Original Fantasy Story

This is the original fantasy story I've been working on for the past couple of weeks. I don't really have a title for it yet - I'll come up with something eventually. It was inspired by my counselor Mrs. Stahl's suggestion that I write a fantasy to work out a lot of my problems. This is what I came up with.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Kathleen. She lived in a small village on the edge of a great mountain. The village was bordered by a shadowy forest and a beautiful villa with a rich, bright garden. The villa had once been owned by the wealthy Rightsmith family. They were the richest family in the kingdom and owned the town's prosperous furniture-making business. The beautiful Lady Sylvia was the last remaining member of the family, after Lord Adam and Lady Pallicia died in a carriage accident. They'd had a son, but he vanished after the Desert Wars and was never seen again.

Kathleen was a storyteller. She lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village and the forest, writing her stories and inventing new ones. She loved nothing more than to make up plots and characters and whole worlds in her head. She lived, breathed, and ate her stories. She spent a great deal of time wandering through fields, mountains, and forests, getting ideas for her tales. Most of them were fantasies about lovely ladies and handsome princes who, against all odds, fought for and loved and rescued each other.

Kathleen worked at the grocer's shop in the village. She only tolerated her job because it earned the money to keep her cottage. Otherwise, she despised it. She didn't like dealing with people. Real, flesh-and-blood humans were nothing like the characters in her head. They quarreled with each other and complained bitterly about the price of goat's cheese or about grapes being expensive because they weren't in season.

What she really wanted was to be a full-fledged storyteller and sell her stories to the bookmakers in the village, but she was too afraid. She had tried a few times, but they always rejected her stories. “They don't fit our books,” they said. “They're not like other stories. They're too short or long, too happy or sad. We want stories that are like other stories.”

Oh, how Kathleen tried to be like everyone else! No matter what she did, she could never fit in. She felt shy among women her age, most of whom were married with families of their own. While they talked about their children and homes, she talked about her stories and the world in her head. While they worked in their own stores, or as lawmakers or artists or teachers, she could barely keep her grocer job.

No, she was happier exploring the forest outside of the village, or reading at the village book lender's shop. She was far better friends with the animals who lived in the forest than the people in the village. Deer didn't fear her. Squirrels made her laugh. Bears and big cats knew her friendship as well as rabbits and birds. She always had a song or a story for all. She fed them enough to encourage their friendship. She wanted them to remain wild, to be friendly but not dependent. No animal should be, she thought.

She was inside one evening, working on a new story, when she heard the crash. She thought a log had fallen somewhere. Her cottage seemed all right, but she was worried some of her animal friends or their homes may have been hurt. She jumped up, put on her walking shoes and her wrap, and hurried out into the forest.

At first, she could find nothing out of the ordinary. It was late in the day, almost twilight, and the forest was rapidly darkening. She clutched the purplish shawl around her shoulders. It was a wild, windy evening, the kind where shadows played tricks on one and the wind blew you back every time you pushed against it.

She'd just pushed past several gorse bushes, pulling the burrs off her wrap, when she found him. She thought he was an animal at first. She could see shining, shoulder-length dark brown hair, whipping around his head. His body was bloody and bruised, and his left leg lay at a crazy angle. Looking up, she could vaguely see a hole in the trees overhead. He must have crashed through there, she though. But that's impossible. How could he have done that? He looks human, and humans don't fly, except in my stories.

She somehow managed to drag him home, trying to be mindful of his bad leg. She had a better look at him when she had tugged him inside. Her eyes widened. He looked like someone she'd known many years before. His thick black hair had more gray strands now, and it was much longer than when she'd known him after his army stint. His skin had a few more lines, and it was so pale under his natural tan. She took hold of a strong hand, its fingers calloused but sinewy, so different from her long, slender fingers.

“Darren,” she barely breathed. This was Darren Guierrer, who had left her high and dry almost ten years ago. He'd left her a note and walked out, saying it wouldn't work out, he couldn't commit himself to their love anymore. She was devastated. She'd never loved anyone else. The few men she'd even been remotely interested in since then had either gotten bored with her or wanted to use her.

She gathered water from the stream outside her door to wash Darren in her bathing tub. He was a scratched, dirty mess. She noticed how badly scarred his back was, like someone had lashed it with one of those heavy leather whips it was said they used on war prisoners. Maybe Darren escaped from an army? No, the war ended years ago.

When he was rubbed so clean his tanned skin glowed pink, she gently pulled him to her couch. She would have put him in her bed, but the couch was closer to the bathing tub. She dressed his wounds and set his leg as well as she could, but she was no doctor. She'd have to fetch the town physician the next day.

She left him laying on the couch. He still looked as human as that annoying man was ever going to get. She still didn't quite understand why he left so suddenly. She never accepted “don't wanna commit.” He was a war hero – they didn't get cold feet.

