Two.

A history lesson.

Before the Candy Kingdom, there was man and an idea.

Many were they that laid claim to the sundry Lands of Ooo, first and last refuge of those who had survived the Great Mushroom War. There were those who had conquered, who warred long and bloody to secure their right to rule—wild beasts with minds spoiled for fire and industry, who raged until none stood to oppose them, such as the Goblins or Fire Elementals. Others merely survived the aftermath, carving out homes for themselves where war would not find them—the thieves in their deserts, the Rainicorns in their clouds, entire species hidden away beneath secret or magic spell.

The Candy Kingdom itself stood at the very heart of Ooo, its House of Bubblegum one of the eldest and most feared. In the years that followed the Mushroom War, where all manner of the strange and impossible arose as progeny to cataclysm: it was they who prospered. That triumphed. That became as rock against the disparate lordlings and tribesmen seeking power through dominion.

For a time, of course.

Assassinations amongst the nobility weren't rare by any stretch of imagination-at age eighteen, her father had weathered four, her mother nearly a dozen. Bonnibel herself never thought much of the practice despite her obvious involvement; it seemed a tool for the profoundly lazy, an act of an impatient warmonger than one seeking to heal a troubled kingdom. The sheer number of attempts on her own life, however—five now, counting the previous night's affair—made the princess anxious. With talks of peace barely cresting the horizon, the last thing any pacifist in Ooo hope for was a return to arms.

It was these dark thoughts that chased Bonnibel from sleep early the next morning, anxiety worrying her all throughout breakfast and well into her morning lessons.

"...Your highness?"

She blinked, suddenly realizing where her thoughts had taken her. The Banana Guard in front of the gate leading into the castle garden wore an expression of obvious worry, head tilted to the side just so. 'You look as though you haven't had any sleep,' his face said, 'As though you haven't gotten sleep for months.'

"Ah-" she waved the look aside, briefly flashing a smile. "I am simply running a complex mental simulation of an ongoing experiment of mine," she lied, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. "You needn't worry."

The guard nodded, obviously a bit perplexed-they weren't hired for their mental faculties, after all. "Oh, well...so long as you're healthy, your Highness. With all the ruckus that happened last night..." he trailed off momentarily, gaze cast down to the floor in what Bonnibel could only gather to be shame.

The princess frowned; before she could reply, however, the yellow fruit seemingly rallied and saluted her with gusto. "Worry not Princess!" the Guard shouted, his enthusiasm washing over Bonnibel as though it were an almost physical thing. "The Banana Guard will not falter in their duty a second time! Nor a third!"

She giggled at the outburst, and reached out to lay a gentle hand on the shoulder of the guard. "You have my faith, Guardsman. And my thanks," withdrawing her hand, she curtsied to him, and found herself incapable of keeping a smile off her face. "Now, if you would excuse me?"

Blushing, the Guard once more saluted her before reaching over to open the gate. "Ah, yes! Of course; where is my head even? The Queen has been expecting you, and here I am taking up your precious time."

'—A sentence I never tire of hearing.' The princess withheld a sigh. "Thank you for your concern, Guardsman, but I am not so bound to her schedule. I will return once my mother and I have finished."

The Banana nodded before offering the princess a thumb's up. "Good luck, your highness."

'And that would be phrase number two.'

He tilted his head, confusion flashing across his face. "Did you say something?"

"Mm?" she gave a smile, internally admonishing herself for thinking aloud. "Oh—nothing, nothing." Another curtsy, and then "Excuse me."

Bonnibel proceeded at a quick, even pace through the corridor beyond the gate. The entrance to the garden had been constructed to deter other candy from disturbing the queen: thick vines of salt-water taffy and sharp, hard candy flowers dominated the walls and ceiling, while a strong, acrid scent of citrus and artificial grape flavoring virtually clung to everything. Once she reached the end of the corridor, the princess stopped and allowed the garden to register her presence. When the slight buzz that soon filled the air abated, she continued—though not, of course, without petting one of the numerous, small red and white-spotted bulbs growing near the exit of the corridor.

'Good boy.'

It was only polite.

