4 comments/ 11467 views/ 4 favorites Phfinaesque Fairy Saga By: phfina Once upon a time ... This faery tail (starring faeries, and lots of tail) begins as all stories begin, you, the fair maiden (sort of), a damsel, the darling daughter of the distraught Duke offered in sacrifice to appease the dastardly dragon of dangerous destruction. A faery tail like every other faery tail. And the 'tail'? Yours, that is? It is currently tied to a tree in Naughtyham Forest. And being left out in the forest, well, it isn't all that bad, being it's the end of summer, so it's a bit cooler in the forest, but it's pretty damn boring waiting to get eaten by the dragon. I mean, at least they could have left some books with you, but those darn superstitious villagers are simpletons after all. I mean, really, sacrificing a fair maiden, who just so happens to be neither, to a dragon so it'll leave you alone? Won't that actually encourage MORE bad behavior from the terrible lizard (which is the translation of 'dinosaur' not 'dragon' but that's just an oh-by-the-way FYI for ya) so it can get MORE meals of stressed damsels? I mean DISstressed, JEEZ! And, you being tied to the tree? TOO TIGHTLY! 1. When you get untied to be eaten the blood-rush to your pinched-off limbs is going to be EXCRUCIATING! 2. Wouldn't you know you have an itch on your nose that just won't go away and is DRIVING YOU CRAZY! And let's not talk about the ants ambling around the tree bark. And the mosquitos. But there it is. That is: you, tied to a tree, waiting to be eaten. And it's past lunch time. But then a terrible scream practically rends the sky, driving all these petty concerns from your mind, and you feel the ground shake in one-two-three-four-time as you sense the lizards approach. You smell the fiery stench of brimstone and know your end is near. Chipper, bright sunny day for an ending, you note casually. But then, in front of you, a vision appears, a knight in polished, shining armor comes galloping at full tilt, clop-de-de-clop, clop-de-de-clop, and he reins up sharply, stopping suddenly in front of you. He lifts his visor, and you see crystal blue eyes, just barely reaching above the bottom of the visor. "Fear not, fair maiden," he calls out, somewhat muffled from his armor, "I shall defendest thine honour and rescue thee!" You look up at your salvation, this youth on a grey mare, and several thoughts collide in your overloaded brain that was all too recently on the lunch menu: 1. Did he really just say 'defenest' 'thine' 'honoUr' and 'thee'? 2. They are recruiting these guys younger and younger these days, aren't they? Like, I could be his mother, for goodness sake! (Ashamedly: being no spring chicken anymore) [ed: but that's okay, sweetheart, and did I just kill the buzz?] 3. And 'fair' ... he's like pasty-faced, does he never get out into the sun at all? 4. Blue. Eyes. Oh, my gosh! If he weren't a guy, I would so ... stop it, stop it! Behave! 5. How? So the last thought, being one of the more pressing ones, is the one that is ripped from your throat in desperation. "How?" you ask ... desperately (obviously) The knight unsheathes his sword, schwummmmm! and holds it aloft. "With mine vorpal blade, Schwannstucker!" he declares determinedly ... in his rather high-pitched voice. This does not reassure you so much as raise more questions, like: 1. "Schwannstucker"? Really? 2. Oh, my God; his voice hasn't even broke yet! I wonder if his balls have even dropped! 3. Not that that matters ... 4. ... as given the tremendous size of the fiercesome dragon, with gun-metal-green scales that clank against each other in an awful din, you're thinking yon knight is the appetizer to you, the banquet. 5. Did I just think to myself 'yon knight'? You'd slap yourself, if your hands weren't very securely tied behind you against the tree. (Very uncomfortable). 'Yon knight' is undeterred by your questioning look, slams his visor down, and shouts out a muffled "Gloriana!" as his horse rears up (epic pose that) and charges into the fray, heedless of the smoke and flame issuing from the rampant monster, charging toward its own prey. The fight is at an inconvenient angle, being behind the tree, but you hear the charge, and a clang, and a loud bellow from the dragon, and a not-muttered oath of: "Shit!" from 'yon knight.' 'Yon knight' has a potty-mouth. He comes back into view. His vorpal sword did not go 'snicker-snack' as in Jabberwocky, ... or if it did, that's how it met its end, being now snapped in half. The knight casts aside 'Schwannstucker' (you titter at the name, and then mutter, 'well, it looks like no schwanns are being stuck tonight!' (you impertinent thing, you!)) and grabs his lance stuck in the ground behind a tree 50 meters outside the fray. "What's the name of your lance?" you can't but help to shout out to yon knight. "Deus ex machina" he answers gravely and charges back in the fray. Odd name for a lance, you think. But then the battle is joined again, and you hear a scream of agony from the beast. Mine knight! Mine hero has struck a blow in the dragon's underbelly! you rally to hope. The hope is soon turned to surprise when you hear a furious: "You bastard! That was my asshole!" a deep, rumbling voice that you can only assume is coming from the dread lizard itself. Dragons can talk? The young knight's piping voice is affronted: "I am NOT a bastard, I'm ..." But before he can continue, he's interrupted by the dragon's sarcastic retort: "Whatever!" Then a more reasonable, "Look, if you don't want me here, you could have just asked, you know! Jesus H. Christ, I'm going to be shitting fire for a week!" The youthful knight is not the only one with a potty-mouth, you think, and you note, surreally, that your thought has a sardonic tone. Too many surprises and stressors today for a 'fair maiden.' That must be it. "Dragon," begins the knight, "begone from these ..." "Yeah, yeah," the dragon says tiredly. "I know the drill. Damn, I haven't had a virgin in weeks! What am I going to live off of now? Carrier pigeon, again?" Hm. No wonder why the messages the Duke has been sending out to his allies have been ignored for these many-a-month. The young knight is unmoved: "I care not your discomfit, foul beast! Leave now and ... hey!" 'Hey'? you wonder ... and then gulp in shock. Right in front of you is a long, reptilian face, much like a horse's, but as long as you are tall, hazel eyes the size of saucers, and smoke curling out of fist-sized nostrils. The dragon looks into your eyes, you feel its hot, sulfuric breath blasting onto your bodice as it snorts an exhalation. It pulls back a bit; looking both surprised and disappointed at the same time. "Looks like I wasn't going to get a virgin, anyway," it grumbles to itself. You feel heat suffuse your cheeks, and you hope to God yon knight didn't just hear that, but then the dragon's face is right in front of the knight on his horse, and something of a sneer curls the dragon's lips. You can't quite hear what the dragon says to yon knight, but it's something about appearances. Can a knight seat ... embarrassed? ... on a horse? Yon knight shifts uncomfortably on his ride. "Oh, well!" the dragon gripes, the spreads its enormous wings, and, crouching, POUNCES into the sky, the wings flapping in loud thunderclaps as it flies, limpingly, away toward the distant mountain range known to be terrorized by the monster. The knight walks his horse up to you and solemnly proclaims, "Fair princess," he begins ... "Actually," you interrupt, "I'm not a princess." The knight pauses, lifting his visor. "Huh?" he asks ... 