A/N: Well this is awkward. How long has it been? I am so sorry, guys. I know my excuses mean nothing to those of you who want to know what the hell happens next, so I won't even try to justify my disappearance. And if anyone is still reading this story, thank you SO much for not giving up on it. I promise I won't take a billion years to post the next chapter. Oh, and I've also started a new Style/Tophlovski fanfic, which is highly irresponsible of me, but I couldn't help it. That should be around here anytime soon, if you're into that. I'll shut up now. Hope you enjoy!

. . .

Terrance and Phillip were very hard to understand. But to understand why they were so hard to understand, you'd need to visit a land not so far away from Zaron, about 1406.83 miles up north, where it snows all year and everything is white. The land was divided by turf wars over millennia, and then fragmented between the aboriginal tribes and the civilian population, which constituted the realm, expelling the natives for being "too wild" for civic coexistence. There was the Due tribe, one of the oldest, highlighted by a genetic mutation that caused every pregnancy to generate identical twins. It was common sense that such mutation was related to magic, perhaps dark magic, especially because of the curious interaction between two twins born in Due. Not only their features would be identical, but there would also be an unbreakable telekinetic bond for as long as they lived. It was a mandatory feature that Due twins had different hair colors and the same eye color, but in the case of Terrance and Phillip, something extraordinary happened. Something unheard of for those people. Terrance was born with very dark hair and a pair of eyes so black that no one could tell the difference between his iris and his pupils. Phillip, on the other hand, was born with blond hair, almost white platinum blonde, and a pair of eyes bluer than the sky itself. Everyone thought that they had been cursed, or that there was some disastrous disconnect between the two brothers, but time proved just the opposite; their bond was the stronger ever known by the Due tribe.

The twins had left their homeland to study magic in Zaron, settling inside one of the Twin Mountains' caves in the Elven Grove. It took years for the elves discovered their presence, and when they did, the king summoned Terrance and Phillip to the palace as prisoners. The king's younger son, born in the civilized region of Canada, was extremely ill at the time. Somehow, Terrance and Phillip felt the child's condition as soon as they were placed before Gerald Broflovski, and the words that saved both of them a bit of a headache were "we can save him," said in perfect conjunction between their voices, without a vowel out of tune. It was as if the intonation of their voices formed a single one. The wizards did not need to explain to whom they were referring, or how they had found out about the sick prince. Gerald didn't want to know. Against Sheila's scandalous protests, he consented the twins to take a look at Ike, under the vague promise that they could do something about his illness. That was the precise moment when the trust had been established between the Mountain Twins and the High Elf's family.

Now there they were, both men of exactly the same height, standing in the Elven Castle's entrance hall once again, one beside the other, like a pair of vessels whose position was meticulously calculated. When a face turned to the left, the other did the same, both pairs of eyes full of curiosity and wonder. Terrance clutched between his fingers a piece of crumpled silk paper, which he had gotten from the table in the parlor where they had been waiting just a few minutes before; it was a tiny map drawn with charcoal, something the twins made together in only 74 seconds. There was a little discussion about who would hold the map, but Phillip gave up when he heard the sound of Henrietta's high heels echoing across the double door, which burst open, revealing a woman's voluptuous figure. Only her silhouette was visible, given the intense light that came from behind her.

"Come in." She said in a dry voice.

The twins entered a room that was unusually clear, mistreating the corneas of those creatures who were used to the back of a cave and the protection of trees' shades when it was necessary to go out. The strong lighting was due to the huge windows that took up an entire wall. There was a long table like nothing the twins had ever seen before, covered with a velvet green towel, like grass itself, and Phillip reached out to touch the fabric, but Terrance stopped him with a loud slap on his brother's wrist, never needing to turn around and look; he knew exactly where to hit. Philip made no sound and his expression did not change, but the hand immediately replied as if it had a life of its own, colliding its back against Terrance's belly. The dark-haired twin also didn't react.