A high, ramparted wall of butterscotch encircled the ovular space beyond the corridor, an thicket of enormous candy cane trees outlining the garden proper. Sunlight crested the lip of the wall where the trees could not reach, falling through the canopy of their mint leaves in harsh, vibrant slats. Morning saw the garden awake with caution: tall lollipop sunflowers swayed lazily in the breeze while hundreds of hard candy flowers slowly began to unfurl their petals, hungry for their daily meal. Of particular note were the candy roses in the garden—a favorite of the queen, they threaded through the spaces where other plants had given ground, beautiful as they were suffocating.

'So much space wasted on so little,' Bonnibel quietly mused, lips a tight line as she walked through the garden. 'And so little given such importance—I'll never understand it.'

She paused at one of the larger specimens and gave it an experimental caress, wary of the sharp, jagged thorns along its stalk. The yet-blossomed flower easily gave way to her invading fingers, its rigid, hard candy petals rippling around her fingertips as she pushed them apart. No other candy in the Kingdom could morph in such a way—would never achieve the feat, Bonnibel bitterly reminded herself, for the queen loved her garden as fiercely as she protected it from harm.

'—you could do so much for the kingdom," she thought, the flower nearly warping around her knuckles as her fingers delved ever deeper. 'Open so many avenues of research with just the smallest sacrifice…'

The sound of shears cutting through taffy pulled the princess from her thoughts.

"Are you familiar with the concept of 'dead-heading,' Bonnibel?" a voice called out soon after, even and professional.

Startled, Bonnibel's fingers snagged somewhere inside the folds of the flower, holding fast despite a short burst of rather frantic struggling. Her mother—still somehow out of sight—continued as though her daughter had not just made a tragic, imminently-painful mistake. "A garden cannot grow if allowed to fester. Though beautiful in their own right, once an individual flower begins to deteriorate not only do its brothers and sisters suffer—the entire orchard now finds itself diminished."

With a small, unladylike grunt, Bonnibel tore her fingers free. A quick sweep of the surrounding area found her mother knelt down some ways away, her back to the princess as she tended to a small shrub beside her. Bonnibel counted herself lucky that her mother hadn't seen what she'd accidentally wrou—

"Replacing that flower will come out of your allowance, young lady."

Whoops. "—Well, we can fix that," Bonnibel quietly whispered to herself, wiping fingers slick with dew across her forearm in an effort to dry them. "And a good morning to you as well, mother."

"Good morning, my daughter—herbicidal as though it may be," the queen answered, a light tilt to her voice. She had yet to turn and face Bonnibel. "My, has the hour already grown so late?"

"Not terribly, though I apologize for—"

The queen held up a gloved hand, pointer finger to the sky. "Rule the first."

Bonnibel immediately curtsied, her form perfect from years of practice. "Manners," she replied, falling into the rhythm of her mother's beat; the queen walked through life of her own accord, and expected others to match her step of get out of the way. "We are mindful of others so that they may, in turn, be mindful of us."

The queen retracted her hand, rising to her feet with a fluid, liquid grace. Bonnibel and Wintergreen Bubblegum were a stark illustration in contrasts, two perfect reference points that differed as much as they paralleled the concept of the word Monarch. Her mother came from lands far beyond the reaches of the Candy Kingdom, her people the last vestiges of tribesmen whom had conquered the North long before it held the name of Ice. Where Bonnibel was tall, all long of limb and slender curves, her mother was compact, frame lean and well-muscled from a lifetime of battle. And though they shared the same facial features—full lips, a smooth, rounded face, button nose, and high cheekbones—her mother always seemed to hold an edge; a sharpness to her, barely contained but thrumming beneath her every move.

"Quite," the queen answered, smile tight. "And the respected monarch remains ever-loved by her people. A monument constructed to both support and define their kingdom." She dusted her gloved hands; by standing, she revealed the two épée stabbed into the ground in front of her. "—Rule the second?" pause, followed by: "If you'd please."

The "rules" were the bylaws of House Bubblegum, how their royalty were expected to govern and carry themselves on a day-to-day basis. Bonnibel knew them as well as she knew to draw breath—her mother made sure of it. "Do unto others...even though you may not agree with their methods," she began, slowly assuming a more defensive stance as Wintergreen turned to face her, "For the truth of leadership is that it is better to be loved than feared."

Wintergreen flashed a quick smile. "Good—"

"Though to be better armed helps to prove a point immensely."

The queen laughed, small and soundless. "Better. You've now officially remembered more about foreign policy than I ever did at your age." The tension drained out of Bonnibel's body nigh-instantly. Her mother held out her arms. "Now, come and greet your mother properly—missing both your father and yourself at the dining room table this morning has left me with the powerful urge to smother someone."

