Author's Note: Thank you to Baroness Orc and 3DG for the lovely reviews of the last two chapters. Now see what the Jackernackey has delivered....

Chapter 14

Isabelle's mind finally caught up with her body. Isabelle was lying on a none-too-soft bed, with an enormous crick in her neck and a stabbing pain in her side. A large, rough pair of hands was holding onto one of hers. Isabelle opened her eyes and waited for the thatch ceiling she was staring at to stop spinning.

"Trestan?" Isabelle said, her voice a whisper. She tried to turn her head to see him, but stopped. Her painfully stiff neck prevented her from doing so. Isabelle tried to sit up, muscles creaking in protest, but was only able to rise an inch off of the bed. "Trestan, can you hear me?" Isabelle said frantically. She felt the person holding her hand stir.

"Shh, try not to move," Trestan said, moving into her line of vision—he had been holding her hand after all. "It is all right, I am here." Trestan appeared tired and careworn; Isabelle guessed that he had not gotten much sleep recently. "Once you get more rest, we can talk. Wait until then."

Isabelle protested, nearly in tears. She wanted to speak with Trestan, not go back to the land where her nightmares would reign.

"Not now," Trestan said, giving her hand a squeeze. "I will be sitting here while you sleep."

"You…" Isabelle yawned, "sleep too."

When Isabelle woke next, she felt a slight trace of panic. Although the crick in her neck was gone, Trestan was not at her bedside. Isabelle searched the room, expecting to see his massive, comfortingly strong figure. There was no one there, but a boy sprawled near the fire drawing figures on a scrap of vellum. He had brown hair cut to his ears and wore a simple brown tunic and dark green leg wraps. Hearing Isabelle stir, he got up, threw a log on the fire, and came and sat in the wooden chair that stood by her bedside.

"Good morning, Lady Isabelle," the boy chirped. "Glad to finally see you awake."

"Good morning," Isabelle replied cautiously. "Where is Trestan?"

"Lord Trestan is outside for a bit," the boy shrugged, adding, "like he always is in the mornings."

"I see," Isabelle said. Trestan was still cursed, then. Isabelle's head spun, but she

sat up anyways. "How did I come here?"

"Lord Trestan, you see, he's stronger than a bear, he carried you," the irrepressible boy said.

Isabelle sighed. Again Trestan had shown her kindness that she would never repay, lover or not. "Where are we?"

"We are in the house of Friar Justin, in the woods of Gallia, pretty near the border to Oberland, as far as things go."

"Do you know of a place called Goble Hill? Do you know how far away it is?" Isabelle asked, trying to figure out how long she had been unconscious.

"No, but I'm guessing that is near Gobleton, about forty miles to the West."

Isabelle leaned back against the pillows. "How long have I been here?"

"Five days, lady," the boy said, trying to be of help. "Tis January ninth, if that helps...Wait, I forgot," the boy said, leaping out of his chair. He retrieved a cup from near the fireplace. "Friar Justin told me to give you this if you woke up and he wasn't here," he blurted. The boy held the cup, trying to decide whether to give it to Isabelle to hold or not.

"Are you going to hold it, or are you going to give it to me?" Isabelle asked, less sarcastically then she really felt. "Why don't you hold it so that I may drink from it?" she cued more kindly. The boy held the cup as Isabelle drank the dark brew that it held.

"Thank you…Wait, what is your name?"

"Peabo, lady," the boy said with a respectful nod.

"Thank you, Peabo," Isabelle said, suddenly weary. "Please wake me if Trestan comes back." She drifted back into a gentle sleep.

Isabelle woke again; the room was darker than before, mid afternoon perhaps. Trestan was slumped in the chair next to Isabelle's bed, head in his hands while he slept. Isabelle wanted to brush his dark hair back from his face, and tried to move to do so, but her hand would not reach that far. Instead, she settled for resting it on his knee. Trestan started, and then realized that both he and Isabelle were awake.

"Isabelle," he breathed; he looked the happiest that he had been since Christmas Day.

Isabelle tried to sit up so that she could talk to him properly, but winced. Her side felt as if it was being ripped apart. She gave up the attempt and tried to be content laying on the bed and looking up at Trestan.

"Lay still," Trestan said guiltily. "I am so sorry. It is all my fault. If I had been honest with you this never would have happened and you never would have been hurt."

"It doesn't hurt," Isabelle said indignantly. It was a blatant lie; her side hurt terribly, but Trestan was with her, and if she was conscious this much, it meant that she was not to die.

"But this will," Trestan said, gathering his courage. "After hearing this, if you wish to leave me, I will understand."

"What do you mean? And don't I even merit a 'good to see you are conscious,' or an 'I love you'?" Isabelle said crossly.

Trestan sighed. "I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are alive and well—enough. And I do. Love you, that is," Trestan said, with an embarrassed smile. "Still, the choice is yours," Trestan said gravely. "If you leave me, I understand. You know of my curse, and of my past. The nine thousand days are nearly up. Every transformation is more stifling, more final. If I do not break my curse soon…"

"Tell me how," Isabelle pouted.

