Author: Christy Anderson

Date: June 20, 2003

You can contact me at kittyunlimited@go.com or leave a review.

Author's Note: Well, I'm much more prompt this time. :) I'm getting better, but I've probably just cursed myself. Along with all the other chapters, this must be a favorite too, comparably enjoyable to the first and yada, yada... but stories always seem to get more interesting when you further the conflict, so enjoy!!- Christy

Disclaimer: Tamora Pierce owns them all, even if we wish that were not how it stood.

Chapter 5: The Mr. Fickle Reprise

Carrying a tray laden with leftovers from the Midwinter feast, Neal anxiously made his way toward the table where his friends had begun to gather. The atmosphere hung sorrowfully about the room like the droopy decorations that persisted for the last day to grace the walls with their faded festive splendor. Neal felt too keenly the downward tug on his spirits, but he was determined to enjoy his last meal with his friends before the Lioness got her hold on him.

"Why so glum, chum?" Owen cheerily called out as Neal drew nearer, clearing his way through the throng of hungry pages and squires.

Halted cold in his tracks, Neal could only use his total self-control to refrain from rolling his eyes and crying out in desolation. He shivered thinking about the jolly extent of Owen's jollily regular jolliness. "Why so jolly, Wally, yourself?" Neal retorted back, shaking his head. He slid his tray onto the table and clambered over the bench, across from the giant and his sidekick.

Cleon, already two-thirds through his meal after five minutes, finished tearing a chunk out of the roll he had shoved up into his gigantic mouth and slowly put it down, his eyebrows raised in concern. "Upset over another Lady, Neal?" he apprehensively questioned low and breathlessly.

Setting his mouth into a firm expression of cavernous disgust, Neal squared his shoulders proudly. "No" he drawled, "for his graciousnessesez' information, I am not distraught over a lady." He elevated his nose far into the air and shot a penetrating and condescending look across the table as if to say 'You think you know it all, hah!'

"What's this nonsense?"

Neal looked up at the prince, who familiarly took a seat beside Owen, his tray heaped with spinach and apple crisps, causing Neal to shudder at the way they equally shared space. "No offense, Roald," he added in case his last comment had been overheard and bred affront.

Before the newcomer could respond, however, Cleon abruptly let out an enormous sigh of blissful relief. "That's good," he responded joyfully, "because the last thing I wanted to do here was listen to you spouting off about your woebegone heart."

Taken aback and stunned at his friend's painful frankness, Neal pretended to be shot by an arrow, clutching his hands desperately over his heart, clawing at the air, and making sputtering sounds as if he fatally choked upon his last breath.

Used to the usual madness by now, Roald could only shake his head, giving up hope that his year-mates would ever grow up. "Dare I ask whatever has gone awry?"

For Roald's delicate sake, Neal sobered up, acutely aware that not too many of his friends could actually withstand the full force of his harebrained antics and melodramas. He took in a deep breath of the ambient air, still redolent of evergreens and wine, and gradually released it. "Ah," he sighed ecstatically, "sweet freedom gone by- that is the problem."

From the other side of the table, Cleon nodded his head in agreement. "I can't imagine returning to the service of Sir Inness," he muttered miserably.

Neal arched his eyebrows in mock-disbelief. "Sir Inness! Sir Inness!" he exclaimed, "Kel's brother?! You have no idea how easily you have it the both of you. Why Roald even gets to stay behind and court his sweetheart. How I desperately envy you both."

"Ay," Roald placated, "We've all heard of the Lioness and pity you."

"I am truly disconsolate," Neal continued as if nothing had interrupted him. "If she has the inclination, she will have my head served on a platter, the Lioness, and eat me raw for dinner. Everyday she inflicts such evil upon me that it threatens to overwhelm my spirit. If I ever make it to becoming a knight, I fear I will be an unalterably broken man."

"Stop being a Meathead, Neal, and eat your vegetables." From behind his right shoulder, Kel came around and sat down beside him, smiling pleasantly. "When do you ship out?"

Neal groaned with dramatic flair, holding his face in the palms of his hands. "The Lioness drags me off at dawn," came a smothered moan as Neal churned with the nausea that arose at all the vicious scenarios that danced through his head at the thought. "She's always rabid in the mornings."