'intelligently.' "My father is a Duke, so I'm just a Dame, see?" The knight blinks and mutters a "Whatever," and disparaging: "Nobles." You bristle. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Never saw a day's work in your life, have you?" he retorts hotly in his youthful voice. "Did you break a nail, fair lady?" "Excuse me!" you say hotly, as hot as your cheeks feel with the anger burning them brightly, "but you're one to talk! You're not the one tied to a tree about to be eaten!" The knight looks away and blushes ... a light pink lemonade, you note, and whispers an ashamed "Sorry." He dismounts. Quite an effort with all that armor, probably weighing as much as him, it looks like, and takes out a short sword. He says a mismash of sounds, something like "washy-touchy" in an explaining way. "What?" you asked in utter confusion. But then in two swift strokes, he cuts the coils of rope binding your upper body. The strokes also happen to cut into your dress, exposing your shoulders. But not cutting INTO your shoulders, you notice, thanking God. "HEY!" you exclaim. Everybody is saying 'hey' these days, it seems. "What?" the knight snickers unapologetically: "it could become the latest fashion in court." You find no humor in his snide observation, and explain your point of view in royally pissed-off tones as he infuriatingly and calmly ignores you as he (now carefully) severs the remaining bonds with his short, but very sharp and deadly looking sword of oriental extraction. MEN! you think angrily to yourself. Please with your resolve NEVER to marry one of these stupid and callous oafs. A promise you've kept for more years than has pleased your father you ruefully reflect. You find your reflections take a new turn now that all the coils binding you to the tree are cut, for your limbs that up to now have had their circulation cut off, feel gravity again from the ground and the rush of blood. It's all too much for you: your weight that you now have to support, and the pin-prickly pain of newly awakened appendages. You collapse to your knees right in front of the knight. You would have crashed into his armor, face-first, if he didn't react quickly, catching you in your fall. "Jeez, princess," he begins, surprised and annoyed, "no need to worsh-..." His scathing remark is cut short by your cry of pain and your obviously complete lack of motor control. His face softens, and he gently guides you to the soft, fern-covered forest floor, laying you down on it, and rubbing your limbs back to life. His touch seems somehow ... wrong. Somehow ... delicate. The pain, so recently incapacitating, is soon dissipated, and you are able eventually to sit up, resting in his support. He smiles kindly down at you. Well, you think, perhaps not all men are jackasses. But then the knight looks up sharply into the forest, at the same time the horse's ears go right back into its skull. You can see the whites of its eyes as it looks in the same direction in terror. A low moan comes from the forest, and you can hear a shuffling sound and the branches sway in a breeze that isn't there. The knight utters another oath, holding tightly to the reins of the now panicked horse. "Zombies!" he curses. "What?" you say again. You hate being the one who appears to be the dunce. Years of schooling, but you still have that terror of being exposed as a dunce. The knight looks very, very grim. He pulls a long, slightly curved simple wooden scabbard from the saddle and lets go of the reins. The horse immediately gallops off. "I'll collect her later," the knight mutters, and then darkly, "if we're still alive." "What?" you say again, and you know you have that dumb expression on your face that you so hate. The knight lifts you from the ground and squares off to you. "Look," he states impatiently, "we don't have time for questions now. Can you ..." The he breaks off and looks away quickly. He bears down: "Can you ... close your eyes or look away or something?" You're just standing there, dumbstruck. "Look, this armor is going to be in the way of the coming fight. I have to be nimble and fast, and I can't be either in this stove I'm wearing; I have to take it off, okay? So can you look away or something?" he asks, hot with embarrassment. "Oh!" you exclaim, and turn away quickly, fighting two conflicting twin urges, one to giggle at his silly modesty, and the other, welling up rather strongly and quite a surprise to you, and that feeling is "aw! poor baby!" in a very tender motherly feeling, of all things! The knight quickly casts off pieces of armor; you hear them clanking onto the ground, and then you hear disrobing and new clothes being slipped on. The urge to peek is almost as bad as the urge to scratch that itch earlier tied to yonder tree. And there are no ropes this time ... only your willpower. Your willpower wins: you are quite pleased with your little victory. "Okay," says the youth, and you turn back to take him in. You almost scream ... or laugh ... in shock. Before you is a very young boy, maybe not even into his teens yet, but unlike the fashion of this day, his hair is uncut. It's long, and straight, and raven black, and descends past his waist. His face is smooth, almost girlish ... heart-shaped, you observed with a button nose. And those crystal blue eyes. And tiny lips. God, he's a babe just weaned from his mother! you think, almost angrily, and now fighting dragons to rescue fair maidens. Well, neither fair nor maiden, you add ruefully, but still ...! He's dressed very oddly: a loose-fitting black ... kilt? with legs? and a ... well what is that cotton blouse of a cobalt, almost indigo blue over his lithe form? A word springs to your mind: elfin. You wonder if he is fey. He gravely extends his scabbarded short sword and commands: "Listen to me, whatever you do, do not go near them. If the tide of the battle turns against me, run. Run as hard as you can and try to get my horse, Winnie, and ..." Not a very knightful name for a horse. You smirk. "What?" he demands hotly as his cheek color. "Listen!" he demands. "Run if I'm overcome, do you understand?" "Overcome by what?" you ask. He points a small index finger from his delicate hand toward the forest: "That," he says flatly. You look. Out of the forest shambles what has to be orcs. You've heard of them. Pale, almost green, flesh, vacant faces, limbs loosely by their sides ... or missing, the stumps not even oozing pus. And the stench. You thought the dragon stench was hellish. You were wrong. The smell of decaying flesh makes you gag, but the creatures are unmindful of their own excremental