"I must win the love of a lady," Trestan confessed, "and by that love, a kiss."

"That is all?" Isabelle blinked. She would have laughed, but for the deadly earnest expression on his face. "I will break your curse," she added softly.

"Isabelle," he cautioned, "To do this will be to bind yourself to me forever. We only met a few months ago—"

"And you know me better than anyone else in the world," Isabelle interrupted. She wanted desperately to throw her arms around him, but her body would not cooperate.

"But there is the possibility that my father would not take me back as his heir. Are you prepared for that?"

Isabelle was quiet for a moment. She had always imagined marrying a man with an extreme amount of money, who would shower her with gowns and jewels. Trestan had not a single penny to his name. Yet, Isabelle would take him; Trestan was a good man. True, he had only wanted her to break his curse, but Isabelle would take the risk that their relationship ran deeper than that. When Trestan had left her back at the castle, a part of her soul had gone with him—he completed her, made her whole. Where she was loud and fiery, he was reserved and temperate. Where she was impulsive, he was thoughtful; their dependence on each other had brought them together. Their shared experiences would keep them together.

"Yes," Isabelle said firmly, "I am prepared. I met you penniless, after all."

"And if he does take me as his heir to the throne of Conradia, are you prepared to reign as my queen? If I were to die, would you do your best to rule the country and do the best for my people."

"I would do my best, for God and for you," Isabelle responded, trying not to wince: she had not thought of being Trestan's queen. The thought frightened her more than the fear of being thrown out of Conradia penniless and destitute.

"With a few years of guidance, you would make a good queen I think," Trestan said sincerely.

Isabelle smiled hesitantly; it was good to know that Trestan had faith in her abilities. All the same, was she capable enough to become queen of a country where she had never been before?

"You will do well," Trestan assured.

"You will too," Isabelle said simply. "Are you going to kiss me or not?" Isabelle challenged playfully.

"Well," Trestan grinned, "I thought that you were supposed to kiss me."

Impossibly gentle, Trestan lifted Isabelle off of the pillows and into his arms. "I love you," he whispered into Isabelle's ear.

"This is hardly proper," Isabelle scolded, realizing she was dressed only in her chemise.

"Soon propriety will not matter," Trestan said roguishly. He pulled Isabelle onto his lap, one arm around her shoulders. As he leaned towards her, his other arm wrapped itself around her waist. Isabelle wished that her arms and legs would obey her commands; she longed to hold Trestan as tightly as she could. At least her lips worked, Isabelle thought as their lips brushed together for the first time. The familiar silver mist seemed to descend for a moment, growing thicker and heavier. Suddenly, it vanished altogether.

Trestan drew back briefly, leaving Isabelle gasping for air. Why did she need air? Kissing Trestan was more important than breathing. As if he heard her unsaid demand, Trestan bent down and kissed her again, as furiously as he had fought the mob in the village near Goble Hill, as roguishly as when he had stolen a biscuit when Isabelle had been baking for Christmas, and as gently as he had been when he had held her hand while she had been unconscious.

"That is enough now, cara," Trestan whispered in her ear. Isabelle was about to protest, when she realized that he was right.

Trestan set Isabelle back into her bed and covered her with the blanket. Trestan rose and bowed to her, saying roguishly, "Is there anything that your humble servant may attend to?"

"Never leave me," commanded Isabelle, beaming at him.

"Soon. As you said, we must think of propriety. It will be only a few days more." Trestan said, "Surely we can wait that long."

Isabelle nodded, and then winced; her side hurt again.

"Are you hungry, thirsty?" Trestan asked.

"Non," Isabelle said weakly, "I am fine."

"You aren't," Trestan insisted. "You need some water, at the least." Trestan fetched a wide, shallow cup with water in it and held for Isabelle to drink from. It surprised Isabelle how thirsty she had become.

While Isabelle drank, a man entered the room. He was tall and very thin with a

good-humored face and black hair swiftly fading into grey. The tan robes he wore, the humble rosary tied to his belt, and fact that his hair was tonsured confirmed that this man was Friar Justin.

"Saluti, daughter Isabelle," the Friar said, genuinely pleased. "It is good to finally see you awake."

"Merci, father," Isabelle replied, "for the care you have given me during this time. Hospitality has never been more appreciated."

"You are most welcome, daughter." Friar Justin said serenely. The friar produced a bowl of stew made of tender beef and thickened with flour.

"Here," Isabelle said, trying to reach for the bowl. "I can feed myself."

Trestan seemed to think this was exceptionally funny. "Cara," he said, biting his lip to keep from smiling, "You can barely move. I'll feed you." Trestan took the bowl and spoon in his too-large hands. Little by little, the soup was moved from the bowl to Isabelle's mouth. After another drink of water, and a few soothing words from Trestan, Isabelle slept.

Author's Note: If you liked it, please review! "True Love's Kiss" from the movie Enchanted is the corresponding cong for this chapter. Is the chapter too syrupy? Did you adore Peabo? Let me know! ;)