Author's notes: I checked my stats (because I'm a stats junkie) and I can't believe that there are so many people in so many different countries reading this story! Last I checked, people from Spain, Guyana, Honduras, Croatia, India, Puerto Rico, China, Turkey, Malaysia, Finland, Indonesia, Denmark, The Philippines, Sweden, Portugal, Italy, The Netherlands, Singapore, Vietnam, Belgium, Argentina, Brazil, Australia, Mexico, Poland, France, United Kingdom, Canada, Germany, Jamaica, Ireland, and the U S of A have all at least clicked on the story.

(That's 32 countries. Wow.)

Thanks to Jenna, X, Pleuvoire, Fire Element13, PS, LenaLove, NUNICHAN, gategirl7, crystalstars88, and Halfhand for the awesome reviews! Thanks also to AlexBelieve, Iz0bel, Italkianhottie, hlee0890, lfish2489, nyxaurora, bokworm, geckoonwater, Nirate, jono1217, and Suz Singer for the alerts and favorites!

The next update will be in a few days. In the meantime, please review!

Bad harmony

We're like bad harmony

We're a couple wannabes

Who do not know what they are doing

We're like bad harmony

We're like bad harmony

We are good company

Going down that road to ruin

- Bad Harmony, Frank Black

She didn't slow him down nearly as much as he thought she would. Though she would frequently point to different things and ask what they were, she proved quite agile when it came to navigating the dead limbs and brambles. However, the prickly weeds and rotten trees got thicker and thicker the farther into the forest they ventured, and the narrow passageways were beginning to slow her down with the long skirt she was wearing.

He was making his way doggedly on the "path" they had been following when he heard her scream a ways behind him. He immediately turned and ran to find her. He'd learned the hard way that letting a girl like her out of his sight even for a second was too long. When he found her, though, he immediately calmed down and slowed his pace. She was tangled in a thicket of brambles and limbs and she couldn't get out of them.

He took his knife out and lifted her skirt. She was wearing leather leggings which would afford her protection from the thorns without slowing the two of them down, so he started cutting the skirt on her dress to mid-thigh. When she saw what he was doing, she cried out for him to stop.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

He winced at the shrill tone of panic in her voice. "Girl, don't flatter yourself," he said in reply. Even though he had alluded to his willingness to take advantage of her, he found it irritating that she would still assume he was that kind of man.

"No, idiot, the dress!" she cried. "It was my mother's!" She tried to push him away unsuccessfully. "It is the only thing I have left of her!" She was near tears at this point.

He kept slicing. He didn't much take kindly to being called an idiot, but he did feel better knowing she didn't think he was trying to have his way with her. "Look, do you think your mother would want you to be caught by that blond bastard, raped, and then most likely killed over this filthy skirt?" He ripped the last remaining fabric until it separated from the dress and dropped the mangled material on the ground. "Now come on."

She didn't follow. Instead she bent down and gathered some of the ruined fabric. She cried into what was once a very handsome, finely embroidered skirt. When she pressed against the material now, she just seemed to make her face even more filthy than it had been.

The huntsman was not a cold man. That was part of the reason why he sought refuge in drink. He dropped the rucksack on the ground and searched for something that was a little cleaner than the dirty skirt she was now cuddling to her breast. When he couldn't find anything, he untucked his own shirt and cut off a strip from the bottom. He walked over to her. "Look at me."

She looked at him, but her eyes were full of tears and malice. She hid her face again and sobbed. "It was the only thing I had left of her." She continued to cry.

"You still have your life, don't you? Doesn't that count? I highly doubt your mother would approve of your behavior in this situation. Now let go of that filthy skirt and let me see your face."

He tried to wrestle the fabric from her, but she only held it tighter to her.

The huntsman ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Look, I tore my own shirt to clean you up, and you keep making yourself dirty. Are you always so disrespectful to the people who go out of their way to come to your aid?" He got no response from her. He growled. "Maybe this is why nobody rescued you."

After a few moments, she dropped the skirt, but she continued to cry. The huntsman almost winced when he saw her. She really was a pitiful creature. Tear tracks had already burned their way through the dirt on her cheeks, but everywhere else was a complete mess. He spat on the cloth in his hand and began using it to clean her face. Tenderly, he removed as much dirt as he could. He had the odd sensation that he was polishing a gem because the more dirt he removed the more he realized how pretty she was. Despite the fact that he wanted to see what she would look like with a fresh face, he stopped cleaning at a certain point. Dark hair, pale skin, green eyes, red lips: with a face like that, she couldn't help but get attention. If a stranger found her all cleaned up, he had no idea what they'd do with her. The dirt afforded her some protection, some blandness, an air of of the ordinary.