scent, unmindful of everything, except you ... their intent glare is horrifying and they raise their arms and stumble forward. A horde. Well, you amend immediately: a dozen or so of them. The knight ... the boy ... the youth ... the elf ... whatever he is looks at you and says, "Remember: run." And then leaps forward, screaming loudly in a high-pitched cry. The scream works. The monsters' moans are ecstatic as they divert their shambling charge toward the youth. Who draws his long blade, holds it high over his head, and cuts the leading monster in half, right down the middle. The monster takes another step forward before the halves separate and fall to the ground. The halves are still twitching, you observe dispassionately. And not bleeding at all. The youth is not observing anything, however, for he is a whirling dervish, leaping, springing, and dodging between the shambling monsters, hacking and slashing, cutting them in half where possible, and cutting off limbs where not. The monsters don't care. They press on, implacable. If the youth is all energy, practically flying as he flits from orc to orc, the monsters are the opposite, plodding, but fearsome in their determination. It seems to take forever, the desperate, frenetic fighting, and, at the same time, it's over in a moment. One combatant is left standing. The youth, panting, barely able to keep his wicked blade off the ground, eyes tightly shut, stands amidst a pile of body parts freely scattered in clumps on the forest floor. "I shouda ..." he pants, "I shouda tied my hair in a bun. I shouda ..." he pants angrily. "God, that was fuckin' stupid. I almost ..." He can't continue as he gasps in big gulps of air through lips almost a slit they are compressed so hard with his effort to breathe in the air. Your heart goes out to the youth and you utter an "Oh!" as you race toward him. His face registers shock. "Don't come near me!" he barks. You stop, surprised. Hurt by his tone and his words. He spits out the next words in anger: "I thought I told you to run!" Your cheeks flame. "Only if you were in danger!" you retort, equally angrily. "And you were doing just fine!" Splendidly, in fact, but you weren't going to admit that to this impetuous youth who didn't know how to address his betters. The impetuous youth mutters an oath. He's standing there, stock still, eyes shut, gasping for air. After a moment he, and his tone softens, "Can you hand me a cloth?" You tilt your head to one side, "How can I do that if I can't come near you? Shall I toss it to you?" "Oh, for God's sake, no!" he exclaims, "it'll be worse that useless if it touches zombie blood." He pauses, considering. "Okay," he says, "I'm going to come out to you. Don't touch me or anything until I wipe this shit off me, okay?" "Why would I do that?" you demand, screwing up your face in disgust at the smell emanating from the area. "Oh, like you weren't going to throw your arms around me and exclaim, 'my hero,' eh, princess?" he needles dryly. "I WAS NOT!" you shout hotly, and then add fiercely, "and I told you, I'm not a princess." "Yeah, whatevs," he answers sarcastically. Then, after a slight pause, adds the address, "princess!" You bristle. He chuckles. Carefully he feels his way toward you, walking at first, but then, when he's sure he's clear of the bodies, he falls to his hands and needs and crawls in your direction. You feel yourself sneering. COMMONER! you think scornfully. You swallow your sneer and call out, "Over here." You rip off the cut shoulder of your dress and put it on top on his hand. He grasps it and wipes his closed eyes, carefully removing the blood splattered on his face. He opens his eyes and rises. He's taller than you. You note your slight disappointment at this. It's harder to command, being smaller. "I have to ditch these clothes," he mumbles, "they're contaminated." "And I ..." he looks away again, "I have to, um, ... bathe." He won't look at you. "C'mon," he says at last, and moves in the direction that his horse fled. ... Hours of walking. You discover what it is not to go by carriage or on horseback. It's not hard, but it's not pleasant. It's tiring. And ... Well. The day is just full of shocks. The mare, 'Winnie' ... of all names, was rather easily recovered, but only eventually, and a stream crossed along the way to recovering the horse was the bathing spot. And that's where you got the biggest shock for the day. The youthful knight, a stick of a boy, was ... ... is ... ... a knightess. He ... no, she ... eventually disrobed and instead of a knife sheathed in the undergarments, you saw not a dagger before you but a slit, a tiny slit with short, straight black hair. No chance of this knight's ... knightess' ... balls dropping any time soon. His ... no, HERS ... her ... well, her tits were tiny. A girl-child. A girl. A baby girl. A baby girl who rode out into the forest to rescue you, a noblewoman of no fortune from a dragon that could have easily eaten you both. Now the dragons sardonic statement about appearances fit into place. And then there were the orcs ... or the, what were they? "Zombies"? And he saved her from them, too. She did. Not 'he,' SHE did. She wouldn't look at you. "Don't ..." she began, then broke off. Her crystal blue eyes glittered in the light of the setting sun. Then they filled, and tears spilled out. "Don't tell anyone, okay?" Phfinaesque Fairy Saga She flashed her angry, sad, ashamed eyes at you. Then she turned away, muttering a "God damn it!" and stepped into the stream, bending down to wash herself. Your eyes couldn't help but linger on her cute little bubble butt. Then you yourself blushed and looked away, but did she feel your eyes on her? Did she look over her shoulder at you? She dressed herself in loose-fitting clothes, boy's clothes, from the ... from HER saddle bags, and asked if you needed to bathe, too. What? You thought angrily to yourself: do I stink? You sniffed a pit experimentally ... the walk had taken its toll, you were forced to admit. He ... SHE waited. Your jaw tightened. "Look away, sirrah!" you ordered imperiously: a noblewoman commanding a paige. The look of hurt that crossed the girl's face ... You swallowed. You wanted to explain, that you were calling her 'boy' to keep her secret safe. But you couldn't talk to that face. A tear fell from her eye. One. Only one. She looked away, and muttered a "I'll get firewood or ... sommat." And shambled off, lifeless, much like the zombies that attacked her ... that would have attacked you, if not for her aid ... the aid from a commoner. Shame burned your being. Alone, you disrobed and bathed. The cool water was cold comfort to the burning flesh on your face. ... Night. In your arms. The little girl, taller than you, was in your arms. Your butt was cold. The fire burned brightly, and cheerily, but she was in your arms, shielding your front from the fierce heat, so consequently your butt was cold. But you don't care. She, your little baby girl, was in your arms. And it happened so suddenly, and so naturally. Of course she laid down to sleep on the other side of the fire, a gallant knight, ... knightess? ... (no:' knight.' For her sake, it's 'knight') protecting your virtue. If only she had known that you, as a noblewoman, have been more acquainted with the ways of the world than, obviously, she has. And you told your physician it was because of horsebackriding. Fortunately, it was ... well, the first time, anyway. But then, ... ... well, anyway. But then, well, you can studiously ignore each other. Or you can talk. And there are questions. About how she ... how she found herself in this situation, being what she is, pretending to be what she's not. And how her parents could countenance that. And that's when she says she ... that she's on her own. And the tears again, and her angry admission that she never cries, ... ... which only makes her cry harder. And you don't remember if you went to her and held and rocked her, or if she snuggled into you, and you wrapped her crying form in your arms. You don't remember. You just remember holding her, and whispering, 'it's okay, baby.' 