A Fairy Tale ::roses rain down the screen::
Prince Quatre dashed around his room, searching frantically in every closet he had—ok, so it was only two (they're big, all right!). The ball was 20 hours away, he had to find something to wear. One might question why he was in such a hurry given the time frame, but the author invites the reader to remember he is a prince. That means that not only must he find a suitable outfit, he must find the proper accessories to go with it. That might mean he would have to trek all the way to the lower level of the castle in search of the gold smith, which would eat up a lot of time, because he also still needed to help plan the night's meal and entertainment, plus he had to sign the invitation—and there were dozens of those—whatever he wore had to be cleaned and starched to such a point he wouldn't be able to move, and he needed shoes…
But enough about that. There is hardly anything too exciting about party preparations—at least in the author's experience—so we'll move on to better things. Greener pastures one might say. Not me, but one (whoever he may be).
That's of little concern. The concern is the solemn figure sitting atop the hill just outside the castle walls, gazing down at the bustling people with a look that could be called longing were he face actually possessed of an expression. The readers will know this figure as Trowa Barton, not due to any particular characteristics, but because the author decided it was so.
Now, this Trowa was (not really) staring forlornly at the kingdom not without purpose. Besides, it was not really the kingdom he was watching; it was the castle. For as long as he could remember, Trowa had always wanted to be a prince. It was his life's ambition, what he had told his whole family he would do. When he grew up, he was gonna be a prince.
Of course, such a frivolous occupation had gone against every belief of the Barton family, and he had thus been forced to run away. Yes, Trowa Barton had run away from the circus to be a prince. But now, as he saw his one desire within his reach, he realized he had a dilemma: how did one get to be a prince?
Surely some poor, homeless boy in a clown costume and half a mask could not just waltz into the castle and demand an application. Surely he'd be turned away… or laughed at and then turned away. And honestly, he didn't know where he could get an application. The castle seemed the best source, but from whom? All his readings about court life had left him with the knowledge that there were hundreds of servants, each with varying degrees of importance. So, who was the most important one to whom one applied?
More over, what if there was an interview? He'd have to talk! And that surely wouldn't go well. There was also the problem of residency. Wouldn't he have to prove that he could house himself and keep a significant staff supplied to meet his every demands? He didn't even have a house.
"If you look any not sadder, you're going to kill every last fairy here." Trowa, not easily startled by anything—including the strange glowing light morphing into a wingéd form behind him—turned around to acknowledge said light… person… thing. "Perk up, damn it, and tell me what has you so not really down…"
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Professor G entered his tiny little cottage located out in the middle of nowhere, just on the outskirts of the little village some miles away from Heero's castle, and carelessly tossed the bomb on the table in the kitchen. He then called for his 'son' who wasn't really his son, but this was kinda discussed—though not in its entirety—in the first chapter, and the author hasn't the patience to finish that discussion now. Just make something up.
Anyway, G called for him, wondering where that boy could have gotten to, even though he already knew that he was more than likely outside seeing to his chores. That's all he ever did. That or roam around the hills outside singing or dancing or something… … ….
… No, sorry, wrong story.
No, he was more than likely in the village bothering the shopkeepers with his errant jokes and proclamations that he was indeed the God of Death. That or he was outside doing something constructive.
Whatever the case, he came almost immediately upon being called. G was enormously pleased, since usually he had to wait forever for his son—Duo Maxwell, if you really must know—to come out from wherever he was hiding. He must have missed G in his absence. (Though if the truth be known, Duo was actually curious as to why G was back so soon, the man was supposed to be gone for the whole weekend! What? He didn't trust him not to burn down the house. Bastard…) But the author digresses.
The point was, that G was enormously pleased, and as soon as Duo entered the room he started telling the story of his day, intending to send Duo off on his errand as soon as possible so as not to give Prince Heero the wrong impression. Ok, he started to tell his story, but was quickly cut off by Duo's exclamation, "What the hell is that?!"
"It's a bomb, Duo." G explained, and started his tale again.
Only to be cut off again. "What the hell is it doing in my house?!"
G blinked. Oh yeah, it was Duo's house…. Minor detail to be fixed later….
Anyway, annoyed that Duo kept cutting him off, G explained quickly, "It was given to me a few hours ago. If you'd listen, I have a job for you."
"Who in their right mind gave you a fricken bomb?!"
"Prince Heero. Now would you shut up! I'm trying to tell you a story…"
"Screw the story. I'm going to have a chat with Mr. Heero." Duo grabbed his coat and stomped out the door. Slamming it behind him; he returned seconds later, glowering at G. "And don't touch anything 'til I get back."
The author would like to take a moment to point out she lied in the first chapter. There are in fact two people willing to make the trek to Heero's castle. She still holds that's only because one is stupid…
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Relena—Queen of the World to you (look, you knew this time would come eventually. Suck it up and deal)—sighed heavily and sank into her frilly pink throne. She was bored. Her brother had disappeared hours ago. No doubt he was in the dungeon with some misbegotten cretin. She rolled her eyes; Zechs and his bondage fetish….
She had been planning on attending that Winner ball, but word had spread that only princes were being invited now. Normally she would be running around like a headless chicken trying to find something to wear. But no. The stinking Winner Prince just had to be all whiny about the marriage thing. He just had to have his way.
Well what about her, damn it? Wasn't she always supposed to have her way? She was the Queen of the World. Why shouldn't she have her way? It was only fair and befitting to her role. (Reader will note that now is the choice time to roll eyes.)
Besides now she was bored. A bored Queen of the World is never a good thing. She starts thinking, and a thinking Queen of the World is even worse. She starts getting ideas. A Queen of the World with ideas is supremely bad. She always thinks they're good and ideal. Really they're just stupid, but she thinks they're good, so then she attempts to implement them into her life and reign somehow, and then all hell breaks loose and before you know it there's civil war here, nuclear fallout over there, unrest everywhere in between, and overall chaos across the board—not that she truly understands what any of that means (which is why the author can get away with saying it).
Anyway, she was thinking, and that was altogether bad. She needed a mission. Something to take her mind off processing thought….
Then she remembered—the one function she can operate without mass destruction ensuing—there was that poor, dear prince cursed to forever strike fear into the hearts of his villagers. Some vile, evil fairy had cast a nasty spell on him, and all ability to communicate without hostility and hatred were now lost to him. (Never mind that he had never done so anyways, but that's besides the point….)
That's what she could do! She could go break his curse. After all, wasn't the Queen of the World supposed to bring peace, love, and unity to all? She didn't actually know—that would require thinking—but it sounded good to her. So off she bounded, happy to have something to do. A quest, if you will. And of course you will, because the author has decreed it so, damn it….
-- ^ -- ^ *** ^ -- ^ --
Zechs slapped the riding crop into his hand with quick, snapping motions, approaching the dark haired prince who had dared defy him. "Now, explain it to me again."
Wufei gifted the sorcerer with a strange look. He couldn't keep the confusion out of his voice when he answered, "… I've been a bad…, bad… boy…?" His face stated clearly that he was beyond comprehending any of this, and he looked to Zechs for some kind of explanation.
Zechs merely smirked and continued forward. "We'll have to teach you a lesson now, won't we?" Wufei gulped and struggled against the cuffs….
