A/N: Hello there and there too! This is my first Mentalist fanfic but I am a long-time Jisbon shipper. This is a fairytale/Mentalist parody. I have taken many liberties with this fic. Be warned beforehand that since I spend half of my day in hell, i.e, I am a law college student who is busy to death with studies and shit, the updates on this fic will be slow. I have only written this chapter yet but I hope you will like it. Do take a moment to review. It will help me decide whether I should continue the story. Any kind of feedback is appreciated. Thanks!
Also, this story does not bear any resemblance to Little-Firestar84's story The princess and the thief (though that one is much better written than this). The plot might seem similar at first, but it is not, I assure you.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or its characters.
The Angry Princess and the Thief Who Stole Her Tiara
Chapter: 1
Once upon a September day, there lingered the fragrance of daffodils and ripe fruits in the air. This air circulated throughout the kingdom, of which the mighty Lisbons were rulers. The scene was serene. Fragrant air, trembling tree leaves, a bright blue sky – and lo! A golden head appeared on the horizon. Slowly, slowly, the head was revealed to be of a beautiful youth, curly-haired, blue-eyed and quite fair. He wore a vest of cheap silk upon a ruffled linen shirt. As the boy came into full view, one could see as clear as the day that he was a handsome and agile young man. And when the whole procession came into view, one could see that he was being chased by soldiers of Her Royal Highness on horsebacks. This good looking scoundrel, whom you looked upon favourably for the last minute, has stolen the Princess's tiara. I hope they chase him down and quarter the son of a bitch. You see, dear reader, your humble historian is a devout admirer of Her Royal Highness, Princess Teresa of the Lisbon dynasty, and prays for eternal damnation upon whosoever instigates trouble for Her Royal Highness. For she already had enough trouble of her own. But I shan't allude to that so soon in our acquaintance. And perhaps, I might drop this fairytale jargon 'cause this ain't Disney, honey. It is the extraordinary tale of The Angry Princess and The Thief Who Stole Her Tiara!
Our dear scoundrel whom we have just seen rushing through a forgotten pasture is Patrick Jane. He's not secretly royalty. He's not Flynn Rider. He's a conman and thief. And he's pretteh clever.
"Where did he go? Where did he disappear to?!", the Commander-in-chief, Kimball Cho, barked, "Find him! And for hell's sake, somebody tell me you saw his face!"
While the royal cavalry searched high and low for this cunning thief, it did not occur to them to turn their heads towards Madeline Hightower's closed-door barn. If it had, well, they would have caught him and that would have been the end of this story. But they didn't. Patrick climbed atop the roof of Hightower's abandoned barn like a cat. He actually went on all fours, the tiara hidden discreetly in his magician-esque vest, to escape being perceived. Commander Cho looked all around the pasture, simultaneously dividing his men into search teams. Patrick ducked his head lower, keeping his eye behind on the stern Commander, and oops. He slipped through a weakly patched hole in the roof and landed square into the barn.
"What the hell?!"
Patrick held the back of his head and groaned. Why hadn't there been any haystack around to cushion his landing? And oh dear, had the guards heard the roof-breaking commotion?
"Ow", Patrick moaned and sat up.
The cinnamon fragrance came to him first. He looked ahead and stared without knowing his mouth hung open. It was a nymph. It had to be. She was standing near a small indoor well, clutching a little chemise to hide her torso. What she couldn't hide wasn't any less exquisite. Patrick's gaze roamed over the fair, white skin, generously sprinkled with adorable freckles; those nubile legs which were perfectly shaped (with ample running, he surmised), that astonished face, and good God – those eyes! He had never hoped to see such wide, crystal-like green orbs on a real person. They belonged in paintings and fantastic dreams. The lashes fluttered once over the eyes and Patrick cursed himself for not noticing the dark brunette hair which hung about her shoulders. Were her lips truly so coral and full?
You see, while he ogled the poor bathing girl so, Patrick's usually acute senses dulled and made him lose track of time. He was shamelessly staring for a full minute before he caught his breath again at the heaving of what he envisioned to be small pert breasts behind that rotten chemise. Patrick met the girl's bewildered gaze and gave her his most charming grin.
"Hi..."
"The fuck?!"
Patrick lay knocked out on the barn floor. The bathing girl had punched him smack in the face.