Steeling himself, Artie walked closer to the body, gulping nervously as he put his right hand directly above her face, so close that he was almost touching her. He was beginning to panic again when suddenly, he felt a soft, barely perceptible whoosh of air. Artie gawked.

"You're alive?" Unsure of whether or not the stranger could hear him, Artie went on quietly, "Fritz told me you were as good as dead." Despite Artie's conviction that she was asleep (most likely, anyway), Ayla was, more or less, drifting between consciousness and reality when his voice began to call her back. . . . told me you're as good as dead. She wanted to respond, but her body felt so heavy. Then the weight of the statement struck her. She couldn't die. She just couldn't! Not after everything she'd been through to get here! Gradually, she started gathering her energy; she had to wake up; she refused to die in the bed of a person she'd never meet, king or no. A tear of frustration slipped down, unnoticed by the two teenagers who were so deeply engrossed in their own musings.

Artie went on, completely oblivious to her state as she continued to struggle. "This is so surreal. I don't even know who you are." With a final push, she forced her leaden tongue to move, surprised that she was finally able to say something, though it came out as more of a tired breath.

"Ayla." Her eyes were still closed as she spoke, "'S my name." Artie looked on utter confusion. Momentarily forgetting himself, he said,

"That's kind of a weird name for a guy." Ayla suddenly jolted with the realization that, in her grogginess, she had just carelessly blown her cover. Nothing for it, now. Might as well run with it. Her momentary panic had awakened her and slowly, she opened her eyes. She could make out a young, freckled face, partially obscured by messy golden wisps, with bright green eyes glowing in curiosity. Yes, he looked trustworthy enough.

"Good thing," her voice growing clearer as she continued, "I'm a girl." She was looking at him directly now, her dark gaze showing an unabashed candor that unsettled and warmed the young king. It was . . . refreshing, especially after being around that ridiculous syncophant, Fiddlesworth.

"Oh." Artie said rather stupidly. Quickly realizing what he might have just implied, he stammered, "I mean, you're clearly -- I saw the hair and I just assumed that you -- well, I knew you were a little too weird-looking to be a boy." Artie clapped his hands to his mouth before stammering an apology, but when, out of the corner of his embarrassed, squinting eyes, he saw her shaking a little, he immediately stopped. "Ayla?" The foreign name felt strange on his tongue as he watched her pass a hand over her eyes. "Are you okay?"

She looked out at him through splayed fingers. "I wasn't offended." She was laughing softly now, her mouth slightly open in mirth as short black strands fell across her face. "I look this way for a reason." As his curiosity began to outweigh his humiliation, Artie ventured a glance at her and, but instantly he regretted doing so as a ferocious heat swept over his face. Oh, my god. Artie was suddenly hyperaware of something that he had never expected to feel in his entire life. There's a girl. Lying down. On my bed. Of course, the conditions didn't exactly lend themselves to anything remotely sexy or romantic, but Artie, unused to having girls even look at him except to glare, felt the immediate need to step away.

Moving in what he hoped was a casual way, Artie made for the window, pretending to be lost in thought when, gradually, he really did become lost in thought. How had this girl found his room? Scratch that. How'd she get in here? Steadily, he voiced this thought, still unwilling to face the girl, lest he embarrass himself with his tomato-face.

She propped herself up on her elbows, "The guards showed me in. Told them I was hired to shine the king's shoes." She paused, "How about you?" Artie stiffened, still facing the window. How was he going to explain this? Maybe if he went go for the witty and nonchalant approach . . .

"Well, it's pretty easy when it's your own room." Succe -- He turned around and caught sight of her paling face as she, with some difficulty, scrambled off the bed. Ok, not a success. Now what do I do??

"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize - I - I thought you were the king's personal servant or something. You're just so young and I . . . " she trailed off, and was momentarily surprised to see her leather satchel sitting in the corner before moving to take it. The boy swiftly gestured for her to sit back down and, knowing who he was, she quietly complied, though secretly, she was relieved. Her legs were already trembling a bit. Somewhere in her mind, she cursed the young apprentice who had sabotaged her draught.

