Run for your lives. You know me and my insinuations for long stories/illiterations/sentences. I've come up with a brilliant story format, but it's going to have heck-of-long-chapters. o.o So... no, this is not going to be worse than Forg., if you were wondering that - maybe about ten? something chapters - but... basically really long chapters...

Notices:

I feel that everybody ignored my A/N there about the beginning being at the end... etc. That was not a one-shot. You have not read the whole story; you cannot quite say whether it was original or not. Although, at the end of this... I would prefer if you judge it. ;)

I use Pulta in this story instead of Laps or Lappy, or something. I find it more like an actual name - which is the way - and the reason - I coined it.

-=-(*)-=-

Chapter Two

It was Lap, Laps, Lappy, or Pulta; not Lapulta.

And she was dreaming.

Right. Dreaming.

Because there was no way in the sane world that she could be sitting on a fantastic sorta-endless green lawn when she had been in her friend's lab that was in their apartment that they shared together because they were twinsie - or just as close as sisters, anyway - a moment ago.

Right. Becuase she was a smart, straight-A student that didn't lose her head around anything.

Except Luke Cahill.

But that didn't make any sense; at least, to her it did, but not to anyone else. And that alone didn't make much sense at all unless you understood her deeply and nobody really got that. Maybe.

Pulta blinked, then slowly lifted a hand - it felt like a brick bring lifted underwater for some reason - and let it drop over on her thigh. With a herculean effort, she squeezed it tightly, realizing after a few moments that: Brava! It didn't hurt! She blinked again, sliding it down farther to squish her jello-y calfs as hard as she was able. They were all right as well.

Good.

Deciding to look like a flat-out fool, she shifted her weight to the side, and, stumbling like mad, made her way onto two legs like the human race was supposed to stand - if they were to look like humpbacked cows. Resisting the urge to bite her tongue, Pulta took a deep breath and removed her hands from her knees, steadying herself. Thanking God for not falling over, she straightened up to look like a slightly reasonable human being and glanced around.

Good Lord, she was standing by a castle.

Pulta screamed before she'd realized it, then clapped both hands over her mouth. Stinky. Socks. Ruled. And. Vampires. Drooled. The castle was real; like- realreal. There was moss growing about on the damp stones and the English flag waving from a terrace. Away from her, people were working by a stable, leading horses around. The ground she was standing on was level to the castle, but it sloped down, leading to what looked to be gardens.

Archers stood on the walls while heavily dressed in chain mail; and from what she could make out, a good show of bronze and gold too. They were proudly sporting the king's banner on their chests.

She was going to die. They were going to catch her and she was going to die. She was stuck - good Lord, in the past? - and she was going to die. They were going to shoot her.

She fled, ignoring the fact that she was heading downhill and the bottom half was barely keeping up with the top.

Wait.

Wasn't this-?

Her legs stopped dead, throwing her violently forward to tumble the rest of the way down the hill and land dizzily in a heap. Gathering her thoughts, she tried to take a deep breath and calm down; no easy task for her hyper-active mind.

So she was in the past next to an English castle with archers on the wall.

Those people probably would want to kill her since she was wearing a loose teeshirt - and to their time, looked like a hippity-hoppity whore.

She didn't want to die.

Pulta attempted to make a rather sick smile. She didn't want to die. That was good. If she didn't want to die, she ought to do everything possible not to die. Which meant getting away from this place as completely fast as her legs could carry her.

Unless...

... she was stuck here.

For good.

Until she died.

From something in Rage's lab.

Great.

Pulta flopped back in the long grass, her customary reaction to partly giving up; her tired hamster decided to fall off its wheel.

Except exhausted hamsters still kept running.

She cursed her brain for its persistance. It was just like story ideas: no matter how slowly they came on, they just kept coming... and coming... and coming...

"You look like a sick horse."

Pulta blinked, raising her head to look at the kid that couldn't have been more than three in front of her. He was dressed in a loose, creamish tunic with brown breeches; oblivious to her raised eyebrows. "What?"