Bonnibel rolled her eyes. "Mother."

"A powerful urge, young lady." the queen held her stance: arms wide, smile bright. "Now, as we've a lesson to continue…I trust you will you attempt to please an old woman? Just this once?"

The princess sighed. Kowtowing to her mother's demands would prove beneficial in the end, but...Bonnibel wasn't a child anymore. And either of her parents still viewing her as such at the moment was interfering with her plans.

"Wasn't sleeping together enough for the rest of the year, you think?" she questioned, arms crossed low at her waist. "I feel it's about time we treated each other as equals—princess-to-queen relationship notwithstanding."

Wintergreen looked less than amused; though it didn't show on her face, Bonnibel nearly felt the temperature plummet by several degrees. "Oh, is that so?"

Oh oh. "Yes—though, uh. I do still understand the importance of family bonding?" she asserted, trying not to look as though she was backtracking. An actual smile returned to her mother's face. "So. Um. I love you?"

'Please work.'

"Oh, Bon-bon…you know we respect your boundaries." the queen replied, crossing the distance between the two so she could embrace her daughter, a hand settling on the small of her back and her shoulder. "But, to us? You're never too old to receive unconditional love."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, mother, I—"

"—And a butt-kicking." The world shifted violently to the left, Bonnibel's vision blurring green-red-grey-caramel-white, black-and-blue electric before she could even let out a sound. When gravity reasserted itself, she found herself on her back, face-up, the sky a panorama of black dots and swimming colors. Though Bonnibel could not see her immediately, the sound of heeled boots gentling the cobblestone alerted her that the queen was nearby; the sensation of metal at her throat only confirmed the suspicion.

"Sloppy," the queen stated, the tip of the épée in her hands lightly pressing down into the hollow of Bonnibel's throat, "You would be dead had I been hired to kill you.

'Math. Should've expected that.' Bonnibel made a face. "Yes, well…nyeh."

"Eloquent as always. Today's lesson will seek to rectify that problem," the queen offered her daughter a hand, aiding her to her feet. "Though I'm of two minds regarding how to go about it—considering the events of last night, it seems only prudent."

Bonnibel dusted herself off, "—Oh? So you'll be skipping the attempted filicide?"

"Oh, heavens no," the queen laughed, casually withdrawing the second épée out of the ground as she walked by. "Your dueling form is still atrocious, as is your perception of common threat—you trust too easily, and think too much." she shook her head. "I've told you battle is not a competition of the mind."

"Yeah, I figured that was asking too much." Bonnibel sighed. "Any excuse to wail on your firstborn, right?"

Wintergreen shook her head, and then tossed the épée in her hand toward her daughter. "While I take no small satisfaction in proving to you that a ruler requires brains and brawn, today's lesson is more of a necessity than a privilege." Wordless, the queen placed a hand behind her back, crouching lightly, almost unperceived, her épée held before her as though a natural extension of her outline. "Today, dear sweet child, we will review the finer points of…politick."

Bonnibel inwardly blanched at both the prospect and the pun. "Well…that's gross. I thought today was going to be productive," she picked up the épée and assumed the only stance she knew—one foot back, one foot forward, light on her feet. "There isn't any chance I can ask for a rain-check, right?"

The queen's answer came in the form of a straight thrust, quick and to the point. "Last night was a fluke—a random stroke of happenstance," though Bonnibel parried, the second and third thrusts came nigh-instantaneously, forcing her to give ground. "Keep your form. Had it been any other than Arack, the two of us would not be having this discussion right now."

"Gee, that's—hhn—that's inspiring."

"And the truth," Wintergreen answered, "The Spider King deals in absolutes-absolute war, absolute rule. You must prepare yourself for what is to come."

"Arack isn't the problem, mother. You and I both know that." Bonnibel countered with a low stab, aiming to gain back the ground she had lost. Her mother turned in response, her skirts a flurry of aqua and white that forced Bonnibel back to gain hold of the larger picture. "This attack was—ha—far too cunning, too planned." She leaned back to avoid a horizontal swipe. "Arack has never been patient enough to send a single, well-trained assassin in the dead of night—it isn't his modus."

The Spider King was, to put it bluntly: a moron. Like every other arachnid before him, Arack ruled through fear and outright bullying, his kingdom a haven for the brutish sort that saw outright conflict not a consequence of politics, but its end-goal. Bonnibel despised the man. As did her mother.

