of strength in him, the Prince thrust the sword forward. It moved just enough, and a drop of blood escaped the man's tongue.
Instantly, the man released the sword. He smiled, a predatory expression without any warmth. "Very well," said the man, "I will go with you."
The Prince learned that the man's name was Simion, and that he came from the land of Yutick, to the north of Ishal.
"In Yutick," said Simion, "there is no one strong enough to tempt me, nor even anyone strong enough that he is worth fighting. So I went to Ishal. The moment I entered, they began to fight me. Ishal and Yutick have never been friends. I have been laying a path of destruction through Ishal since I came here a month ago."
The Prince said nothing. Simion kicked a body idly as they passed it.
"I hope for your sake someone strong attacks soon," said Simion casually. "Because if they don't, I will."
The two arrived back to be greeted warmly by the King.
"My son," said the King, beaming, "who is this warrior you have found?"
"I am Simion," he said, bowing. "I await your orders, my leige."
"Perhaps a show of strength is in order." The King smiled and gestured to two guards. The Prince knew them, Allen and Kilin. Neither was such a good fighter, and Simion could destroy them without a thought. "Perhaps you could spar with them."
"Don't kill them," hissed the Prince as Simion passed him.
"If you insist," replied Simion lazily. He drew his sword.
Allen charged first. As if it was almost too much effort, Simion parried, and then struck Allen, slicing into his arm and rendering it useless. The assembled court gasped.
"That is quite enough," said the King, his voice fearful. "I trust your skills."
"I will protect you, majesty, from any who wish harm upon you or this kingdom," said Simion. With that, he turned and stabbed a pageboy. The shocked youth feel forward, blood oozing onto the carpet.
"What is the meaning of this?!" demanded the King, rising from his seat in anger. The nobles whispered, panicked, thinking the Prince had brought a monster into their midst.
Calmly Simion picked up the paper from the page's dead hand. It was stained at the corner with the boy's blood. "Here," he said, handing it to the Prince. "Read it."
The Prince scanned the letter. "Father," he said, "this man is an Ishal messenger. It is a declaration of war."
"You are ill-prepared for a war, my King," said Simion. "Your guards are no match for Ishal men. In fact, the only man I've seen here worth anything in battle is your son?"
"My son?" asked the King, paling.
"Me?" asked the Prince, incredulous.
"You didn't back down," said Simion, not looking at the king. "Even after you saw what I had done for days and days. And you made me bleed. No one else has done this. No one else has come close."
The Prince looked away. "I don't know how to fight. I cannot fight an army."
"I can fight an army," said Simion. "All you must do is fight men."
"I can fight men," said the Prince.
"Yes, you can," said Simion.
I think I shall skip their training, as it probably long and not so very interesting, and I will go straight to the killing. But we may assume that the Prince has become a little better at fighting. And so did the rest of the army, but they are not very good at all, and the Prince is not so very good. But Simion is.
"I have never been in a war," said the Prince.
"None of you have," said Simion. "It puts us at a disadvantage."
The army of Ishal was not a large one, but their armor was better and their swords heavier. Simion smirked. "I took out quite some number of them already." He held his sword high on the field of battle, and the sun glinted off of it, a signal.
The Ishal charged.
The Prince fought admirably, but he could not help but stray his gaze to Simion. To watch Simion fight, one would think he was water or fire, something elemental, something of the earth. It was perfect, his sword visible only as a blur of silver and sunlight, the blood flying into the air, and the men's bodies falling onto the ground, their hands and heads and legs strewn across the battlefield, their owners unclear. Sometimes it seemed all other fighting ceased and the whole of both armies watched Simion, breathless, his sword devestating half the men as he ripped the others apart with his free hand.
It was not a war. It was a massacre.
"They are trying to surrender!" yelled the Prince to Simion, stabbing a soldier he'd been fighting. The man fell to the ground in front of him and another took his place.
"Then why are they still fighting?" shouted Simion, slicing three men in half with a single blow.
"Someone has to stop fighting. They are showing a white flag!"
"Let them stop fighting, then. A wise leader never puts down his sword, Prince. That is asking someone to attack him."
The enemy was becoming sparser and sparser. The Prince saw a few of his own uniformed men littering the ground, but for the most part it was the limbs and bodies of the Ishal, their blood tinting the grass and the dirt a deep red.
"They won't retreat," said Simion, beheading one man with his sword and a second with his hand. Their bodies fell with an unpleasent thud onto three others, all served in a similar manner. "The Ishal are too stubborn to retreat." He tried to look upset, but it came out as manaical glee. "We are going to have to kill them all."
The Prince sliced an arm off one of the men near him. They were on their way to doing just that.
By the end of the day, the field was red and covered in men's bodies and vultures. The Prince's arm was bleeding steadily and his leg would need attention. Simion was untouched.
"It is just as I told you," said Simion, inspecting the Prince's arm. "Not one of them compares to you."
"If you had tempted fate with them as you had with me...ouch!"
"To appear weak is its own kind of advantage," said Simion. "This will need bandages, Prince."
"I know it will. Are you hurt?"
"Of course not. You were magnificent," said Simion. Without warning, he kissed the Prince.
It took a minute for the Prince to register the sensations, the lips and the taste of many people's blood, and the strangeness of Simion kissing him at all. And then, he gave into it.
Simion remained in the kingdom, of course, as head miliatary advisor, and with his help, they earned a reputation as being unstoppable in battle. He married the Prince, of course, and with the Prince's sensibility and diplomacy, the kingdom remained peaceful and prosperous, except when others were foolish enough to attack them, and Simion left their heads on pikes so that others might learn from their mistakes.
And they all lived happily ever after.