"You look like a sick horse."

"That's impolite," she noted quickly, trying to close the heart that was already opening up for the tender innocence.

"It's true."

She lay back in the grass, patting the ground next to her. The little boy sat down. "It's still impolite. You want to be nice to people. I look horrible - but you don't know what's happened to me." Like somehow appearing in the past? Awesome, but... wierd? Slightly?

"That doesn't change the truth. You talk strange, too."

Pulta smiled as the sweet, yet funnily hard British accent crashed on her ears. His speech was so dang formal - and cute. "So do you."

"No, I don't."

"Why not?"

That stumped him. His mouth pursed for a long moment as he thought that through. "Because... because... I'm from here."

She laughed at his seriousness. "And I sound different to you because I'm from somewhere else?"

"Sure." He shrugged.

"You got it right," she managed to point out, still attempting to control the smile.

"You mean..." his eyes narrowed. "That was an actual question?"

Pulta tweaked his nose gently. "Something of the like."

The boy stood up, scowled; crossed his arms and turned away.

"Aw, come on. I didn't mean it like that. Look," she sat up fully and knit her legs into an Indian stature. "What's your name? I didn't catch it if you told me."

The boy's neck twisted back towards her for a second, then it snapped back to its stubborn position. "I didn't throw my name at you."

Pulta grinned. "Alright - I didn't hear it if you told me."

"Winthrop."

She paused. "Winthrop... Cahill?"

"No, no, no. Winthrop Herald Reginold Cahill the III. There's a difference. There can be many Winthrop Cahills." He glanced slightly over his shoulder at her.

"Right... Winthrop Herald Reggie Cahill the III."

"Reginold."

"Oh, goodness." Pulta bopped her forehead playfully. "Winthrop Harry Reggie Cahill the III."

Winthrop stomped his foot, eyes playing along with her game, but still indefinitely upset. "Herald!"

Pulta propped herself up in the grass, smiling with a delightful pondering index finger on her lips. "Winnie. That's what I'll call you. Winnie. Winnie Rald Rege Cahill the III."

He plopped into the grass with an exasperated puff - defeated. "Good grief. Women."

She had to laugh, no matter how peeved his expression was. She reached out an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, Winnie. I was teasing. Winthrop Herald Reginold Cahill."

"... the III."

"The third," she grinned at him. "Forgiven?"

He shrugged, rolling his eyes. "Fine. I like Winnie. But if you call me Rege, I'll kick you."

"You don't kick ladies."

"You aren't a lady," he pointed out with a rather obvious glance at her clothes.

Pulta tugged on her teeshirt, suddenly feeling immodest even though she wasn't wearing anything that possibly induced her to be improperly clothed. "Wandering eyes and crowing cocks always end with buring locks."

"You changed that!"

"Poetic license," she smiled. "And it's something to keep your head busy. Shouldn't you be in school?"

Winthrop's lip curled up into a sneer. "When it's ten o'clock. I hate him. He reeks of garlic."

"Considering how well you talk, I couldn't possibly see you needing a tutor so early."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm almost three. I can study."

"But for how long?"

Winthrop rolled his eyes. "Five hours. Don't you know anything?"

"Don't you play?" Pulta asked.

"Every afternoon. I asked Papa to take me out this morning since Mary's ill."

"Papa..." she frowned. "L-"

"Luke." A voice finished, making her head jerk upward. "Yes, Luke Cahill - if you're going to ask."

He was the same as she'd imagined; every inch him. His eyes were precisely the right shade of brown - the exact shape. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd run his hand through it a few times too many. The color of the tunic - he liked earth tones - and the boots; straight black with the two buckles she had conjured with her mind.

God, even the boots...

She suddenly found herself smiling into his scowling face. "... hello?"

"Greetings are overrated."

"Not to me they aren't." Pulta found her legs were working better as she slipped up to her feet and stuck out her right hand. She cocked her head, meeting his rancourous gaze with a friendly aura. "Hello."