Black dressed from head to toe, as she had been doing in the past recent days, Henrietta raised an eyebrow. She had always been a woman in black, so you would need to watch it very closely to notice that the nuances of purple, red, wine and navy had disappeared from her clothes. Terrance and Phillip did notice it, although they hadn't seen the woman more than two or three times before. They were in agreement that Henrietta was scary enough for them not to say anything, at least as long it was as possible to avoid. There was another figure in the corner, which, although unknown, was equally daunting; a French human with his arms crossed on his chest, his head wounded and his eyes bloodshot. Terrance and Phillip locked the two pairs of eyes staring at the man, their wrinkled identical mouths, projecting curious frowns, sensing Christophe's oscillating energy.

The twins suddenly held hands, the creased piece of paper pressed between their palms. It was impossible to define which of the two had taken the initiative, since both hands moved exactly the same moment, and fingers intertwined as if they belonged to the same being, knowing the other by heart.

"Listen, creatures." Henrietta said, firmly this time. "We must get into an agreement. You..." Her lips sealed to realize that she didn't have the twins' attention. She snapped his fingers in front of their faces, leaning on the table with her free hand. Terrance and Phillip were still watching Christophe. "Hey. Are you listening?"

Phillip used his left hand to poke brother's stomach, whispering aloud:

"I believe she is speaking to us."

"Is she speaking to us?"

"I do believe so, Terrance, yes I do."

"Oh well. Who?"

At some point, their pupils finally moved. Henrietta and Christophe exchanged a brief and impatient look and he made a gesture of encouragement for her to take the heavy book of indigo magic, lifting it foot above the table before dropping it, emitting a loud noise that caught the twins' attention. The scare made them jump in a completely harmonic and cohesive motion, jumping the same height and landing in the same calculated instant. Phillip leaned to the side, keeping his neck strangely static, not moving it a single inch.

"Told you she was talking to us."

"Oh, yes, you certainly did."

Christophe covered his face with his hand and sighed.

"Just pay attention, you..." Henrietta started, but then contained the words with a disturbing grimace, frown lines very marked in the light of stained glass. "Do you understand that you live on our property, in our forest, in exchange for something? Do you understand that you are our allies?"

The twins looked at each other.

"She thinks we're morons." Terrance whispered to his brother in the same loud voice used before.

"Oh, she certainly does!" Phillip agreed.

"It does not matter what I think." Henrietta replied, not bothering to deny it. "It is important to understand what your responsibility is. I will not send the prince and heir to the throne on a trip with you two if I'm not absolutely sure that you will do your part. Do you even know what that is?"

"Protecting the Stick." They both answered simultaneously, their voices condensed into one, as two parts of the same song. Separately, their voices were sharp, strange and unpleasant. But together, in harmony, they were delightful to the ears.

"Right." She said, almost hesitantly surprise, crossing her arms.

"And what do we get in return?" Terrance asked, finally looking at the woman.

"Yeah! What do we get in return?"

"You freaks already collect your reward for years, living in our forest. What else do you expect from us?"

When Henrietta was preparing for a long and thorough discussion that she was pretty sure would just walk in circles, something stronger seemed to grab the attention of the two dispersed men. It was like some buzz had burst their eardrums, but they were the only ones able to hear it, while all the other presents in the lobby puckered brows in question. The buzz seemed to come directly from Henrietta, by the way the twins approached her - still holding hands, taking frighteningly synchronized steps - and Christophe's hand instinctively went to the belt where the knife was stuck, getting in a predatory position in case he had to act fast. However, there was no need. The twins' steps decreased when they got close enough, their thin bodies leaned forward in combination and their nostrils flared, smelling Henrietta as trained dogs would. She instinctively took a step back and put her hand on her stomach. Perhaps it was her nature manifesting the extraordinary need to think about the fetus growing within her long before she thought about her own safety (although she wasn't in real danger at the moment, she understood that), but something inside Henrietta told her that they were interested in her child, not in her properly.

She was right.

