Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

Author's Note: Oh, boy. This story has had an extreme makeover at least three or four times. I'm really sorry if it confused any of you. I should have thought everything through and done all of the editing prior to putting it on the site, but, well, I didn't and I hope it didn't detract from the story in the end.

1/22: I have added a tiny, tiny paragraph right before Ayla is introduced. To me, her situation had been obvious, but I just thought I'd stop hinting and start saying a little more. I hope it helped make it a more engaging first chapter. A similar change applies to Artie's introduction.

2/4: I've redone this chapter and combined it with Chapters 2 and 3. I've also condensed it and moved things around so that the flow is clearer.

For now, it seems a little more drama than humor, but sit tight! It's coming!

NOW! On with the story!

Artie flopped down on his new, king-sized bed, not even bothering to take his boots off. Sigh. It had been another boring day in Far Far Away. Artie had knighted a grand total of two lords, christened three ships, and had accidentally wounded no less than five people at the last event of the day so far. He thought ruefully, "Shrek wasn't kidding. You had do have to hit the boat just right." Shrek. Artie felt a twinging tug in his chest. While his Aunt Lillian had been supportive enough, he just couldn't talk to her the way he could with Shrek. (It was like, with him, he could say exactly what he was feeling without having to think about how this was a woman who was not only a blood-relative, but she wasn't there for the things that led up to his coronation. It was like the adventure had caused the boy and the ogre to form an unbreakable bond that went beyond words.) At first, Artie had written letters telling Shrek how great everything was, but as the boy came to realize the full force of his power and his position and all it implied, well, he had wanted to tell him, but he couldn't bring himself to write about it, so he stopped writing altogether. He knew that it had been a cowardly move, but how could he tell him that he had utterly screwed up in his decision, when he knew that it would only Shrek would feel guilty and then Artie would feel guilty for making Shrek feel guilty, who'd then, in turn, feel even worse et cetera et cetera. This, thought the young king, was one of those rare cases where two heads were definitely not better than one.

And more besides, after the first fortnight, his brilliant Aunt Lillian -- the only other person in the castle who didn't treat him like some delicate ice sculpture -- had started fading into a fatigued and anxious stranger, and though he was dying to ask, the boy just felt as though it wasn't his place; they just weren't close enough. Artie sighed deeply. He had known that being king was more than parties and princesses, but no one told him it would be so lonely. It was times like this, when he could think without Fiddlesworth hovering about, that he missed the ogre so intensely that, sometimes, he felt his eyes grow a little wetter and his hands a little colder.

A quick rapping at his door caught his attention. "Not now, please!" Artie called out wearily. Ugh, it's probably Fiddlesworth. (Fiddlesworth was his tottering, yes-man of a personal servant. Needless the say, Artie avoided him at all costs.) The door creaked open and Artie put his head in his hands, massaging his temples as he sighed, "Look, I know I have a few more things for today, but I'm gonna have to ask you come back later."

As the door slowly opened wider and wider, Artie's pulse began to pick up speed. Maybe it was Shrek! Maybe he was coming to help him in his, er, kingly duties! That's ridiculous and you know it. Still, his heart fell a little when he saw that it wasn't, in fact, the object of his thoughts. In fact, it looked as though no one was even --

"What, is King Artie too busy to say hello an old friend?" Artie's head snapped up immediately. He only knew one person and/or magical creature with that accent. He practically jumped out of bed to greet him,

"Puss? What are you doing here?" The ginger-cat snorted,

"Well, hello to you, too." Artie chuckled, gesturing for him to sit down one of the chairs by the door.

"You know what I mean." Slowly, a quiet smile spread across Artie's face as got up to walk towards his friend, "It's good to see you. How've you been?" In all truthfulness, the two had never been that close, but in this cold, new palace, it was hard not to feel a thousand times nearer to the familiar feline.

"Not too badly, although I feel that I should be asking you that question." Artie furrowed his brow. "I'm not the one was just crowned King of Far Far Away."

"Good point," Artie replied, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Hey, cheer up, jefe. I came here for a reason." Artie gave him a sidelong glance.

"Puss, I can't just dig into the royal treasury because you lost a bet. I already feel bad about last time!"

Puss bristled a little, clearly indignant, "Artie, I only did it out of love for my Carmelita."

"You mean Manuela?" Artie interjected dryly. Puss looked slightly uncomfortable.