"If you're trying to get me to shake your hand, it's not working. And two: I don't appreciate you affiliating yourself with my son."

"We're just friends," Pulta glanced down at Winthrop and dropped him a wink. "Aren't we Winnie?"

"You act as if you were the queen."

"Well..." Pulta ransacked the back of her brain for all the immediate facts she had on Henry the Eighth. "... I could be, couldn't I? Maybe he already proposed and you don't know it."

His lip curled up. "Your speech is appalling."

"Just like your brogue?" She found herself raising her head, eyes snapping. "No offense, but from where I'm from, it doesn't matter what they speak like - so long as they can talk with grammar."

He didn't even bother to answer that. "GUARDS!"

Perhaps he expected her to fall on her knees, begging for mercy. Pulta gritted her teeth. "What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"No, I'm going to have them rip you naked and beat you dead."

Her mouth dropped - barely recovered in time to keep him from seeing it. "Are you sure that's humane?"

"Humanity?" He raised an eyebrow at her; the first time he'd shown any interest. "Forget it. The way you're dressed, it shouldn't bother you much."

She curled up her own lips. "Just because I'm dressed like this, you automatically assume that I'm some- some whore that just came from a bar so you're going to rip me naked and beat me to dead? You people are civilized? Where is any kind of justice in this?"

Luke took one stride forward - he had amazingly long legs, she noticed - and grabbed the front of her teeshirt. Their faces were two inches apart; his nose almost brushing hers. She stared into his eyes, seeing the ferocity there, but not feeling any of it. For all his blundering, she could still feel he wasn't dangerous - just like she'd imagined. The scars covered the hurt, and the hurt covered the pain, and the pain covered the heart. And the heart? She willed a smile to begin on her lips. "Kill me," she whispered.

The eyes glittered as he mouthed the words. "That's just what I was going to do."

She was flung down hard on the ground, forcing all the breath to snap out of her. Guards' swords suddenly pointed down from above her in a tight ring.

Great. So she was going to die because of a stupid teeshirt...

At least she'd crossed off two things from her 100-things-to-do-before-you-kick-the-bucket list: fight with a bear, and see Luke Cahill.

"Hey- wait! No!"

Even the guards blinked as Winthrop flung himself forward and promptly sat on her stomach. Pulta felt herself lose a breath with his weight - he was mightily hefty for a three-year-old - but allowed him.

"Papa..."

She could imagine Luke's eyes snapping with his word that wasn't a question, but a demand. "What."

"Please? We- we are friends. Kind of."

"Winthrop, go inside."

"Pl-ease?" Winthrop bounced up and down a little to signify his eagerness, making Pulta try and restrain the little half-gasps she produced; her face turned a blochy red. "She's ever so much funnier than Monsieur Doub`ere and she's nicer too. Please, Papa?"

"No," Luke snapped flatly. He nodded sharply at Winthrop to come away.

The guards sharpened their swords, leaning in closer with hunger in their eyes.

Pulta swallowed.

Winthrop swallowed. "If- if you let her, I'll bet she can teach me more in a week than Monsieur has ever taught me. And if not... then... then she can die. But not before."

She blinked, unused to three-year-olds throwing 'die' and 'morbidity' around as if it was a casual, everyday occurence.

Luke's eyes met with his son's for a brief, scrutinizing moment, then riveted on hers. "Well? Do you agree to that?"

"I think that's fair; so long as I can do whatever I want."

"Please, Papa?"

Luke paused, then flicked a hand at the guards; they lowered their swords. "Come, Winthrop. Benedict?"

"Milord?"

She couldn't help noticing how the guard's eyes held an almost startled fear in them; well, perhaps not fear - respect at least. "Take... The Girl to her room and ask Mary to teach her how to dress decently. She starts duties with Winthrop tomorrow."

"Yes, milord."

The other guards turned away and Benedict stared warily down at her, not even offering a hand to help her up. She decided she didn't want his help, and wasn't going to sit their begging for it as she popped to her feet and brushed herself off.

And then she had to wonder just how she'd gotten involved in this...