Disclaimer: All characters belong to the wonderful Tamora Pierce who I worship regularly. now you've found out my secret
A/N: I really didn't like this story when I first wrote it so I screwed it up and chucked it under my bed. Now, I found it again and... although I hate to say it... I do actually quite like it... a lot.
I really, really hate Cleon. die Cleon die!
I'll stop being big-headed he he he and King-Jon like so BYE!
Chapter 1 – In the Tent
"I meant we shouldn't be, you know, alone," she said, dry-mouthed.
"Please look at me, Kel," Cleon asked.
She was ready to refuse. Then he said 'please'. It would be churlish not to look up; so she did, meeting his grey eyes with her hazel ones. He was smiling. That was a dirty trick. It was impossible to remind him she was a fellow squire, sexless, when he smiled at her with so much liking that her insides melted. He lowered his head just a few inches to press his mouth against hers.
Oh my, thought Kel.
He took his lips away. "Um, that wasn't too bad, was it?"
She was glad to hear his voice crack. She wasn't a complete dolt, if this upset him, too.
"Neither of us turned into anything awful," Cleon went on hoarsely.
Suddenly there was a flash, and where Cleon had been stood, there was a huge, fat walrus. Cleon appeared not to have noticed. "The tent didn't collapse-"just then, there was a huge crack. "Uh, oh," Cleon muttered, twitching his whiskers.
"I think you spoke too soon, Cleon," Kel laughed, before the heavy tent came crashing down onto the both of them.
When Lord Raoul returned to Kel's tent later to talk to her, all he found was a mass of snapped tent poles and material. On one side of the tent, a flipper stuck out, flapping feebly.
A/N: Please tell me if that was funny or not. If it wasn't I will never ever write humour fics AGAIN. But please just tell me.
FAITHFUL FOREVER!!!!
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