"Uh, yes, my Manuela." The boy snorted. "Look, Artie. I'm here to tell you that in two months, Shrek, Fiona and the babies will be here." Artie felt his lungs jolt. Is my hearing ok? Puss, seemingly satisfied with his work, leapt gracefully from the chair to the door,

"Oh, and by the way, you might want to watch your clothes. They really do extra-poop."

Artie made a face as he felt a small shiver of disgust, but in actuality, even the threat of baby poo couldn't dampen his spirits. "Thanks for that, Puss."

"Any time, jefe."

Some time later . . .

Artie awoke with a terrible crick in his neck. Had he -- had he fallen asleep in his chair? Moonlight poured in from the oversized windows. Artie gulped. Yes, he did. He didn't know why he was so nervous; he'd only fallen asleep by accident. Approaching the bed, he couldn't help but feel as though he was forgetting something very important. Suddenly he panicked a little. What if Puss had never come in at all? Had he just dreamed it all in his desperation for a familiar face? He certainly hoped not.

"Your Majesty!" The reedy voice paused. "King Arthur!" Artie cringed at the use of his given name as the harried cries of Fiddlesworth rang through the door. "Your Majesty, the King and Queen of Visigothia are downstairs in the dining room awaiting your presence! Are you dressed yet?"

Artie looked down at his crumpled summer clothes and his mud-caked boots. "Er, well, I have clothes on -- " Fiddlesworth burst through the door, looking like someone had slipped some raw jellyfish tentacles into his afternoon tea.

"Your Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but you must be dressed and ready in ten minutes!" For a man of his weight, Fiddlesworth (or Big Nose, as Artie had labeled him in his mind, though sometimes he took to thinking of him as Fiddlesticks) made quick work of picking an outfit from Artie's wardrobe.

"Um, Bi -- er, Fiddlesworth, you realize that it's summer, right?" Artie apprehensively eyed the fur-trimmed, purple cape that had just flown out of the closet and onto his bed.

"Why, of course, Your Highness!" Fiddlesworth took a moment to look absolutely baffled before returning to the clothing hunt. He paused again, mumbling quietly to himself before tossing the regal cape back into the closet, "Yes, yes, it is a bit warm out, isn't it?" One crisp white shirt, one velvet (Artie made a barfing gesture in his head) indigo jacket, one pair of dark brown trousers, and one heavily-jeweled crown later, Artie was deemed ready. Already late, the pair hurriedly made their way down the halls, taking secret passage ways, and nearly toppling over one of the laundry women. At last, they stood in front of the giant wooden doors. "Now, remember, your Majesty, you bow three times, look them straight in the eyes, and then gesture for them to be seated. And remember to propose a toast to them twice: once at the beginning of the meal and once at the end." Fiddlesworth inhaled deeply through his nostrils. "Are we ready, your Majesty?"

Artie took some deep, cleansing breaths. "Yeah. Let's do this."

Hours later . . .

Fortunately for Artie, the dinner had been a lot better than he'd expected. Rather unfortunately, Artie was actually referring to the food. While the King and Queen of Visigothia had been (contrary to the arrogant royals he had pictured in his mind) adequately pleasant, they wouldn't stop asking about his love life!

"So, have you declared a betrothal, yet, your Majesty?" The Queen inquired innocently as she daintily touched her napkin to the corners of her rather large mouth. Artie choked on the lamb he'd been chewing on and, for about thirty seconds, tried playing it cool, which had been pretty easy, as the Queen barely noticed anything else when she talked, and she had just found a new topic. "Oh, do you remember our betrothal, dear?" The corpulent, mustachioed Queen cheerily nudged her stick-like husband, who only smiled mildly in response.

"How could I forget?" Artie would have laughed, if he didn't have a hunk of roasted lamb caught in his throat, but a few seconds and three cups of wine later, Artie had managed to dislodge the food chunk. It was probably more wine that he should have had, but it had been the only liquid within his reach. "So," the man turned to Artie, who was still wheezing a little, "what do you think of it, being king?"

"Honey!" The Queen reprimanded him tightly out of the corner of her overly-rouged mouth, "You really ought to address him properly!" She shot her husband a meaningful look.

"No, it's okay!" Artie interjected, "I'd really prefer it if you would just call me Artie." He could practically feel Melchett dying of pain and embarrassment. "'Your Majesty' just sounds a little much." Uneasily, the Queen nodded,

"As you wish . . . Artie." She paused, "But, seriously," she paused again, clearly uncomfortable, "Artie, have you given any thought to marriage yet?" He suddenly felt a little stupid, as though he should have already considered it. His face was burning, but he realized with a jolt that it wasn't just embarrassment -- Artie was tipsy.