Phillip raised his free hand to touch her belly, his eyes shining with the fascination of a child, but Terrance slapped him hard before his brother could reach the goal. They both looked at each other as if contemplating their own image in a mirror. Phillip responded with a pinch, and Terrance corresponded with a stomp on the foot, but soon they were straightened and looking at Henrietta like two naughty children who are about to get an earful. She was taken by a strange feeling of affection for the innocence in the two creatures' eyes. She felt nauseous.

"Did you see that?" Terrance asked his brother, but his eyes never left Henrietta's stomach.

"I certainly did, yes sir, yes I did." Phillip replied, nodding his head.

"Should we ask?"

"Why, and why not?"

"Let's ask."

Henrietta turned toward Christophe, whose gaze wandered between her and the twins, his thick eyebrows furrowed in a comical expression of disagreement. But no one smiled. When she turned back to face them, her face was wearing that ordinary impatience again. She clutched her waist.

"What the hell are talking about, you freaks?"

Both answered in a single, cohesive voice:

"They're twins."

"What?"

"Inside you." The dual voice replied casually. "They are twins."

It took Henrietta all her strength not to cover her belly with her hand one more time. She lifted her chin in serene curiosity, moistening the red stained lips, slipping her tongue over her teeth.

"What do you know about that?"

"We'll help you." Terrance suddenly said, in a tone of brilliance, as if he had just discovered fire. "If you give us one!"

"Yes, yes!" Phillip agreed, releasing his brother's hand to join his palms in front of his face. "Give us one!"

Her lips were split, incredulous.

She could only move when Terrance raised his hand, that devilishly thin hand, whose dirty fingers were crooked and bony enough to be associated with a demon, so pale, the nails so dark. The hand approached the woman's stomach, which already had an small bulge that was almost imperceptible to the eyes, but not for the twins', who looked as if they could see right through her flesh. Their pupils dilated simultaneously and their thin lips formed a smirk, contrasting with the static eyes as if that was all that composed their faces: big eyes and mouth full of yellow teeth sprouted between their lips, making their smiles almost sickly. Instinctively, Henrietta stepped back and slammed in the approaching hand.

"Do not come near me, you beast!"

Christophe, who seemed on guard waiting for a signal to act, didn't even step forward. He looked paralyzed. There was nothing in his expression, no twinkle in his eyes, no emotion transpiring the rough lines of the face. Perhaps he just knew that the twins were more afraid of Henrietta than otherwise. He was talented in smelling fear.

Terrance, on the other hand, didn't seem offended or bothered by the woman's reaction. Phillip laid his head to the side, confused, and his brother did the same to the opposite side, a few seconds later. He could have done it exactly the same time, if he had wanted to.

"Bradley is a beautiful name. Do not you think it's a beautiful name, Terrance?"

"Oh, yes, a lovely name! Undoubtedly a beautiful name."

The mention of her brother's name was like a punch in the stomach. Henrietta replied with a grimace, as if she was swallowed her own vomit.

"What do you know about Bradley?" She asked weakly.

"That's the name of your baby." Phillip explained. His eyes remained static, the smile remained sick. "The blond one!"

Terrance grabbed his brother's arm, looking at him with eyes full of something that, later, Henrietta would identify as love. Something had changed inside her, making so natural for her to recognize the love between two people who are family. It had never seemed important before. It was incredible. Even a moment before Terrance's fingers touched his arm, Phillip was already staring back, sensing his movement.

A shadow suddenly covered their eyes.

"Christophe." Terrance whispered, turning to Henrietta.

She glanced back, where the French man was taking a cigarette to his mouth, reaching into his pocket for a match to light it. His eyes briefly rose in curiosity, but he didn't seem as interested as you'd expect, after having his name mentioned by those intriguing fellows.

"What?"

"That'll be the name of the baby with dark hair. Black hair like yours."

"And why would I call him Christophe?"

"Well, and how are we supposed to know? You're the one who's naming him!" Phillip exclaimed.