'It's okay, baby.' you say. When it's not okay. It's never okay when somebody coos, "it's okay, baby," and she, she of the whip-smart, sarcastic mind behind the crystal blue crying eyes, knew this. And still drifted off to sleep in your arms, trustingly. With her bubble butt pressed up against your ... you know. And you pressed into her back, holding her into you. And now you're thinking. How will this work? How will this work for her? For she's a young thing and can pretend to be a boy, but for how long? And men ... men like to be men, and do manly things, and how long can she be on her own? Or, if with men, pretending to be one, how long before she is discovered? And then what? Well, given the rabble: burning at the stake. Obviously she is a witch, disguising herself with magic. Obviously she must be punished and made an example of, for to discourage this sinister behavior, before other women get these heretical ideas as well. And ... and what about you? You're supposed to be roasted flesh and bones in a (foul-mouthed, talking) dragon's gullet. Do you re-present yourself to Father ... who did what to save you from the rabble that will so eagerly burn this girl in your arms? You think. And no solution presents itself in your thoughts. She murmurs and shifts, and you kiss her raven black-haired head softly. "It's okay, baby," you sing a soft lullaby. She sighs. Not in relief. "You're out of tune," she complains. You blush. "Sorry," you whisper. A pause. "What's your name?" she asks. You decide not to be affronted at the commoner's forthrightness. She did, after all, save your life. "Saga," you say. Another pause. A thoughtful one. "That doesn't sound Irish," she says. "My name and ancestry comes from a long line, centuries old, from across the sea, in the countries on the Continent to the North," you state, trying not to sound too grand. "Oh," she says humbly. After a pause, you asked amiably, "And you, ... you are not of our duchy. Are you ... French?" She doesn't look French, she looks Irish. Black Irish. "Why do you think that?" she asks. "Your crest," you explain. "On your shield," you add after a silence. More silence. "It's Fleur de Lis," you say. And wait. "For those in service to the King of France," you add finally, exasperated. "Oh," she says, emotionlessly. After a moment, she adds: "I ... I picked it up from the ground in my wan-..." She stops. "I just found it, is all," then adds weakly, "I can't afford to buy a shield from a smithy, so I ..." She is quiet again. "Oh," you say. You can't think of anything else to say. After a moment, your eyebrows purse. "You're thinking," she accuses. "What?" you ask, taken aback. "I can't sleep with you thinking so hard!" she complains, fidgeting in your arms. "Sorry," you say, softly. "Don't apologize!" she hisses. "What?" you demand, affronted at the apology thrown back into your face. Commoners. No manners, whatsoever! "You were thinking something, so you don't apologize for it, just tell me what you're thinking!" Really, someone had to teach this child some respect! Maybe that someone could be you, you think, then set it aside to quiet the child. "I was just wondering..." you begin. "'Thinking,'" the girl interjects. "Hush, now!" you command ... but was there a motherly tone that crept into your voice? "I was just WONDERING," you continued past the interruption, "where you obtained those blades. You do not see such craft ... well, for any price in this part of the world." You could feel the girl in your arms thinking herself, forming the words of her story. Eventually, after a thoughtful deliberation, she said quietly, "My father was a sailor." And then silent. Her deliberated story. "And ...?" you prompt. More thought. "And ..." she said eventually, "he was always gone. Always on the high seas, and he would come back after months ... even more than a year ... with booty. One time he came back with the two swords. He liked them very much. He said they were from the Nihons or the Japans or sommat." "Ah," you say. "And now they are yours?" "Yes," she answers icily. "And the horse ...?" you probe. "I'm not a thief, okay?" she retorts angrily. "What do you mean?" you respond, surprised at her anger. "Why are you asking me all these questions? 'Where did you get this? Where did you get that?' if for no other reason than to have me strung up and dancing on the gallows!" she says with hot rancor in her voice. You try not to laugh at his ... her youthful bluster and indignation. "Sweetheart," you say, "I know nothing of you, my rescuer, so I ask to learn more about you." "Oh," she ... SHE says, deflated at her misplaced anger. "I'm sorr-..." she begins. You place a finger over her lips, "Hush, no apology," you say sweetly, but also with the ironic wisdom you have over this child. You feel her lips smile in acknowledgement. "I guess I'm just not used to being around people ..." she explains. "You 'guess'?" you chide. You feel her shift uncomfortably, so you drop it. "Sleep now, sweetie," you say soothingly. "'kay," she says tiredly, then grumbles, "Don't call me baby names; it'll give me away." You smile and frown at the same time, but then the smile wins. "'Kay," you respond softly. Her breathing shallows and becomes even. Your brow purses again. She sighs. "You're doing it again!" she complains faintly. "Sor-..." you begin, then bite your lip. "It's just that ..." you interrupt yourself, then break off again. "What?" she mumbles, complainingly. "Well, you were using high courtly language when you first charged into the fray, but now ..." You break off again. "Peasant-speak?" she supplies for you. "Well, yes," you admit, blushing with embarrassment of being so transparent to this young girl. "It's part of my schtick," she explains. "Your what?" you ask, confused. "My schtick!" she grumbles, "you know, my act. I have to sound like a knight if I wanna pass for one. Jeez, you are so dumb for a noble!" "Oh," you say quickly. You do not add that the knights in the duchy sound nothing like her supposition, but like mercenaries, warriors, hardened and hard men. But you decide not to debate this point with the now sleeping girl, obviously exhausted from the battles she's fought today. You hold your brave, high-bourne knightess in your arms, warmed by the fire, but warmed more by her. One more question nags at you. "How old are you?" "Twenty-four," she answers from her sleep. You listen for irony. You don't hear it. She must be delusional, or dehydrated, or dreaming of twenty-four sheep. The girl in your arms ...? MAYBE she could pass for fourteen. Maybe. But twenty-four? Women twenty-four had four children and were old, old, old. Unless she were of noble birth, still under tutelage, and never having to put her hand to the loom or the plow or the ladle. Never, as this girl rightly accused, having seen a day's hard labor. Then one could be thirty, or thirty-one, ... or thirty-two, and still look like a woman in her twenties ... maybe even pass for twenty-four. Maybe. 