"Hey," Artie was looking just as embarrassed as she was. "It's ok. I - " he faltered, then continued rather sheepishly as he shifted his gazed to the window again. "It was nice to talk to someone who didn't know me for a change." He regarded her a tired smile and knew that his words sounded like those of a trite, spoiled royal, but looking at her jarred something in his memory. "Can I ask you something?" Ayla looked at him uncertainly; while her current situation was highly embarrassing, she reasoned that he was the king and, as she had just insulted him by accident, she was in no position to deny him anything. Besides, how much worse could it get? Slowly, she nodded. "Why'd you run from Fritz?"

"Fritz?" Her brows knitted together in confusion.

"The Head Healer." Apparently, a lot worse. Color rushed into Ayla's cheeks, skin burning a little as she asked in an even tone,

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Well, yeah, he said that you ran out after he asked you . . . to . . . take - oh." Understanding suddenly dawned on Artie's rapidly reddening face. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head and he cleared his throat, trying desperately not to seem awkward, "Well, if you want, I can go down to Fritz right now and have him send up a female healer." He felt the a goopy puddle of social awkwardness, as though, despite his good intentions, every word out of his mouth was digging his grave a little bit deeper. "But only if you, you know, want to. I could always just pretend you were never here - not that I'd just throw you out or anything."

"That'd be lovely." D'oh! "The female healer idea, I mean." She then added quickly, "Your Majesty."

"Ok, I'll be right back."

She felt a weird, squirming sensation. Shouldn't she be fetching servants for the king and not the other way around? Sure, she couldn't walk very well, but she'd manage somehow. Besides, what else are railings for?

"Wait!" She called out, suddenly not wanting to be left alone, paranoid that someone might come charging in before Artie would ever be able to make it back. "I can go down, myself, your Majesty." She averted his gaze respectfully. "I've already bothered you enough for one afternoon."

"Artie." He said all of the sudden. Ayla eyed him strangely,

"Your Majesty, my name isn't - " Artie shook his head.

"No, I know it isn't. I meant that you should call me Artie. 'Your Majesty' . . . it just makes me sound like I'm -- thirty." The corners of Ayla's mouth quirked up delicately, as though in suppression of laughter,

"Thirty is not so old." She paused. "Artie." His green eyes sparkled back at her in mirth before dulling down a little as he said,

"You know, I'd really feel better if you stayed here. Finding your way around this floor can be confusing enough, but the infirmary is three floors down and I'm not sure if you should be moving around that much." Ayla noted that the slight tremors in her legs hadn't ceased; Artie was right. In truth, she hadn't really wanted to go out on her own -- it just felt so backwards, having royalty placed in the position of a servant. Dissent had just felt, despite its utter idiocy and uselessness in the situation, oddly necessary. But, she figured, who was she to argue with the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the world -- even if he was a fifteen-year-old boy named Artie.


"So, that's what happened!" Fritz's light gray eyes widened in understanding. "Yes, yes. I suppose it makes sense when I think about it. A little too weird-looking to be a boy, that one." Artie nodded in agreement, distractedly wondering if Fritz had a way of reading people's minds from far away. "I shall send up Sylvia."

"Sylvia?" Artie's eyes bugged out of his head. Sylvia was a massive woman of foul temperament and superhuman strength, and Artie was almost certain that she was somehow related to Doris and Mabel -- or, perhaps, a wild bear. (You never know . . .) She was also, however, one of the best healers under Fritz.

"Why, yes! She's our top healer! And as your Majesty seemed rather concerned for his guest, I thought it wisest to send out our best." The old man paused. "Unless you object, your Majesty. I could fetch Rosalind or Sandrine instead."

As much as Artie feared Sylvia, he realized with a frown that Fritz was right. What if Ayla developed complications later on because something small had been overlooked? Just because he'd been too afraid to walk up some stairs with a woman whose unibrow could provide more nesting ground than a discarded wig. "Not at all." Fritz's mouth spread in a wide, slightly dazed grin as he clapped his hands together and inhaled swiftly through his nostrils.