Henrietta's stomach lurched at the thought. With all that had happened in the last days, she hadn't had time to think about the little creature that was developing in her womb. She hadn't thought of names, much less thought about the possibility of having two babies instead of one. It was impossible to banish the idea that there was a piece of Michael inside her, which immediately cheered her heart and sucked the air out of her lungs. Henrietta didn't even like kids. But something that flowed in her veins was strong enough to want to kill those two creatures in front of her for the simple intention of taking her child away. Her heart was throbbing. It was the first time that she thought about her baby as a child. She tried not to picture his face, in case it was a boy, with Michael's black hair and dark eyes. Or blond hair, such as Bradley. Her sweet, innocent Bradley.

She looked back at Christophe. That brute and peaceful face, behind the bluish dancing smoke of his cigarette, looked a few years older. How she longed for a cigarette at that moment.

"Look, little pests. I don't want to hear another word about it. We have work to do. Christophe, please go get Ike. You morons will accompany him. Your reward is to keep your balls, because you are annoying me profoundly."

The twins laughed.

. . .

"I can go along." Christophe said for the third time, each word more insistent than the last. Now, he and Henrietta were alone in the main lobby.

"No. There's no how. You're still too weak. You want to be conscious and stand up alone when they get Kyle back, don't you?"

There was something sweet in her voice. The man snorted.

"Someone needs to go with 'zem."

"I know. But Gregory is tough, there are rules against that sort of thing. Nobody else is supposed to see the Stick."

"Fuck it. I don't like zis sheet. We are putting too much in zeir hands. Zey are like two retarded children, for fuck's sake."

"I know it's hard to believe, but they are exceptional. They may already know where the Stick is without anyone telling them. They see everything."

Henrietta's expression was hard to face. Many strong people were collapsing right before his eyes, and Christophe felt that he would be next. A part of him wanted to comfort her, to say something deep and clever about the twins' forethoughts, but that broad and wide lobby seemed too exposed, little intimate, and neither one of them would feel comfortable if he tried to get closer. So, he took a cigarette from his pocket and handed it to her. Henrietta refused it, and he was glad she did.

. . .

He had done everything he was told to. Things weren't supposed to have gone that wrong.

Kyle had never been too good in following orders, that was true, but that night was different in every aspect. Despite Marjorine's promise of showing up the next night, it took the princess three more days to actually come to him with a plan. It wasn't a complicated one, in fact, they just had to be fast and Kyle couldn't let himself get distracted with the possibility of finding Eric Cartman's bedroom to murder him in his sleep. That was the most throbbing thought on his mind, along with other obscure ideas that he constantly tried to drive off his brain as he laid on the cold dirty floor of his cell, emerged in darkness, barely dressed, trying to remind himself of who he was, the life he had outside those walls. It was nearly impossible. The loud noise of heavy rain and wind outside made him feel even smaller, shrinking in fetal position and hugging his knees, trembling like a boy who had lost his mother. It was easier to be fragile when there was no one around to see him crumbling in pieces. His face was always pressed against the floor, his hair was always fallen over his eyes (although it had been cut a few days before, he wasn't sure when), to the point where Kyle was getting used to that condition, forgetting that he had ever been anything else. It was almost easy to become just a piece of meat on the floor, left behind by someone who didn't want it anymore.

But he hadn't vanished yet. His eyes still sparkled. Cartman's words still echoed in his skull, repeatedly, like fuel to a growing fire. Sometimes, Kyle even caught himself moving his lips to whisper such words, staring to the void of his cell, tears running down his cheeks and he didn't even realize it until his eyes were burning. But he didn't cry for Cartman, no, not ever. After Marjorine's visit, seeing Kenny become a sort of habit. He was absolutely sure that he was losing his mind, diving deeper in his own insanity, but it made him numb, and that was more than Kyle could ask for. Kenny's face looked even younger than he remembered (and Lord, how hard he was trying not to forget what that face looked like), his smile so boyish and bright, lightning up the whole room, saying things that only Kenny would.

"C'mon, kitty, you're stronger than this", Kyle would hear him say inside his brain, "I can't kill that motherfucker for you, but I swear I would. You don't need me for anything, do you?"

Sometimes it helped. Sometimes he would tell Kenny to shut up.