Beside him, Kel laughed a little, draping a comforting arm across his back. "Quit being so downtrodden. The King will insist the Lioness be civil on Progress."

"If we ever reach it in time" Neal slurred sorrowfully. "She has arranged a long detour to the coast and through the sands of the dried dead, dastardly devilish desert."

"Spare us," Prosper complained, slamming his tray of stewed vegetables and pasta onto the table as he leapt over the bench to crash down beside Neal. As the bench jolted Neal's head narrowly from a heavy collision with the edge of his plate, Owen precariously climbed over the table to steal a seat beside Prosper, almost putting his foot into Roald's soup and toppling Kel's mug of cider. Mutters and groans of complaint rose up from the coterie, with Neal in particular shooting daggers at the munchkin due to the agitation of his short-lived peril.

"You shouldn't look so sour, Neal," Owen quipped unabashed, leaning around Prosper to offer some comfort. "The Lioness will be appeased at the sight of her family."

As the sole dignified persona at the table, even in the presence of his motley crew, Roald nodded solemnly. "She is forced to spend long months of duty away from them, after all."

"Of course," Kel added sympathetically, "and if you don't return to us as the puddle of pulverized pulp that you ought to be, we would be very much obliged to finish it for you."

Neal grinned wryly at the jest, feeling his spirits lift as he searched for a fast but equally evil return.

"Kel," Cleon called pitifully for his enlarged size, "When do you leave, Kel?" he entreated urgently. "Is it soon?"

All thoughts of nagging retorts faded abruptly as Neal carefully peeled his fixated glance off of Kel to stare at the bulk that was Cleon transform into an awkward being completely unfamiliar.

"Huh?" Cleon prompted, his gray eyes oddly big, rounded, and watery.

In the moments that followed, Neal sat paralyzed, frozen by his emerging revelation. As the heavens gradually parted, he felt the imminent laughter slowly bubbling up inside of him, like water from a twisted spring. It was a strange idea, wildly concocted yet so blatantly genuine- a truth skulking about in the black ignorance of his mind, so evidently obvious that it had robbed him blind of any such thought. - Cleon was in love.

Neal's body shook with suppressed laughter. Glancing around to discover who shared in his remarkable revelation, Neal astonishingly found his friends strangely undisturbed in their activities. Roald, distracted from Cleon's strangled lovesick mating calls, chatted heatedly with Prosper over the last exciting jousting match, and Owen, as always, remained clueless with a blank but jolly look upon his rounded cherub face. Even Kel, unusually intrigued by her dining utensils, did not seem to notice anything awry.

Caught in the chasm of ethereal enlightenment, Neal struggled and sputtered for words, philandering as the sole keeper of a phenomenal something. Cleon was in love, that big mass of man, muscle, and muscularity was now a a a pansy- yes, a gaudy, whimsical, prosaic plant; as harmless as as well the train of thought tired him, but it was still humorous.

Kel cleared her throat. "I leave tonight, as soon as dusk falls. My lord would have us gainfully employed before Progress."

Cleon's spirits seemed to crash, like a boulder off a cliff, through the floor and deep into a dark, deserted, and solitary quagmire far inside the earth.

Not in tune to Cleon's bottomless downward spiral, Kel snatched the last smidgen of spinach off of her fork, looking up anxiously at the candle sconce that marked off the hours of the day. "In fact," she continued, draining her cider, "I should be off. My lord expects me to have the supply wagons prepared."

"Do you have to go?" came a strained but childish plaint from the molten pool of disappointment that once resembled Cleon.

Caught off guard this time, Kel's Yamani mask twisted into a startled expression. "Of course," she replied uncertainly, giving Neal a brief halfhearted embrace. Taking a full sweep of the table, a distant look came into her eyes, but was abruptly suppressed. "I'll see you all soon, I promise. Mithros bless." Smiling and waving, Kel turned to disappear amidst the horde of feasting boys.

At her departure, Roald lifted up his head, stirred out his concentration on the entirely separate sports discussion with Prosper, simultaneously taking note of the time. Looking mysteriously unsettled, Roald nervously fussed with his emptied dishes, before standing apologetically, slightly lowering his head. "I am afraid I must be off as well," he began with the strong sense of importance that seemed to always trail him. A cry of protest rose up from Prosper, and Owen nearly hopped to his feet in complaint, but Roald simply raised a hand. "I have an unavoidable meeting with my knightmaster."