"Excellent!"


"Toots, are ya gonna open the door or do I have to wait 'til Christmas? I'm on a limited schedule, here!" Sylvia raised an eyebrow at Artie -- really, the whole eyebrow just sort of developed into one giant upside V. Resisting the urge to stare at it, Artie dutifully opened the door to his room and stepped aside.

"Well, I'll, uh, just wait out here, then." Sylvia grunted in reply as she slammed the door shut behind her. Sheesh! Exhaling noisily through his teeth, Artie took a seat on a gracious stone bench.

He supposed there was one thing he liked about Sylvia: she never pretended with him -- or anyone, for that matter. Perhaps in her studies she began to see people in terms of health status and not social ranking? Or perhaps the woman was just completely unafraid? (Maybe she should've been crowned king. Goodness knows, she'd have been mistaken for one even if she was named an Infanta.) Artie chalked up her behavior towards him mainly to his age and his newness around the palace. He sighed. While it had initially felt wonderful being king (because no one would dare to even think of giving the king a swirlie), he realized it was a lot harder than he had thought, but not in the way that would have been expecting; the life of a wife-less king was incredibly lonely. Everywhere he went, people only saw a monarch to pander to or favors to be given, and Artie would have abandoned all the gold in the treasury to live a simple life in a small city or village with a modest house and a tiny garden. Though he knew he had been incredibly fortunate, the thought did little to quell the cold isolation that so often comes with great power. Was there no one who would treat him as just Artie?

His thought suddenly turned to the oddly-dressed girl in his room. The lonely, adolescent part of Artie was now insisting that he should have just said he'd been joking after his accidental admission about the room. She would have believed him. But you would've felt horrible. Artie ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Was he so desperate for company that he suddenly cared for the opinion of a total stranger? Of course, Worcestorshire had been a lonely place, but he was still able to be a kid. Here, it was like people were just waiting for him to screw up, to show them that he wasn't ready.

No, he was doing this. He might not have been king material from the start, but he'd been studying albeit sporadically the classical texts of past kings, trade records, the histories of as many kingdoms as he could research. Between that and the seemingly continuous string of stuffy dinner parties, he was surprise to find that he usually had time to wander about the gardens or, on bad days, stare up at his ceiling. He sighed again. It was exhausting and his emotional resources were running dangerously low. Sure, he had Aunt Lillian, but after the first three weeks, the woman had become somewhat withdrawn, if not a bit high-strung at times. But he continued as diligently as his fifteen-year-old mind could, because, as Artie told himself quite often, he couldn't disappoint his people. Or Shrek . . . In truth, it was mostly for the ogre; even though he knew that Shrek wasn't exactly an overbearing, perfectionist, Artie had no idea what he'd do if he ever let him down! It was gutting fear.

The door suddenly swung open with nose-cracking speed. "She's fine, toots, but she needs to stay in the palace to recoup for at least three weeks, just to make sure her heart and adrenals are doin' ok. I'd put her in the healing quarters, but there's no room." Artie cocked his head, confused.

"No room?" Sylvia nodded brusquely,

"This time o' year, we get stuck with a bunch o' similar cases -- dehydration, heat stroke, sunburns, the works, but they're usually in and out pretty quick," she suddenly lowered her voice to an angry growl, "so long as nobody tampers with the elixirs." She shook her head. "Idiot kid."

"Are you sure?" Sylvia stroked a not-quite-so-imaginary beard, deep in thought as she mumbled,

"Could just give that one guy some mint and fennel cure . . ." Sylvia looked back to Artie, "Alright, toots, I got a room for her, but it'll be another hour or two. I'll come and gets ya's when it's ready, yeah?" Somehow, he felt that it wasn't entirely a question, but, having no reason to object, he nodded anyway.

The burly woman then swiftly made her way down the corridor, leaving Artie unsure of what to do next. Well, first I should tell her about the room situation. She ought to know about that. Artie sighed. Why was it that he always felt responsible for everything?