When his eyes were used to the darkness and he was coming in terms with the idea of spending the rest of his days in there, suddenly there was a light. Kyle literally thought it would blind him, the strong light that came from the corridor when Marjorine opened the door of his cell, once again dressed as a male guard. Kyle noticed how awkwardly she walked when she wore that heavy armor, and in any other situation, it would have made him smile. But he couldn't bring himself to do so when Marjorine nervously whispered orders that he should follow in about ten minutes. She told him she had put a glamour on every guard of the wing B, which Kyle should cross until he got to the huge green double door and got to the princess's bedroom. She had something important to do and thought it would be faster and safer if Kyle went by himself. She gave him new clothes and asked him to wait a few minutes to give her enough time to check if everyone was indeed sleeping.

He had though that his heart would be racing and that he would be scared to death of being caught. It would be unfair to say that he had nothing to lose; he had his little brother, he had Stanley, he had his realm and the war he was not yet lost. But for some reason, none of it felt important enough to make him frightened by the possibility of dying. He put on the clothes Marjorine had given him after she left, and the cotton felt nice and loose against his sore skin. He had never loved cotton so much in his life.

Barefoot, he peeked to take a look at the snoring guard before moving any forward, taking light and careful steps as if he could actually wake the man up from the spell just by walking too loudly. It was silly. The man didn't seem to move a muscle. Kyle slowly walked out of his cell, taking a moment to stop in front of the next entrance, the block in which Kenny had been locked up when they arrived in Kupa Keep. Kyle tried to resist the temptation of approaching the door, standing on tiptoe to see through the small opening that revealed a dirty empty room. He didn't know why he suddenly felt so disappointed.

When the sleeping guard stirred, Kyle broke out of his trance and ran.

He followed the first staircase and came out on a large salon with linoleum floor that reflected every furniture, statue and object in the room. It was so wide and it had so many doors that Kyle started to get uneasy, feeling too exposed, like anyone could come in at any second. He looked for a staircase; there were two, one on each side of the salon. Marjorine had told him to go for the one on the left, with red carpet. The elf immediately ran up.

He had no idea how neurotic Cartman could be about his security, but the amount of guards lying on the floor was intimidating, especially when it came to the narrow hall that would lead him to Wing B, according to Marjorine's instructions. It had to be it, the passage with a tall lion statue in the front. Kyle penetrated the dark hall with easy steps and the adrenaline finally started to hit him, as he tried to find clear spaces between the bodies on the floor, fantasizing that all of the sudden one of those men would grab his ankle. It was a terrible moment to doubt Marjorine's words, although he still didn't understand why she would help him in the first place. That corridor was longer than Kyle had hoped it would be. He could feel those human men breathing like wild animals, like he had just entered a pit of lions, or dragons, as told in one of his folk's stories.

But he came out on the other side, alive and well, or as well as he could be. The thin layer of hair that covered his leg was up, perhaps because of the awful cold that came under his garment. The princess had given him a long gown with nothing to put underneath, but the material was much thicker than what he had been wearing for weeks. The weak light of the torches made the marks on his skin more visible, and they were uglier than he had thought, but there was no time to stop and analyze such things. He started to walk faster. For a while, there were no guards in sight, as he ran through the hallway that had huge paintings of the human king along both walls, one more majestic than the previous. The carpet felt nice under Kyle's feet.

There was the green door. He was almost there. Kyle knew he wouldn't be safe once he got inside that room, there was still a million things that could go wrong, but he needed a victory. A small victory, something, anything he could celebrate, he needed it so badly.

He had done everything Marjorine told him to do. Everything he was supposed to. He was fast, quiet and attentive; he followed the right way and didn't let anyone see him. And he was almost there.

But Baahir came out of nowhere. And as soon as Kyle stood before the green double door, reaching for the doorknob, those huge arms that he was so familiar with, that now felt hard as a brick, grabbed him harshly from behind. There was no time to react. Kyle was pushed against the man who looked as tall as a wall, Baahir's strong hand covered his mouth and nose to the point where he thought he wouldn't ever be able to breathe again, and at that moment Kyle realized just how much he still had to lose.