"Though it may not fall within his…limited sphere of influence," Wintergreen assented, still completely at ease: the perfect picture of a woman in her element. "Spiders are certainly not the only creatures adept in spinning webs." She flourished her weapon in a sideways figure eight, easily deflecting Bonnibel's attack. "Arack may simply be a proxy for another—a cat's paw aimed toward chaos."

Bonnibel continued to lose ground; though her mother refused to press her obvious advantage, the princess felt her defenses give way bit-by-bit, inch by inch. "Both the Fire Count—ugh—and the Ice Prince—Mother, that one hurt, ow—would have revealed their hands by now—oh, come on! Do you even want an heir?—Ugh." Wintergreen had speared through Bonnibel's skirt, its tip catching lightly on the side of her hip. "—Meglomaniacal as they are, an alliance with Arack doesn't seem in their favor."

"Yes, but with Billy and your great uncle otherwise preoccupied, our Kingdom is all but poised for the conquering." The queen drifted right, weapon held low. Bonnibel took a step back to avoid the jab, but mistook the distance between them—the queen's movement was a feint, her épée darting toward her daughter's shoulder to score a thin cut. "We've little recourse than to consider all possible alliances—even those detrimental to our cause."

Bonnibel gritted her teeth, refusing to stumble. "—the conflict in the lowlands has gotten worse?"

"Though your great uncle Gumbald is a brilliant man, he is still only one man. And one man may only accomplish so much," the queen's attack lessened, a slight cloud growing over her face. "Since the extinction of humankind, it seems as though every canine in Ooo has an; hm—perhaps a dogged resistance against suing for peace?"

Bonnibel blanched. "That was uncalled for."

"I know," the cloud vanished, replaced again by Wintergreen's neutral smile. "He and Billy have kept the two sides from clashing as best they can, but…without willing mediators on either side, the Dogs and Raincorns continue to threaten war at every turn." The queen explained, sidestepping a flurry of jabs as though she and Bonnibel existed on two different planes of existence. "Attempting to get both sides to sign a pact of non-aggression seems too nly be forestalling the inevitable—I've heard from Billy that President Swiftpaw has already elected to use 'magic' dogs in an effort to defend their borders."

"Has there been any word of Lady's parents?" the word 'magic'—along with the queen's impressive usage of air-quotes mid-duel—had Bonnibel attempt to sweep her mother's leg out from under her, a quick stab-turned-feint allowing the princess enough space to hit the ground and kick out with her leg. "She worries, you know!"

"Sadly, no! Though it isn't for a lack of trying!" The queen leaped up, spinning to land beside Bonnibel—for her trouble, the princess received another cut, this time to her shoulder. "Gumbald nor Billy have been able to locate them."

Bonnibel's heart fell, clattering somewhere between her duodenum and stomach. Wintergreen pressed the momentary pause, sweeping her weapon in another figure-eight movement that this disarmed the princess and returned the tip of Wintergreen's épée to her daughter's throat.

She swallowed—more reflex than out of fear. "...This island is tearing itself apart, mother," she said, after it seemed Wintergreen would not move. "Do we honestly have time for this?"

Wintergeeen withdrew the tip of her blade. "Focus, daughter. The island will not find Armageddon under our watch." she kicked Bonnibel's épée back toward her, then stepped back and allowed the princess to retrieve it from the ground. "Our kingdom falling to chaos is all our enemies require to make their move—and all the more reason for our actions to remain decisive and swift."

'Decisive and...' Her wording gave the princess pause. She wasted no time in lunging after Wintergreen after grabbing her blade, the implications of her mother's words lighting a spark of anger deep within her breast. "—You would risk open war?"

The queen remained unfazed at Bonnibel's raised voice. "I'd hardly risk the horror," she explained, weaving around Bonnibel's assault to score another series of cuts and stabs on her daughter's dress. "Though our enemies would rather sup on our corpses, I've always chosen to err on the side of caution—your father as well, before taking his place as king. A monarch can no more govern ruins than might his people survive in them."

"—Rule the fourteenth. And perhaps the most important to keep in mind, here and now," twist, feint, parry; cut, block, and resume. She fell into the old pattern, the rhythm Wintergreen exuded simply by breathing. "What exactly are you suggesting, mother?"