"Well, no, actually. Why does everyone ask me that? I mean, I've been really busy since I became king and it's like I have no time for anything else, you know?" He looked over to the thin man, who nodded in sympathy. "And I don't wanna marry just anyone!" At this, the older king nodded vigorously, looking like he'd eaten one too many pommes de terre dauphinoises. (A/N: This is a French dish of sliced potatoes in a really rich white sauce and I think with cheese, as well. If I'm not mistaken, it's also called patates au gratin.)

"Do you already have someone in mind, Artie?" The King piped up, practically on the edge of his seat. Artie's face was getting redder and redder by the minute. He'd never had alcohol before. The administration at Worcestorshire had banned everything except for this awful, watered-down beer that tasted like what Artie imagined diluted urine to taste like. Well, he supposed he didn't really have to imagine; he'd suffered a few swirlies in his time at Worcestorshire.

"Guinevere! She captured my heart the minute I first laid eyes on her!" Fiddlesworth cringed from his position near the door. Oh, god, now the boy's turned into a drunken poet! It was not his place to intervene when royal guests were being entertained, but, oh, how we so desperately wanted to! His Majesty was making a real fool of himself! "But who cares? I don't like her anymore! She - she's so not invited to my twenty-first birthday party!"

And so proceeded the dinner until everyone was so roaringly drunk that the ensuing conversations made even the tough knights by the door blush to their toes. Artie cringed. That Queen had been entirely too vocal about her wedding night.

When he finally got back to his room, Artie practically collapsed onto the bed, though, this time, he remembered to take off his boots.

Artie sat at his desk, his left hand clutching an empty vial of Hangover Cure. This is the first and last time I'll ever be thankful for Melchett. A cool feeling washed over his sensing, spiraling through his veins and arteries. Come on, Shrek, hurry up! Though he wouldn't have believed it when he first met Shrek, the ogre had become something of a father to him and it had hurt terribly to watch him go, but . . . it was for the best. I mean, I'd never get anything done! Probably just go off on adventures with him all the time and then the kingdom would collapse and then where would we all be? Artie got up and tossed his shirt into a corner before falling on the bed, silently wishing for another unexpected guest from his (thought it hardly felt as such) recent past.

Ayla couldn't help but wonder it had come to this. Shaking her head, she took a cleansing breath and began to walk past the docks with as much nonchalance as she could muster, hardly seeing the merchandise piled high on several carts. Some way down, she began noticing the acrid smoke of incense and a headier wave of something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She followed her nose until --

"Ah, I see that you are drawn to the delights of the opium stick!"At Ayla's alarmed look, the roman-nosed witch waved a hand dismissively, "Don't look so thunderstruck, my boy! They're only scented! It's not like I sell drugs or anything." She leaned over the short counter and mumbled behind her hand conspiratorially, "But if you've got gold, then I can tell you I'm sold!" Nico, in her mind, was cringing and perhaps vomiting a little at the multitude of nasty connotations, but she managed to smooth out her face.

"Ma'am, what do you sell besides incense? I'm looking for a gift for someone in Bellamar."Better to stick with a partial lie than be caught in a new one. The witch blinked, but made something akin to a grin,

"Ah, I have candles, plates, colorful cloths for a nice lady friend," the witch cheekily nudged her with a wink, "and some soap."

"Some soap?" That's a bit random, isn't it?

"Why, yes! Just shipped in from France, you know! Lovely place, France." The witch sighed, as if entering some pleasant memory that had happened long ago, but the sun's rays were quickly reddening and Ayla was beginning to panic. Shit! It's nearly sunset! It looks like all the ships have already left port. She took a deep cleansing breath and tried to focus on something else, anything else by the empty docks. Nervously, Ayla looked down at a business card in a neat little pile on the counter, right next to the other fie sets. Fairest of them All, Day Spa, Grasse, France. It's a long shot, but one bizarre foreign contact's better than none at all. Besides, maybe I could get a job there and --

"That's my sister's spa, you know. Wonderful massages and saunas! Right in the heart of Grasse, so all the essential oils are made right there! In fact . . . " The woman droned on while Ayla calmly nodded every few moments. Man, is she being paid to advertise like that? Despite Ayla's unwillingness to appear rude, she soon found herself staring longingly at the harbor when her eyes fell on -- is that the last ship?? "If I'm not much mistaken, boy, that one's leaving for Dunkirk in the next few minutes." At Ayla's confused look, the hag chuckled, "Don't think I didn't notice you peeking at the harbor, there, young man!" A new vigor surged through her. If she could just catch that ship, then steal a horse and ride south, maybe she could find this Fairest of Them All and ask for employment. Cor, that's still a long shot! But she figured she had nothing to lose, except maybe her dignity, her money, and her head, if she was caught stealing the aforementioned horse.