Baahir's breath was intense against his ear, his hoarse voice whispering in an almost gentle tone:

"There you are."

. . .

There were twelve rows of exactly eighty elves in each, all clad in wood armors carved with a circle and a rose in the center; its ramifications of thorny branches were harnessed to the circle. They all wore helmets, the only part of their apparel that was made of iron, since the elves did not like the weight. They were fast, lightweight, agile. The last thirty elves of each row were the archers, who held the carefully carved arches in tribal designs of the ancient people, a beautiful sequence of curves that surrounded the entire timber of each arc as the movement of a climbing plant. They carried bags on their bag to hold the arrows, making it easy to grab them in a quick move. The vast majority of them had smooth and long hair, as was the habit of the Elven soldiers, precisely the opposite of humans, who kept their hair short for battle. This made the identification on the battlefield much easier, although that wasn't the main reason why the elves soldiers did not cut their hair: it was the symbol of their strength. The next thirty men each row fought with their spears and shields craft, and knocked them hard on the ground while emitting the battle cry to the general sign. The nine hundred sixty voices echoed in the open skies, which were greenish blue, a color that only happened in the winter, with a horizon fading into a celestial blue common of sunny days. It was not a sunny day.

The first twenty men from each row mounted on horses and kept their swords in their scabbards. They were the only ones who had their heads covered with red mantles, the necks wrapped by green scarves, the crown coat emblazoned on their chests. The same coat of arms that was stamped on Stanley Marsh's pectoral as he stood ahead of all his army, facing them. He'd be lying if he said that he knew every one of those faces, but it was as if he could see them one by one at that moment. Stan had never been very good with words, he had never had much taste or interest in them, but it was another story when he was right before his army. That morning in particular, in the biting cold, before the twelve rows of towering elves before sunrise, the words burned in his throat as reflux.

Gregory was about three feet away from him, on his golden steed, his face frozen in a rigid expression of sorrow and strength mixed up. He offered a brief look of encouragement, and Stan began:

"My friends." He paused briefly to lick his chapped lips. "I won't ask you not to fear. I have no right. For in dark times, the fear seems to be your only company. Fear of failing your fellow brothers, fear of failing oneself, fear of death. There is nothing wrong with fear, as long as it does not win the outrage, the fury, the courage that brought each one of you here. You are not ordinary, you are the bravest elves that exist. You are good-hearted, righteous, true, as your vows affirm, and something has been taken from you. The one who consecrated you with the noble titles that you carry today, the one who does not use you, his soldiers, as puppets. The one who kept the peace in our kingdom, even in the darkest period, and has visited each rite of passage of your comrades in arms who were lost along the way. He who keeps your family safe, your food at the table, who cares for his people without making difference between the peasant and the noble."

Stan's eyes roamed the different faces, the entire range of skin colors and hair and eyes, all shapes of nose, mouth and jaw, from the highest to the lowest elf, analyzing even the animals upon which they rode. One of the riders was teary-eyed, slightly wrinkling his nose as if he was in pain, trying not to cry, but a tear was already running down his cheek. Stan would remember to tell that boy later that there was no shame in crying.

He took a breath.

"The humans believe they have an advantage over us. They took advantage of our sympathetic nature to try to disrupt our realm, but we are not made only of a king. Kyle has always reminded us of that. We are the kingdom. Each of you is the kingdom. And this kingdom will not be destroyed and will not yield to any blackmail, that is not the way we fight. We'll show them." The clang of Stan's sword could be heard from a distance as he drew from its sheath and lifted it in the air with pride, causing Gregory's horse to take a step back, but the blond held tight on the animal's reins. "Can you hear me?!"

The chant broke out, nine hundred and sixty voices in chorus, scaring the forest birds.

"The humans will not take your lives. They will not take anything else from us."

Nine hundred and sixty voices shouted.

"And we will bring our king back home."

Nine hundred and sixty-one voices chanted, because Gregory had joined the chorus.

"Today" Stan said, projecting his so strong and loud that it reached the ear of the last archer in the last row. "We ride."