Yuil became a regular figure around the castle, roaming around while his father conducted business with mine, and I was starting to like him.

A lot.

He was quite charming, that much had been evident from our first encounter-- but he was also kind and generous, with an ear for music and an eye for art. He liked hunting, hawking, and fishing (which, of course, immediately endeared him to Nixil) and even tolerated my mother when she began her long speeches on the advantages of Mylan buttons over Stoyish (which is better than I, personally: I usually run away exasperated, they're exactly the same-- just two different types of tortoise). He was perfect.

Almost a little too perfect.

I wasn't going to deny it, I was still suspicious. Unlike most men I met, he had absolutely no interest in my father or any of the royal affairs-- and really, that simply doesn't happen if you're interested in a princess. Even more interesting was the fact that said father often cropped up in odd places, and not to check up on us and chaperone and do such fatherly things, no; he would simply grin and nod, with an oddly satisfied, sickening smile on his face as he walked away.

Now, I love my father, I do, and I trust him.

Sort of.

Ok, that's a lie. I don't. But what did he want, and how could my burgeoning relationship with Yuil possibly assist him? These thoughts had been growing louder and louder every day--they were beginning to poison my pleasant moments with Yuil, and I was getting positively furious about it, in all honesty.

Inspiration suddenly struck, and I walked toward the Palace cloakroom, glad I hadn't spoken to Yuil yet today.

Grandmother-- my father's mother, she had always been the knowledgeable one. She, having, oh, given birth to my father, would know what was going on in his brain-- and it would be perfectly acceptable in my parents' minds for me to take an excursion to see her, commendable, even.

And so, fastening my red traveling cloak and congratulating myself on my cleverness, I slipped out the back door and into the Woods.

In hindsight, not the most intelligent of choices.

Wendell was furious. He had told his father-- to his face, sat him down and straight-eye-to-eye told him that the king would not help.

"He will help us for the sake of us needing it, for our helplessness," he said. "Do not worry, my son."

Wendell, of course, had worried, of course Wendell had worried, because he knew, just knew the king wouldn't help.

He was not surprised.

*******************

"I know, Your Highness, that you are unconcerned. The elves are a people that keep to themselves-- we strive to be peaceful, at one with the world around us and those who share it. However, Lissan has granted us the misfortune that we all dread-- a great drought fell upon us for a number of years. We have used our resources, rationed as much as possible and reserved what we could. But our careful precautions did not foresee what Lissan has decided to put in our path-- we must ask for your aid. We do not ask for much-- not arms, nor men, or water. Simply food to get us through another year, perhaps two, if the drought continues and disease continues to blight our harvests. We are at your mercy."

Wendell was proud of his plea, then-- it was everything it needed to be, wordy and humble and only hinting at demanding, even bringing their deity into it for good measure! To his credit, the king looked conflicted, pausing before he spoke-- Wendell had expected an immediate refusal-- but he could tell by the monarch's tone that they would recieve no assistance by this sector.

"I am sorry, boy. My own people, in my own cities, their own food is running out-- there are towns of Cabot where you live, too. As much as I would like to help you and your people, young one, I cannot. You are of royal stock too, boy-- a man can tell, true blood to true blood. You can understand my dilemma, and therefore, I'm sure, my choice. You may take back as much as you can carry on your own and one other horse, as well as one or two sheep, if you like. I do not know the size of your village, my son, and I know that this little will not help much, but it is all I can spare. Take it with the blessing of Lissan; may the rains come soon."

It was actually a very eloquent refusal; the scholar in Wendell admired the king's articulation. An odd thing to be looking at, perhaps, at a time like this; but it's irrelevance seemed to be the essence of its allure. He shook his head lightly, turning back to his task of gathering wood, kindling mostly-- he needed to start a fire for the night. He had, of course, been offered a place to stay at the castle, but had refused it. Besides the awkwardness of it all, elves did generally like the outdoors.

It was getting dark-- he glared at the retreating sun, hastily grabbing what wood he could to add to the diminutive pile in his arms and carried it to his campsite, where he had tied up his horse, along with the horse and several sheep that had been granted him.

Suddenly, just as he lit the fire and was about to sit, he was bowled over by a blur of red flannel.

Made slightly more colourful by the fact that the said blur (person?) was now on fire.