They moved at a slower pace than they had earlier. She was sulking and they both were tired. Finally he located a suitable resting place for the night and they both sank to the ground. He rationed out food for the night and they ate in silence. Once he was done eating, he fished another one of the wineskins out from the rucksack. He pulled out the stopper with his teeth and drank deeply. Midway through his drinking, though, he heard the girl scoff at him.

"If you've got something to say, say it." He was more tired than angry, but he doubted she could tell the difference.

She sniffed, still crying, though it was getting harder to see her face in the fast dimming light. "Why do you drink, Huntsman? Are you trying to forget something?" she sneered.

He sighed, not looking for a fight. "You're too young, Girl. You wouldn't understand." He took the opportunity to drink some more.

"Are you so mean to me because someone broke your heart? Are you trying to forget the girl who made you into the wretch you are today?"

It was his turn to scoff. "A wretch? You certainly are one to talk, aren't you." He continued to drink.

She bristled with anger now. "She probably did not even love you."

"Don't," he warned without thinking, his voice low and dangerous. "Hold your tongue and don't you dare say another word or I swear I will leave you here to die."

He heard her take in a sudden frightened breath.

"You cannot possibly know what I had and what I've lost. You simply cannot know, so do not start with me. You'll be lucky if you ever find anyone who loves you half as much as my woman loved me." He took a moment to calm down. "You may think me a lowly huntsman, but I was loved better than any king."

He turned away from her and hunkered down, not wanting to interact with the girl anymore. She began to cry in earnest now, quiet sobs muffled by her hands, and he wondered how much of his cleaning she would have undone by morning.

He listened to her cry for a long time, but she eventually quieted down. He was expecting her to slump against the rock the same as he was, but he heard her crawl toward him. Then she did the last thing he expected her to do: she lifted his arm same as the night before and leaned into him.

He nearly cast her off out of shock.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She jumped. "I...I didn't realize you were still awake."

"Well...I am." He was growing more and more confused by the fact that she wasn't moving away from him.

"Can we stay like this? For the night?" she asked meekly, too honest and inexperienced to be construed as seduction.

The huntsman sighed. "Suit yourself." He felt her lean further into him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He was glad his emotions were dulled by the wine because he was feeling some things he'd rather not contemplate at the moment. Still, he had to ask. "Why are you doing this?"

He felt her shrug. "You are the only person who cares about me." Then he heard her sigh. "You might not care much about me, but you still haven't left me to die out here, so that has to count for something."

She might as well have just stabbed him through the heart. "Don't say that. There has to be somebody," he offered hopefully.

"No, I do not really think there is. You said so yourself: why did no one try to save me?"

"That was supposed to be a joke."

"You don't tell very good jokes."

"I...I'm sorry about your dress. I didn't realize it was important, but my main concern right now is getting us both to safety."

"I know." She absentmindedly grabbed a handful of his shirt in one hand and fiddled with it as she thought. "I am sorry I reacted so poorly when you were only trying to help." She trailed off. "You are the only person who has tried to help me...in... How long ago was King Magnus killed?"

The sudden change of subject was a bit startling. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. He thought back and counted. "Seven years ago, why?"

"Hmm...then as of yesterday, I am sixteen. I have been locked up since the night he died."

Sixteen? He knew she was young, but to put a firm number on it was almost too much to think about. He felt very old lying next to her. And why was she locked up when the king died? The huntsman thought all members of court were killed that night. "Why does the queen want you dead?" he asked, trying to find out more information about the girl who yesterday he had refused even to give his name to.

She took a breath before answering. "The more puzzling thing to ponder is why she kept me alive at all." She sighed with exhaustion. "Surely a child would not have been a threat to her rule."

He knew there was something more to what she had said, but in his current state, he couldn't fathom what it was. The king and his daughter had been killed that night; there were witnesses. With them dead, so too died the hope of the kingdom being restored. Before he could continue down that dark line of thought, however, he felt her snuggle into his side and realized how extremely tired he was. He was definitely too tired to deal with this kind of conversation tonight. "Don't talk anymore. We both need to get some rest."

And with that, neither spoke again until morning.