The Count's Daughter
By: Stubby the Newsgirl
Chapter 5: The End of the Feud
"You will not get away so easily!" Inigo said grabbing the boy.
"Let go of me!" Amalia cried, elbowing him in the stomach.
Inigo let go of both the boy and the boy's sword he had been holding. His body writhed with pain from the blow; his wound had re-opened. "Stop!" he said breathlessly. I cannot fail now, not after having gotten so far! He gathered the little strength he had left, picked up the sword he had dropped, and stumbled after the running youth.
As Amalia ran, she clutched to her arm, but there was also blood on her other sleeve from where she had hit the Spaniard. Prince Humperdink was still very far off, but she would meet him. Wait! The Princess said something about his cruelty. If he finds out that I met the Princess and let her go, what will he do to me? Not only did I do that, but I also stole his horse! And moreover, I shall be disgraced for disguising myself as a man! One part of her told her to keep running, while another part told her to go back and hide herself. But if I go back, that Spaniard will be there! What must I do? What was worse? Humperdink or the Spaniard? Humperdink was the Prince; the Spaniard… well, he was nobody. She decided to turn back. Where will I hide? Amalia remembered a secret place… where she had been forbidden to go. The Pit of Despair; it was her father's haven. Well, it wouldn't be of any use to her father now. She would hide there.
Inigo could endure it no longer. His wounds were bleeding profusely. Forget the boy and go back to the ship! He started getting very dizzy; his body needed rest… no, his body needed blood. He collapsed, hearing the hoof-beats. They're coming! Damn him, damn that stupid boy! And that was Inigo Montoya's last thought.
Amalia hadn't run far before she came across the fallen body of the Spaniard. He was just lying there in the grass, like a corpse, still clutching to the sword and to his stomach. She nudged him lightly with her foot. He didn't stir. She kneeled down to him. He wasn't breathing. He was certainly dead. She dared to touch him. He was cold. She should have been glad. I didn't kill him, did I? No, he was already dying from the wounds of my father. Or at least that was what she assured herself. She rose, glancing at the Spaniard. His face was twisted with the expression of painful agony. This troubled her, and she looked away. The feud between their families was over, and she had won it. Still, she didn't feel like a champion. In hind's sight, the Spaniard had been quite civil to her. She felt a chill come up her spine: only moments ago, those dark Spanish eyes had been burning into hers, and his voice echoed in her thoughts. Did you love your father?
"No, I didn't. How could I love someone who I never knew?" Amalia answered. Funny that she knew the answer to that question only after the Spaniard had died. All the fighting was in vain. If it had been any other situation, we might have been friends, maybe even lovers. She looked at the Spaniard once more. He was handsome, indeed. She then, removed the uncomfortable sock from her pants and the uncomfortable hat from her head and laid it beside his fallen body.
"I'm sorry it ended this way," she said, truly remorseful. Then she turned and walked back towards the direction of the tree, where she had left Calliope and Faerie's Whip. It was over; she had won.