'One' could look thusly. But 'one' would know her true age. And hate it. And her lot in life: a life in a gilded cage with a role to play dictated by others. A canary or nightingale in that self-same cage would have a better fate: at least they could sing (in tune) and fly. 'One,' ... 'she' ... you were just an ornament to be fed to a dragon after you refused to be marry off to, in turn, a fop, a clod, a bugger, and a snob. The one thing these 'noble' men all had in common: they were men, and they simply couldn't get over being that. And this girl in your arms wanted to play at that sex? Why? Well, not to be a woman, obviously: chattel to be used and then discarded, with no voice and no role other than subservience and reproduction, a repository of all man's feelings, his lust and his rage, to be impaled with the former and struck with the latter, and no way to vent hers, and no voice to express her thoughts that man thought she had no right to anyway. Men and women: a curse to be one, cursed to be the other. The poor girl! The poor child! The poor child in your arms. Your child. You kiss her head again, and drift off to sleep. ... Dawn You wake. Warm and cold, even under the blanket. You seem to be holding something very warm. And very heavy. Your arm is asleep. And you need to pee. You look around you. There are embers of a fire, and everything stinks of wood smoke. There are no walls, no ceiling, and the vibrant sounds of nightlife. You are outside. A hunting expedition? Where is your silken tent? And who would DARE sleep near you? Father will have his head ... both of them. Unless he's that Prince Idiot? What was that philanderer's name? Charmant? Sommat like that. 'Sommat'? And then it all comes back to you! You breathe in the musky smell of her hair ... HER hair, the thought catching you by surprise. But you still need to pee. Desperately! You extricate yourself, your arm, from underneath her and slip away a few paces into the forest, look around furtively, fold up and fold up and fold up your petticoat, and ... push, then relax, ... and take care of business. Where the hell are the chamber pots and chamber maids when you really need them? You wonder if yon lass will be looking to come under service as your handmaid. You blush with shame at so automatically thinking this thought. You finish up, smooth out your dress, and make your way back to the encampment. ... There's a noise in the camp. A moan. You've heard sommat ... SOMETHING! Goodness, the language! ... something like that before, from the zombie horde bent on your destruction. The girl had told you to run, but perhaps she had not been overcome? And the horse ... it had fled in terror before. Now it was standing by, still asleep. Horses cannot be surprised. It would have known. You approach camp carefully, and in the dawning light, you see somm ... SOMEthing writhing in the blankets by the fire. And you see her expression. Eyes squeezed shut, body in fetal position, ... hands between her legs. And then you see where the moaning is coming from. "Oooooooh!" she grunts out. Has she become one of the orcs or zombies? Infected by them or by their blood as she had feared? She pants. Then gasps, "Oh, fucking God, I needed that!" and after more breaths, her face relaxed, she moved her hands away from between her legs, and her breathing became soft and even again. Did she just cum? you wonder. Impossible. You were just gone a few minutes. A girl cannot bring herself off that quickly. You know that from many, often frustratingly interrupted, experiences yourself. You look down at this girl child in wonder and disbelief and a touch of awe and motherly affection. So many conflicting emotions arising together from this enigma. You approach the ground to return to holding her and to sleep, when you step on a twig, and a small snap shatters the silence of the forest. You don't know what happens next. The back of your head hits something hard; there is a hand entangled in your hair, pulling your head back painfully into the hard thing. And you feel cold, sharp, tempered steel at your throat. Blazing and semi-alert/semi-vacant crystal blue eyes glare into yours. "What the fuckin' ..." begins the furious girl, but then recognition registers in her eyes, and she recoils from you just as quickly as she was on you. And she is still shouting in anger: "You wanna fuckin' die? Don't fuckin' surprise me in my sleep like that!" Her short blade almost glows blue in the sunrise. You retort in the anger of surprise and shock: "I HAD TO PEE!" Your voice echos through the forest. A crow caws in surprise. The girl looks around, then smirks sardonically at you. "You had to pee," she enunciates each word slowly, as if talking to a three-year-old. "That's nice." she adds with a sneer in her voice. She shakes her head in disbelief at you and sheaths her short sword. "What?" you demand hotly. She rolls her eyes. You can't help to admit that the expression is cute. "C'mon," she says, reconcilingly, "let's get going." "Where?" you ask. "Not 'where,'" she corrects shortly, "'What?' and that what is our morning catch." Your quizzical look asks the question. "You know," she explains, "breakfast." Your stomach grumbles it assent. She smirks. ... Fish. Fish. Never in your life would you think to be eating what even the commoners refuse, starving rather than having this. Watching her catch the fish in the stream with her bare hands was mesmerizing, and then she simply stuck a stick down its throat and roasted it over the fire. This girl was simply full of things over which to fascinate. But fish? She held out a stuck one to you, and seeing your expression asked, "Would you rather starve?" You were tempted to shout, "Yes!" but the word caught in your throat. She simply shrugged at you, sticking the stick in the ground and reentered the stream to catch her own breakfast. ... You watched her eating a bit before you ventured to try, but hunger triumphed over dignity and scruples. You will admit this to no one, not even on pain of death, but the fish tasted ... pretty good. And the cold mountain stream water? Never in your life have you tasted anything so pure, so crisp, ... so