"How much for that bluish cloth there?" It was a large deep blue scarf of a light weight and a pleasant texture and Ayla had a sneaking suspicion that it might come in handy later on.

"2 gold pieces." Nico peeked back at the ship through the corner of her eye.

"Ma'am, I really haven't that much."

"Well, how much would you be willing to spend?" The witch began to look a little sour.

"For her," Whoever the heck that is"anything!"

"Excellent, well, just -- "

"But I'm afraid I have only 17 silver pieces!" (Author's Note: 20 silver pieces equals 1 gold piece) The warty hag's expression became instantly less amicable until her eyes caught sight of something. As soon as Nico sensed this, her hands moved instinctively to her ears. She'd forgotten to take off her --

"Earrings. I'll trade you the scarf for the earrings." Though, thought the hag, heaven only knows why a young lad like yourself might wear such feminine accessories. Bit of a softsword, this one!

Ayla fingered her earrings thoughtfully. They were easily worth more than half the cart altogether, but a bizarre roiling in her stomach grew as she saw more and more men board the last ship. "Ten and we've got a deal."

"This was made from the finest Chinese silk, blended with the softest llama wool and the best cotton this side of Telmar!" The witch grumbled. (A/N: Telmar is taken from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.)

"Look, I really don't care what they're made of! I won't part with them for less than ten." Ayla anxiously looked to the setting sun and the men aboard the ship were now running about in a rather frenzied manner. The woman sure was taking her sweet time with this. Damn it! She's probably trying to make me cave.

"Seven."

"Eight. That's my final offer." The woman's lips curled up into a disconcerting shape that was probably a self-satisfied smile,

"Sold." A split second later, she practically tore out the little opals and shoved them into the witch's hands and, swiftly grabbing the scarves and a business card, she made a mad dash for the ship. Shouting in her native tongue, she cried out,

"Excuse me! Sirs! Excuse me!" They didn't seem to hear her as they neared the end of their frantic preparations. Nearly there. Nearly there! Three docks later, she nearly fell into the bay. The striped-shirts were now staring curiously at this . . . boy? Well, he certainly looked like a bit of fruitcake, but who were they to judge? "Excuse me!"

The stoutest of the lot came forward, looking down his rather bulbous nose at Ayla. "Je comprends pas le telmarais." Shocked, she forgot to breathe for a moment. He had looked so Telmarine; how could he not be? Then again, it was a port city. It wasn't unheard of for people of local blood to mix with foreigners. Her lips twisted as she thought of her own parents. Suddenly, she remembered the man before her and, rapidly wracking her brain, she stuttered in halting French,

"Je . . . Je parle pas beaucoup de -- du? de? français. Désolée! Uh, nous -- uh, vous parlez l'anglais?" Eying her, he noted her strange countenance and small hands. Didn't seem like the rest of the runaway street-rats. Trying to calm her breaths, Ayla began to study the ship, but found that she immediately regretted this decision, as what she saw only made her heart race faster. They were starting to untie some of the ropes already! Scraping up her courage and whatever was left of her dignity (though she was convinced that it took off the minute she started waltzing about in breeches and opals like some deranged child actor), Ayla replied,

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm not sure if you understand English, but -- look, I just," The sun was setting and the men looked anxious. Ok, let's try this again. "Sir, I don't have much money, but I'll work hard. I just need to get to my uncle somehow." She began to ramble, her voice picking up speed and volume, snowballing like the state of her nerves, "He's sick, you see, and he's never been well, but it's different this time and the healers say that he hasn't got long and I just -- " The stout man seemed to warm up a bit, although his face betrayed some impatience.

"Stop. Stop! Just stop!" Relief flooded the girl. He does speak English! "'Ow much can you be paying?" Albeit really badly.

"How much will you take, sir?" The ruddy-cheeked man eyed the boy carefully.

"A leetle businessman, I see. Hmm, shall we say 9 gold pieces and labor?"

"17 silver pieces and labor." The man's eyebrows shot into his hairline. Panicked by this, Ayla blurted out, "It's all I've got, but I'm a very efficient worker and I'm fairly quiet most of the time! You won't even notice me, sir!" Did I just say that all in one breath? The stout man looked him over once more.

