The Subtle Taste of Midnight

The Plight of Poor Prince Charming

They told me that the Princess needed rescuing.

That if I crossed the Swamp of the Dead and wrestled with the trolls of Ⱥsgov and fought the bandits and highwaymen of the Northern Wilds and laid waste to the seven heads of the Dragon Uhu, then soon enough I would find the Castle Ɇllon hanging out there on the edge of the nothing, run-down and battered, its sandstone masonry cluttered with overgrowth and the foulness of witchcraft. And within Ɇllon's crumbling walls, there would be a maiden, pure and fair, hair as black as raven's feathers, skin as milky as the moon's smile.

Princess Ⱥzura.

I was told that she would be there, laying helpless beneath the spell of a sinister sorceress beset on the path of vengeance against King Michon. And once my quest was completed, the greatest of honors was promised to my name and my children's names, that my kinfolk would be blessed with the wealth of all Islecene, and that I live happily ever after with the Princess' fine-boned hand in marriage.

Well, I've done all of that.

I've fought the Northern bandits and was soundly beaten for my troubles, my left eye almost snatched from its socket, my face bloodied beyond recognition. With my entrails in tow, I crossed the Swamp of the Dead and nearly lost my noble stead in the process to the thicket of leeches lurking beneath those soulless waters. I've battled gale-winds and freezing rain, clung to hunger and desert thirst when the elements of Nature and Magic tried to leak blood from my veins and life from my body. Despair was as close a companion to me as my loyal steed, Ⱥvalon. Misery, my eternal cloak.

Yet I pushed through. Forward always toward my prize. Toward my sleeping beauty waiting patiently, desperately, for me to rescue her.

Three brutal seasons, have I seen. Endured. Conquered.

I've proven my worth, as a prince, as a knight worthy of King Michon's Court. I've been sharpened on the whetstone of chivalry and bravery to be a man most worthy of the Princess' secrets. And now, as I stand on the grounds of Ɇllon, broken and bleeding once more from the battles waged against the hemlock and fang-toothed Witch's Weeds that stubbornly beset Ɇllon as the Black Plague upon the sleepy Islecenian countryside.

Yet, I find no vile sorceress to cast down, no seven-headed Dragon Uhu to lay my sword against, no wizardry to defeat in a battle of wits. I find, not an ethereal beauty cloaked in spells and witch-brewed sleep, but a maiden...

...in soiled aprons and filth-colored pantaloons...

...with a basket of grain in her hand...

...feeding chickens.

How ordinary.

"You there, farmhand," I yell to her from atop my pearl-white Ⱥvalon, "tell me, is this Castle Ɇllon? I seek the den of the Dragon Uhu."

She turns to look at me with eyes filled with bored disgust.

"Prince Charming, I presume."

"Aye?" How could she know who I am?

Brown eyes as rich as the soil beneath rolls inside their sockets. She sighs foul curses at the sky that warm my cheeks with shock, for such language is too crude for even a man's lips, let alone a woman's.

"Gods-damn-it! The old man never gives up, does he?"

Could this be...No! It can't. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I steer Ⱥvalon closer for a better look. Battered, I am, from my trials. Broken by the weight of this journey that I've undertaken. But this noble quest has not warped my memories or stolen my sanity. I am most certain of this. Yet, the maiden farmhand...