The queen's form blurred, the wind in Bonnibel's lungs exiting in a rude display of abnegation toward her continued stability. She fell hard, stars appearing in her eyes when she attempted to fight back to her feet again.

A heeled boot pressing into her sternum kept Bonnibel grounded, however.

"Guardianship," the queen answered, face a cold mask of indifference. Bonnibel froze at the word; it was all her mother needed to score another light cut, this time to the crook of her arm. "A princess requires a knight."

The pain only served to make the princess seethe.

"Guar—Mother, I don't think I heard you correctly."

Wintergeeen retreated, nearly lancing her épée into the ground as she walked away and began dusting her hands. From the ground, Bonnibel saw she had made no lasting impression that there had ever even been a duel between them. "Your father and I have decided to further our watch over the Candy Kingdom and its environs due to the current political climate—your safety, as always, remaining our first concern."

"Mother, I'm not a—a guardian?" she leapt to her feet, abjectly ignoring the pain singing from almost every part of her body. "There's no need to saddle me with some, some—some muscle-bound fruit with more pulp than common sense!"

The queen paused, turning her head ever so slightly to look back at Bonnibel. "Who said anything about the banana guard?"

The admittance caught Bonnibel off-guard—a running theme of the past forty-eight hours, it seemed. Wintergreen, looking more disinterested by the moment, only sighed and repeated herself. And then explained.

"You wouldn't—is that not telegraphing the same weakness you want to avoid? "Glob! Am I the only candy in the kingdom left with a shred of logic in their think-pan?" Bonnibel asked, finding the plan ludicrous on every level. When her mother answered with silence, arms crossed beneath her breaths, she felt what little patience left within her ebb away completely. "Glob! Am I the only candy in the kingdom left with a shred of logic in their think-pan?"

"The runners asking for attendance to the peace summit left days ago," Wintergreen explained, calm as newly fallen snow, "This latest attack simply gave us, hm; let us call it just cause in sending more behind them."

'She planned this.' It was the only explanation, though Bonnibel could not yet see the purpose for such subterfuge. "My safety is to be decided by a tourney of arms?"

The queen laughed softly, more a pleasant hmph than anything else. "Your father's idea, not mine."

"But you retain the right to veto his decision—"Oh, of course. This is so like you." Bonnibel thought aloud, mind racing at a thousand feet per second in an attempt to piece together what was actually happening. There was no just cause in demonstrating weakness—the term simply didn't exist in the vocabulary of her parents. They had been raised hard; hard and without years of almost-peace to civilize them.

It occurred to Bonnibel, however briefly, that her family too had carved their kingdom into the landscape of Ooo so many centuries ago.

"Your point?" the queen sat on one of the nearby benches, legs crossed and back ramrod straight. Gone was even the ghost of her smile, all pretense of filial bonding casually thrown out in favor of what she really was—a warrior. "We no longer have the luxury to dally and await words of peace from beings too callous to understand the definition of the word; I'm sure even you may appreciate that."

"You mean you've run out of ideas," Bonnibel snapped, well knowing she sounded the petulant child.

"I'll ignore that."

'Of course you will.' She turned on her heel and began to make her way toward the exit. "I believe we are done here for the day, mother," she said, barely capable of keeping the anger out of her voice. "You may inform Peppermint Butler that I will be taking the rest of my meals within my study for the duration of the day."

The queen bowed her head. "As you wish, my daughter," she replied, her tone even, neutral—guarded, Bonnibel thought, though her next words caused the princess to discard the notion entirely.

"The tourney will take place in two days, and will last until a champion emerges from those in attendance—" Wintergreen explained as Bonnibel made her way to the entrance of the garden, "I hope you will find peace of mind enough to attend before that time?"

The princess closed her eyes, counting backwards from five as the garden ran through the process of allowing her to leave. The slow, steady build-up of static noise accompanying her exit did little to curb her temper; less, even, did it do to curb her desire to scream.

"Bonnibel?" the queen asked, as the silence stretched between them.

"The command needn't be implicit," she finally answered, voice still and even: the perfect replica of her mother's tone. "I will do my duty to the kingdom—as always."

Though she could not see the candy, Bonnibel knew her mother was smiling.

"You will understand in time," she said, faux-saccharine. "Realize that we do this out of love, not anger."

'Of course.'

Bonnibel left the garden feeling more a pawn than a queen.