"What ees your name, boy?" Ayla gulped, ransacking her brain for something -- anything!

"Nico. Short for Nicolas." Well, at least it's not a complete lie. She had gained the nickname at one particularly embarrassing Christmas party some years ago, after one of her father's business partners introduced the holiday to their village. It was right after she'd accidentally drenched herself in her neighbor Dara's wine sauce and, well, let's just say that if she'd added the tree into the mix, she'd have been quite festive indeed. She shook her head a little and tried, as subtly as possible, to take a deep breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man scratch his stubbly chin pensively before, seemingly out of nowhere, he broke out in a grin.

"We 'ave a deal, little Nicolas."

That night . . .

Ayla met the crew, awkwardly nodding at each one as they introduced themselves. They each had the same questions, especially regarding her looks, because, while Alanya was a known melting pot, people of different racial backgrounds generally preferred to "keep pure." Ayla mimicked a disaffected shrug, explaining that her parents were merchants of mixed heritages of the Far East, though her great grandfather came from France, but she wasn't sure.

Ayla couldn't help noticing that some of them were now eyeing her with not a little curiosity and perhaps some pity. She ventured a second look at them. Definitely pity. She began to squirm under their scrutiny, picking at invisible lint balls as she counting backwards.

Maybe the silence was only uncomfortable to her, but with each second the air became tighter and tighter. Ayla got up abruptly, her chair scraping and collapsing wildly on the floor. "Well, I'm off to bed! It was a pleasure meet -- meeting you all. Good night!" Her face burned as she hurriedly walked out of the room, but she could hardly help it. The air had been too close.

61 mornings came and went without little more than a week of heavy rain and since Arthur had ascended the throne of Far Far Away, the pirates seemed to have disbanded. As for Ayla, well, between scrubbing the deck, re-braiding rope, chopping cabbage, and peeling potatoes, she was counting the days until disembarkation. Three more potatoes to go. Just three more -- One of the crew members coughed behind her, roughly jarring her from her thoughts. -- damn it! Ouch, that hurt! Ayla quickly tried to hide her newly sliced index finger as she turned around to listen to what the fellow had to say, though she did have half a mind to "accidentally" give him more cabbage than potato tomorrow night.

"We weel soon be arriving in Far Far Away, boy. If you weesh to disembark for a beet, you may do so, but you must return to zee docks by nightfall, yes?" Unsure as to whether or not this was a real question, she settled for just nodding. The young man seemed satisfied with this and promptly left to go on deck. Finally! LAND! She was sick of being cooped up in the balmy stickiness of the galley, though probably less so than of burning her hands by weaving those tough fibers into a line each morning. A twinge of guilt crumpled her insides a little. Well, I'm lucky to be here. And who knows? Maybe a walk around town this afternoon'll do me some good.

Author's Notes: I think by this point, you know that Ayla/Nico is often seen, in a derogatory manner, as a homosexual boy. Homosexuality is not, in my view, a joke or an abnormality in any way. Any jibes aimed at minority groups, countries, and flea markets are purely for humor and do not reflect my views at all. It's said to express the thoughts of the minds of the other characters and the general opinions of the locations. Really, I hope I didn't offend anyone and if I did, then I really do apologize.

In this chapter, I used the imaginary kingdom of Very Very Near. At the time, I didn't realize why the name came to mind, but after a message from AllzStar, I realized that it was because I had read her story! I apologized to her in an email, but I'd like to apologize to you all, as well. Anyhow, nothing else has changed.

Also, about the money, here's the exact breakdown:

20 silver pieces -- 1 gold piece

1 gold piece -- roughly $10 / €7 / ₤5

Also, I'm really sorry this story was edited so many times today and, just to let you know, some important things have changed.

I was going to have Nico/Ayla say her real name at the end, but it just seemed impractical to have her refer to herself as one thing and then suddenly switch.

Alanya is a real port city in Turkey, which is where I imagine Ayla's/Nico's story to have started. This location serves three functions:

1. It makes it easier to believe that her heritage is mixed, since it's a port city in Eurasia.

2. Starting out in a port city makes the whole "fleeing" bit work a lot faster and seem more credible.

3. It's nothing against Caucasians, but the racial monotony was part of what made me want to write this story. I just thought I'd do something a little bit more inclusive and the location allowed the main character's background to be non-white in a credible manner.

Well, I hope that clears up some stuff. Sorry it's all over the place!