delicious. You think of her eyes as you gulped handful after handful of that crystal clear water. ... There are many adventures in the Naughtyham forest, for the zombies were plentiful, to be avoided where possible (being downwind of their stench was a dead giveaway) and destroyed where not, but these are not recounted here. Not those kind of adventures, but there are other kinds of adventures ... and discoveries ... ... "You do 'it' facing up?" she asks in surprise. ... She never gave her name. Never. Not after she pointed out that you didn't ask for it, so when you did, she clammed right up and said, 'Call me Ishmael!' and you exclaimed "Ishmael?" wondering if that were her father's name or another sailor perhaps. But she wouldn't bend, not even to your big eyes, and your big eyes always worked, ... even, especially on her, eventually ... for most things. But not for her name. So she stamped her foot ... ... SO CUTE! ... you couldn't help thinking, which she immediately saw, which only made her angrier, which made you laugh all the more ... giggling giddily even; ... and threw up her hands and said, "Okay, whatevs! Call me `phfina if you're gonna call me anything, which you don't, so why should you care?" And you exclaimed, "`phfina?" But she wouldn't budge from that. Not one inch. Not even for the big eyes. ... So ... "`phfina" was surprised to learn that you did 'it' ... ... 'it' ... such a child sometimes, and about certain things! ... that you did 'it' facing up. "Why?" you asked. "Don't you?" "Me?" she asked in surprise, her back stiffening as you rode together on Winnie. "No," she grudgingly admitted, "I like to, um, you know ..." and faded off. "Yes ...?" you ask encouragingly. "Well, ..." she begins haltingly. You can almost feel her blush through her armor. "Well," she pushes into your silent expectation, "I like to do ... 'it' face down, you know? I like to, um ..." "Yes ...?" you say again, sweetly. "I ..." then she breaks off again. "Oh, God, this is so embarrassing!" "You brought 'it' up," you point out primly. Winnie snickers. You have your suspicion about that horse and what it knows and what it hides. After all: dragons can talk. `phfina clears her throat. "I, um, like to ... thrust down on ... you know ... I like to take ..." She looks back toward you then looks away quickly. "Never mind," she mumbles. You hum tunelessly against the back of her armor, just pleased with the day. "Can I watch sometime?" you ask quickly. "Whaaa?" she pulls Winnie up short in shock. Or maybe Winnie stops in surprise at the request. Either way. "No," she responds decisively, and adds: "God, no! Never!" For you did find out that she had cum that day. In seconds. But that's another story. ... Another story. "What were you doing that morning?" "What morning?" "You know: the morning you put your knife to my throat." "My washitashi" "Yeah, whatever. Your knife to my throat. What where you doing just before that?" "Sleeping?" "No, really." "What, 'really'? I was really sleeping." "And before that? ... Well?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" "Yes, nothing, okay?" "Okay ..." "Oh, Jeez, Saga, 'okay ...' but what?" "Oh, 'nothing' ... teehehe!" "Saga ...!" "What?" "Well, what?" Phfinaesque Fairy Saga "Well ... did you really cum that quickly?" "Oh, my ... God!" "Well, did you?" "GOD!" "You're so cute when you blush like that." "Jesus!" "Teehehe." "Oh, for God's sake!" "Well, did you?" "Well, yeah. Jesus!" "Wow." "'Wow'? 'Wow' what? What's the big deal? It's just, you know, a girl, you know ... doing ... God ... 'it'!" "... and cumming in seconds." "Yeah, not like I'm counting or anything, for God's sake!" "Amazing!" "Why?" "You are amazing." "Jesus, Saga, what's with the big eyes?" "Well, ... it just that it doesn't work that way for every girl, okay? That's all." "Really?" "Yes, really." "You mean ..." "Cute blush." "GOD!" "You can ask me anything, `phfina, you know that." "Yeah, thanks." "So ...?" "So ... well, ... never mind." "'Never mind'?" "Yes, never mind, just drop it, okay?" "Okay ..." "Oh, for crying out loud!" "So, ask your question, Miss Prude." "Excuse me?" "Well, ... ask!" "Uh ... okay. Jeez, Saga, sometimes I swear!" "You're not asking ..." "Stop with the singing, already!" "When you ask." "All right, all right! So, when you, um ... you know ... do 'it', does it, um ...?" "My goodness, aren't we the source of elocution!" "Oh, for God's sake, Saga!" "Okay, sweetheart, ..." "Don't call me that!" "Out here in the middle of the forest? Because somebody might hear? `PHFINA IS MY SWEETIE!" "Oh, my fuckin' God!" "Is that a Scottish brogue or a Welsh one, I can't quite pinpoint it ..." "It's an 'I'm-going-tan-your-hyde-bright-red' brogue; that's what it is!" "Promises, promises!" "One of these days, Saga, I swear!" "Uh, huh." "Anyway, forget it!" "Okay ... oh, and if I came that fast when I do 'it,' sweetie, I would declare a festival day in celebration!" "Jeez, Saga!" "Your blush is so cute through your armor." "God!" ... Another-another story. "So how do you cum so fast?" "GOD! SAGA!" "So ...?" "Jesus!" "So it's a religious experience for you?" "Oh, my fuckin' God!" "Well ...?" "Oh, c'mon, Saga!" "Exactly! How do you 'cum on' just like that?" "You're not going to drop this, are you?" "Never. ... Well, not at least until you tell me." "God, Saga, you're worse than a zombie with your single-mindedness, I swear!" "Uh, huh. So ...?" "Oh, for Chrissake, Saga, it's not like I can just hop out of my armor in one second when I really, really hafta go, and then, well, you know, there I am, peeing away, and after I'm done with that, I've got to put all that armor back on, and ... well, I can't be discovered, you know? A girl with her tiny twat peeing by armor, now wouldn't that make quite the bounty! So, you know, I just do a quick left-right check and ... do 'it' as fast as I can and get back in the suit of armor, you know?" "You are amazing!" "Will you quit it with the big eyes, for God's sake, Saga!" "My hero!" "Oh, my fuckin' God!" "Teehehe!" ... Back to the main story. About cumming. And watching. "Do you want to watch me sometime?" you ask quietly ... casually ... ... carelessly. Then, after a long silence, you add: "Doing 'it'?" Just to be explicit. Just to be sure she got what you said. After a long silence ... ... you can't read her. Usually you're so good at reading her. But you can't read her now. Is she offended? Angry? Disappointed? You feel her censure, and it starts to hurt, deep inside. A lot. "`phfina?" you dare, firming up your voice, so it won't break. "I ..." she begins, and then stops, in that infuriatingly `phfina way she dares and then withdraws, so brave, so scared, so `phfina. You wait, holding your breath, your cheek against her armour, your arms wrapped around her midsection ... for support. "Do you ... want me to watch ... some ... time?" she barely breathes out. "Do you want to?" you ask quickly, before you can stop yourself from asking. "I ..." she begins, and then stops. You almost laugh with relief: you've read her. She's scared. `phfina: the knightess in