Neal nodded in understanding, keenly remembering all the unreasonable requests of the Lioness, and even Owen, now silent, fell back in resignation. As Cleon generously spared a halfhearted grunt, Prosper made his objections even louder, shoving his plate of scarcely touched food farther in front of him so he would not knock it over. "I'll make my way with you, as far as I can, then. After all, you cannot expect me to relinquish my right to win this debate now, can you? There's no way Sir Raoul will unhorse Wyldon at the next event."

With feigned brevity, Roald gave his agreement and the two went off, heads locked together, still arguing on their way out of the Mess Hall.

For a moment, desolation set in at the sudden but absolute abandonment, as even down the way, tables systematically evacuated. Looking down at his cooked spinach, Neal began to segregate his broccoli from the carrots. It isn't natural that they should mingle, Neal thought to himself out of mind-numbing boredom. Beside him, Owen nervously began to clink his fork against the table and his spoon against his glass, creating grating high-pitched noises while heaving large depressing sighs. Cleon sat sodden across the table, as lively as a gray mushroom, with his head nearly resting in his food, the poor sap. Commencing to look from one to the other, Neal wondered what had gone wrong, his original ideas of merriment and gaiety at the last meal before his death sentence eaten away by the acid of reality as the precious minutes until dawn ticked away.

We certainly make a lively trio, Neal thought to himself, seriously contemplating departing and retreating to his room. Such thoughts were strongly uprooted instantaneously though by frightening thoughts of Alanna packing in a frenzied hurry. Even if he had to entertain two pet rocks, Neal would much rather avoid the loud sounds of insane activity and violent aggravation. Oddly enough, he could not revel in the thoughts of having his ears chewed off by the Lioness' incendiary temper.

"Come on," Neal encouraged suddenly, pushed over the edge by the growing murderous silence, "surely, we have subjects to discuss."

Unpredictably, Owen remained unenthused by Neal's attempts, unexpectedly driven to packing up his dishes and leaving with a meager word of farewell, shuffling his feet out of the room.

The shuffling delivered the final blow Neal could withstand. He felt stricken and betrayed as his good, old, dependable Owen turned his back on the table and walked away, a hollow semblance of his former jolly self. Neal felt like losing hope- if even the kid had caved, why shouldn't he?

Cleon glanced up as Owen tossed his flatware back into the large vats that some pages had been assigned to wash. "Where has everyone gone?" he mumbled uninterestedly, sniffling, and wiping his bulbous nose on his sleeve.

Unaffected by his friend's charms, Neal maliciously narrowed his eyes. "You are sure skilled at clearing a room," he retorted, whipping his face around as one of the pages unloading dishes smashed a few while tripping over a chair.

A low muttering rose from across the table, and Cleon paused to sit for taller for a while, appearing utterly demoralized. "I suppose that I got carried away" he admitted reluctantly.

Chagrined, Neal compressed his lips and nodded his head dejectedly. "And I suppose that's a good start," he rejoined, "but you could explain how it all came about."

For the first time since Kel's arrival, Cleon's eyes brightened with the presence of thought. "I'd rather refrain" he concluded climatically before melting down once again into the putty of self-pity.

This time Neal smiled positively. "Then let's not," he conceded, "but you should refrain as well from your accusations of nursing woebegone hearts."

Expecting a fast snide comment, Neal braced himself for the giant's fury that sort of sizzled out as Cleon continued to sit there unaffected and unmoved. "Livening conversation this is," Neal grumbled to himself, conjecturing about all the reasons he still sat on the bench across from well, it was his friend Cleon, in spite of everything.

"Fine person to talk," Cleon replied sarcastically. "You have your minutes of drama all the time. I feel entitled to my five."

"Million," Neal finished, rolling his eyes.

Cleon gave a chuckle. "Don't spoil it," he warned, shaking his head. "I feel rejected as it is. She did not even notice me this time."

Raising the corner of his mouth, Neal nodded in agreement. "It could have been worse, Cleon," he reminded his sizeable companion, "At least she didn't spurn your attentions."

"And you have seen plenty of that I gather," Cleon replied, smiling a little.

Neal laughed at himself. "I can honestly say that I have had my fair share of snubbed attentions." He laughed again, more deeply this time. "Seems just like yesterday."

Cleon laughed even harder. "It was yesterday," he chuckled, the pale color fading out of his sunken cheeks.

Rapidly and considerably troubled, Neal met Cleon's eyes and stared at his flaming-haired friend. "It was not," he retorted disbelievingly.

Unashamed, Cleon shrugged. "It certainly seemed like you were interested in a new girl every day."

At his friend's suggestion, Neal fell silent, looking into his cup of warm milk, swirling it gently. "I don't enjoy everyone's suggestion that I was so choosy, indecisive, and not committed," he pouted. "Why I"

" had chosen to be choosy," Cleon concluded, erupting into a bout of new hilarity.

Feeling like grabbing that enormous nose across the table and pinching it, Neal just continued to fixate himself on his milk as his anger flared up and then down. "You know, I didn't start out cracking jokes about your ailment."

The laughter across the way halted abruptly, and Cleon's face made Herculean attempts to straighten up. "I apologize," Cleon compromised, "but you were assuredly as fickle as I was flowery."

That word again fickle Only two syllables long and it flooded his mind. He could imagine the gears grinding in his head, feel the senseless smoke pouring out his ears. Fickle, to be fickle- the way the word was said and how it stuck in the mouth like something disgusting, like peanut butter. In the list of words he would use to describe himself, fickle had not made the cut. Without doubt, his friends found him annoying at times, even a menace. He easily got carried away or confused. He was loud sometimes, and at others, he could be just as evil and child-like as his knightmaster. But fickle? Fickle?- to be considered so petty, so shallow, it really tore at his heart. Was it truly so?

"But I insist," Cleon persisted, "it must be easier for you now to determine the right type of girl for you. After being with so many, you probably can sight the one girl for you, that special someone, with no problem at all. Look how quickly you picked up Yuki."

Neal turned mentally towards his relationship with Yuki, the love of his life, and it was nothing short of a miracle.

"Look at me, I am not sure if Kel is really the girl for me."

It was magic. It had to be.

"But you, you should know, recognize that special feeling possess it."

He couldn't believe how lucky he was.

"At first, Neal, I have to admit I wondered about you; I was worried."

The luckiest man alive was he.

"Your relationship with Yuki-we all wondered."

He had never felt happier.

"You couldn't blame us. We thought it was another one of your trips down 'True' Love Lane. We thought that it was temporary; it wouldn't last, but you have really stuck it out for longer than any of us would have pegged you for."

Never, ever, had he been happier in his life.

"Were you really meant for one another, we all wondered. It was like a question of broccoli and carrots. Are they meant to mix and mingle together?"

Neal jolted to his senses by the strange line of questioning he had thought he had heard. "A question of what?" he shouted suddenly, knocked from his internal reflection.

"Broccoli and carrots, or something like that," Cleon replied. "You and Yuki are such different people. We all wondered if you had really fallen in love with her or enchanted yourself again into falling in love with a travesty of love, a clean-cut image of beauty, and not with what lied within. You don't match."

Neal looked back down at his plate, wondering about the fickle complex that seemed to border on the edge of every serious conversation he hosted with any of his friends over love. Why did everyone seem to think that he couldn't find true love but instead hopped from girl to girl, pursuing satisfaction? It had almost been an entire season now since he had met Yuki why. why Neal failed to piece the argument together.

He picked up his fork, so depressed by his thoughts that he could only manage to process the notion of food. A scoop of mashed potatoes, and Neal lowered his fork again to skewer a stalk of broccoli.

The battered utensil crashed tragically onto the table and bounced to the floor, hitting with memorable, loud fatal sounds. The broccoli he saw- the carrots! It was just like Cleon had said; he had segregated them.

Still rambling over Kel and who knew what, Cleon paused and glanced up at his friend, this time sincerely concerned. "Are you all right, Neal?" he asked, gathering up bowls, plates, and mugs.

Neal bit his lip, but managed a weak nod.

Cleon didn't seem to notice. "Goodnight, Neal," he said as a parting, "I'll see you on Progress."

Numb to the core, Neal barely noticed Cleon's exit, his farewell, or the confused look he shot over his shoulder as he left the deserted hall. It was only the disquieting line dividing his vegetables that entranced him long into the night hours.

To be continued...