shining armor, the fighter of dragons and killer of countless zombies (okay, perhaps just under a hundred by your reckoning) is scared of little you. And then you close your eyes, and remember you watching her, moaning, later realizing that she was cumming hard. Was she cumming, thinking of you? At this blissful moment, riding side-saddle on Winnie, holding onto your knightess, you know that she was, and you know that you don't care. It was the most beautiful, animal, tender, passionate thing you've seen: her, cumming, hard. And you were there to witness it. Do you want her to see you thus? Do you see her watching you, your mouth half open in an 'O', head thrown back, back arched, cumming, making a mess of yourself ... do you want to feel her watching you cum, cum like that, good and hard, her watching you? God, yes. Oh, God, yes. "Oh, ... um, okay." You feel her piping embarrassed boyish voice quietly rumble through her armor through your body and against your cheek, and you realize you had spoken your thoughted answer aloud. The armor heats on the inside from her blush, and on the outside, from yours. "Okay, then," you assent quietly, suddenly very embarrassed yourself. "Uh, ... let's make camp," she says, then adds very quickly, "uh, I mean, for lunch, 'cause, ... I didn't mean, for you to ..." she breaks off and mutters an oath. She quickly dismounts Winnie, surprising even her, which never happens, and takes out her bow and quiver of arrows. `phfina is quite the Artemis. `phfina is quite the multitalented individual. She disappears, very quickly for a girl in full armor, into the forest. Usually she takes off the armor to go hunting. Maybe she's distracted by ... 'sommat.' You wonder what that 'sommat' could be, and a private smile lights up your face. ... Slow circles. Night. You look up through the canopy of branches, and your finger does slow circles on your clit. And you know, just out of sight, somewhere, maybe hiding behind a tree, she's there ... watching you. Slow circles. Slow ... she's watching you ... you know it! ... oh, God ... you bite your lower lip ... circles. And ... mmm ... mmm ... oh, God, this is going to be a good one ... this is going to be really, Really, REALLY ... fucking! GOOD! Slow ... mmm ... little bit faster ... circles ... and ... and ... you feel her eyes on you ... devouring you ... de-ofuck-flowering you ... her ... fuck ... eyes are drinking ... oh, my God, ... you in! IN! FUCKING IN! FUCKING ... FU-FU-FUCKING ... circles. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! She's watching you, she's ... O, fuck! O, ... o ... OOOOOOOOOO! O, God! O, God. You breathe in and out. You find you CAN breathe again. Oh, God. That. Oh, my God. That was FUCKING good. You wrap your arms around the blanket, around yourself, and look up into the sky beyond the canopy of leaves. You hear a whispered: "Wow!" Or was that the wind in the leaves? You close your eyes and smile to yourself as you drift off to sleep. ... Riding. "That was ..." she begins, and then stops. "You watched?" you asked, suffused with sudden delight. You can feel her blush through her armor. Riding. "You liked?" you asked, pleased. And the question hangs in the air, hopefully ... expectantly ... desperately. "`phfina?" you ask, forcing your voice to be steady. She halts Winnie in her slow walk, and turns back toward you, hanging onto her. Fucking armor, always between you and her. She turns back and nudges Winnie forward. "You were amazing." She whispers it so quietly, that if it weren't said, it would have been louder. But she said it. She said you were amazing. You feel a glow start from your toes ascend through your legs, center in your gut, and then suffuse your entire being, catching, almost painfully in your throat. She said you were amazing. You hold onto her as you ride through the forest, and if she weren't wearing her armor, you would have squeezed her to death in your joy. Thank God she's wearing her armor. But then again, if she weren't, your hands, clasped around her front, would be very busy right now doing ... Thank God she's wearing her armor right now. ... Night. "Do you ..." she begins, then stops. Two girls in their nighties in the forest, one facing the ground, one facing the canopy of trees covering the canopy of star. Two girls, lying next to each other, one face down, one face up. "Yes ...?" you ask sweetly. "Do you want me to touch you ... when you ... are ... Oh, God!" She blushes so prettily! "Yes ...?" you ask sweetly. "When you're ... doing ... 'it'?" "Do you want to?" you ask hopefully. "Do you ..." she begins haltingly, "Well, I mean, will I distract you from ... you know?" You smile at her. "I don't think so," you say encouragingly, but then you see fear enter her eyes. "No," you say firmly. "Don't touch you?" she asks carefully in a clarifying manner. "No, DO touch me. I was saying 'no' to you being a distraction. I'm sure you won't be." You smile at her. "You sure?" she asks hesitantly. "I mean .. I don't wanna ..." She is SO! sweet ... you consider eating her right up, and then, that image gets you REALLY hot and bothered, you eating her, and she laps up at you. "Sweetheart," you say lovinging, "You will SO! GOD! you will so help me by touching me. Yes, please, and do." "Oh," she says, surprised, "okay." "Do you want me to touch you?" you ask hopefully. She chuckles. And you grin at her with a puzzled expression. "Oh, only if you want me cumming like the sun exploding or sommat!" she explains. "You just said 'cumming,'" you smirk at her. "Oh, Jesus!" she buries her bright pink face in her hands. You kiss her shoulder. "God! You are so cute, I could just ... eat you!" you find yourself admitting, and shocked that you are admitting it. "Tanks!" she mutters into her hands. She'll stay like this forever if you don't get things going ... for such a ... ... well, she's a completely indescribable thing: so bold, so shy, so on top, so tender, so, so sweet and shy. SUCH a pain in the ass! But she doesn't initiate. Usually. If there's somebody else involved. Like you. And now. "`phfina?" you say into her face resting in her hands and covered by her hair, and then press forward: "I'm ready." "That's nice," comes a very shy whisper from such a trying-to-be-sardonic blazé 'I've done this a million times before' girl who is fooling absolutely nobody except herself and not even her very well. "Aren't you?" you ask. "Yes." She couldn't say it any softer. But her quivering, locked tight body spoke very clearly the volumes that her voice could barely manage. "Then ..." you said patiently, and lightly grasping her arm, you bring it down to ... you, and place her hand on your cunt. Your very wet and ready cunt. She hisses in shock, trying to jerk her hand away. But your hand on top of hers is gentle, but firm, and unyielding. "That's it, baby," you say encouragingly, and you start to rub her palm over your clit in slow circles. Her hands, so used to sword work, are calloused and rough ... ... exactly how you need them to be on your very, very wet surfaces. You press ... down ... a ... little ... harder, and a moan escapes your lips. You feel her raise her head to look at your face. You feel her eyes, drinking you in. God, are you near? So quickly? Fucking ... God! Fucking God! You press her hand firmly down onto you, slow circles, God, slow circles, then, ... with your finger, you press her middle finger ... ... in. Right there. Yes. Right ... there. "Oh!" you hear yourself say, and you feel her eyes drinking you in. "G-god, Saga, you are so fuckin' beautiful!" she purrs. That did it. That fucking did it. Stars. Fucking stars, and you hear screaming and you realize its yours. And the blankets are very, very wet and hot against your legs. Jesus. Jesus God! God, breathe, Saga, just breathe, you tell yourself. Did you faint? You don't know. You don't know if you care. She called you beautiful. You find your arms wrapped around her neck and you're kissing her lips hard. She jerks her head back in surprise ... she is just so God-damn defensive ... and that hurts ... but then the tenseness in her neck relaxes as she realizes what's happening, and then ... and then ... very tentatively ... she kisses you back. It's a shy kiss, a cautious kiss, ... a `phfina kiss. A kiss back from your kiss. But you'll take that kiss. You'll take that kiss. You'll take it. And then ... regretfully ... you let her go, and lie back, and look up at the canopy of the trees covering the canopy of the stars, and you feel that warm glow, and you feel it slowly spill out of you, leaving a sad emptiness behind. You close your eyes. She kisses your shoulder, lightly. And you feel her reach out to you. And your body aches for her arms. And she very ... God damn it, `phfina, please don't start and stop this time, please, God! ... hesitantly ... cautiously ... rests her arm over your chest. And before she can jerk her arm away, you wrap her arm about you tightly and squeeze yourself into her, her, now hold you, your baby, ... ... your lover. She kisses the crown of your hair. I love you. You don't even dare whisper it. You don't even dare admit that you thought it. But you did. You love her. And now you can't take it back. You feel like crying, and you don't know why. But you do know why. You sleep. In her arms. ... Night. "Am I ...?" "Yes ...?" "Am I too heavy for you?" You try, very, very hard, not to think about burst out laughing. "What?" she demands almost angrily to your smirk you cannot seem to suppress. "No, sweetheart, you're not too heavy for me," choosing to address her explicit question. "'Kay," she says shyly. On top of you. Between your legs. "You sure?" she asks quickly. "Honey, ..." you say, remembering how she earned that nickname, stealing honey from a beehive to feed you. It was so, so sweet! Her brave gesture of daring, that is. And so was the honey. "Honey," you repeat, recollecting yourself, "this is what my body is designed for, I can take you on top of me, okay?" "Really?" she asks uncertainly. "Yes, really," you say, answering her uncertainty with certainty. "I want this." You grab her ass, her cute little bubble butt. "I want you," you demand. She blushes. Hard. "`phfina?" you say up into those crystal blue eye that are now looking back at you and down into your eyes. "Yes?" "Fuck me." "Oh, my God!" she exclaims embarrassedly, but her hands on her ass are firm and they pull her into you, grinding her little 'kitty' into your very ready cunt. Your clit bumps up and rubs against hers, and she utters another, "Oh, my God!" ... but in an entirely different tone. You slide her up and down, up and down, in a slow, steady, even rhythm, until she catches on, and begins to grind against you in tempo, clit against clit, cunt against kitty. "Am I ... am I doing this right?" she asks breathlessly. `phfina just talks too God-Damned much! You move your hands from her ass and grab her head, interlacing her hair in between your finger, pull her lips to yours, and kiss that talking mouth. Hard. She grunts in surprise, then moans as she humps you, harder now, and faster, kissing you back, kissing you hard, moaning into your mouth, her head locked in your hands, her lips mashed against your, her tiny titties bumping against your breasts, tickling them, teasing them, driving her absolutely mad ... ... `phfina's nips are her especial weakness. Tease her titties for insta-cum! ... her little tiny kitty bump and little tiny kitty slit bumping and grinding against your clit and cunt, lips kissing lips, labia kissing labia. ... until ... until ... her moan turns into an open-mouthed cry, and you feel her body go rigid, and her back arch, and you feel her relax and you feel it, you feel her cumming, cumming hard, and into you. And you feel that, and you feel her, on top of you, taking you, cumming, into you, and you cum. You cum in relief, and release ... and in love. You are cumming, and it feels ... so, so good, so nice, not an oh, my fuckin' God! cum like she's exploding into right now, but an ah, mmm, nice, very nize cum, a happy cum, a satisfied cum. A 'you're mine' cum. And an 'I'm yours' cum. You sigh, and you feel her cumming, and you feel her coming down from her cum. And you feel her body turn into jelly on top of yours ... ... and you're holding her in your arms, and she's between your legs, dripping down sweat and cum and spit and you spread your legs as wide as you can to catch every last drop of her as she comes down from her cum. And you're holding her. "Ooooohhhhh, Gaaaaahhhh-..." She can't even finish her interjection as she falls into a fast, exhausted sleep ... ... on top of you, wrapped in your arms. ... Riding. "WHO GOES THERE?" a guarded and dangerous call from the keep's walls. "Dame Saga under the protection of a Knight errant seeking shelter for the night!" `phfina pipes back boldly. "MEAN YOU MEAN US ANY HARM, LAD?" the still cautious but somewhat mollified voice retorts. `phfina bristles at the diminutive term of 'Lad.' She ... no: 'HE' ... is just all ego. SUCH a MAN! I tighten my embrace around her armor as I try not to roll my eyes. HIS armor. "No!" the 'Sir Knight' responds curtly. The formulaic "THEN ENTER PEACEABLY IF PEACEFUL BE YOUR INTENTIONS" is called down and the iron gateway drawn laboriously up to allow our entrance. Winnie, our gallant steed, crosses the moat. Pure warhorse, ready to bite and kick and trample all enemies underfoot. We make quite the sight. A knight, a noble lady under his protection (I even thought that without quotation marks), and the immaculate mount. I whisper up into 'Sir Knight's ear: "I love you,' as we pass under the portcullis. "Jeez, Saga!" the 'Sir Knight' blushes in embarrassment. "I love you, too," I hear my `phfina whisper back to me. I smile, and hug, very, very tightly against my sword, my shield, my armor, my all. The gate clangs down behind us as we enter the keep. A dame gets her own chamber. With a feather bed. It's going to be a very, very nice night tonight. We may even get to sleep a bit. ... not if I have anything to do about that. Let me tell you a secret: my `phfina has a little kitty ...? But I find, now, I'm the one purring. finis.