There was something very different on her couch when she awoke the next morning. And “something” was the operative word. Sunlight streamed through windows of her cottage, pouring warm, hot gold onto the floor and couch. She could still see heavy, wavy black hair...but it was much coarser and thicker than Darren's normally was. Two sharp, curly objects lay on her flowered pillows. She could hear growling and snuffles under the blanket she'd pulled on Darren's cold body.

She crept slowly to the couch, stepping into the sunlight. Her trembling hand reached for the dark-green knitted blanket her mother made years before. When she ripped it away, it revealed a hairy, horned THING, a huge monster covered in wavy midnight-colored fur, with a long wolf-like snout, twitching black whiskers, and claws that could rip her and her entire cottage into shreds in a second if it were awake. A pair of black wings pushed into the couch pillows and over her small wooden table, knocking over two books and a sewing kit.

The moment she screamed, his eyes snapped open. They were...to her surprise, they were Darren's eyes, large and liquid and velvety brown, but without the customary spark of laughter and mischief they always held. The monster grabbed the blanket and tried to hide under it again.

“Light...” it growled. “No...gotta...be...dark...”

Kathleen didn't waste time. She drew every curtain and shutter in the entire cottage, covered every cranny she could. Every bit of sunshine was smothered. It did make it dark and rather stuffy, but she knew there had to be a reason for the creature's request.

The moment she turned to the couch, the creature began to change. She couldn't help her gasp as the fur on the monster's body melted away, and the hair on his head became shorter. His claws shortened, until they were merely human hands. The tanned skin returned; the whiskers fell away.

“Darren?” she was barely able to whisper. “What...how...”

He rubbed his head, then squinted at her. “Kathy?” He looked around. “How the hell did I get here?”

“I don't know.” She sat next to him. “You tell me.”

“I wish I could.” He pulled the blanket even further around him. “All I remember is flying...it was night. I ran into something, or something attacked me..I was falling. That's all I know before just a few minutes ago.”

She pulled up a chair next to him. “Darren, what's going on? You were not a THING when we were together. At least, I don't remember ever seeing you like that. You've always had long hair, but not that long.”

“Trust me, hon, it's recent.” He made a face. “I was cursed.”

She frowned. “By whom?”

He let out a noisy yell as he pulled himself to the closest thing he can to a sitting position. “Damn leg..” The taller man turned those liquid brown orbs to Kathy. “My aunt.”

“You never mentioned an aunt when we were in love.”

“I didn't know about her.” He tried to adjust the leg on the six plump pillows Kathy had pushed under it. “Never even heard about her until I met her. She says she's my dad's sister, but I'm not sure I believe her. Has no love for me, that's for sure. She told me I was helpin' her.” He snorted. “Helpin'. I was slave labor, worse off than the servants. When I told her I wouldn't be her scullery boy anymore, she whipped me.” He raised his chin, his eyes determined. “I still wouldn't do what she wanted. That's when she cursed me.”

Kathy pulled closer to him. “Cursed?”

Darren nodded at the windows, the light now smothered by dark curtains. “When light shines on me, any light, I turn into a demon, that cute critter I was just a few minutes ago. I can only be human in the dark.” He clenched his teeth. “She didn't tell me how to lift the curse. When she tried puttin' a collar on me, like I was some kind of dog, I took off.” He rubbed his head. “I don't remember anything after that.”

“It was so windy last night.” Kathy rubbed his calloused hand. “You must have ran into the wind and gotten blown into the trees.” She ran her fingers gently down his back. “It would explain some of the gashes. Some of them are too wide to be from whips. I covered them as best I could, but I'm going to have to get the doctor for the rest.”

Darren shook his head quickly. “No, Kathy. No doctors. What if they saw me...well, as a demon? How would I explain it?”

“I'll ask Doc Puttersly to come here and tell him the shades are down so you can sleep.” She gently lay him down on the couch. “Which isn't entirely a lie. You do need rest if you're going to get better.”

Darren nodded, gently rubbing Kathy's hand. “I'm fine, Kath” He winced as he shifted his leg again. “Or at least, I will be when my leg stops feeling like a giant stomped on it.”

She stood. “I'll get the doctor. I have to get to work soon, anyway.”

He sighed. “You're still working at that little grocer's shop?”

She shrugged. “It pays for my cottage.”

He held onto her hand. “I thought you were going to be a storyteller.”

“I tried.” She finally pulled his hand free. “I couldn't sell my work.”

Darren's dark brown eyes looked into her hazel ones. “Couldn't, or wouldn't?”

“It's none of your business.” She pulled her shawl around her and grabbed a basket. “I'll be back in a few hours with the doctor. In the meantime, don't move a muscle from that couch. I'll get you water from the pump and something to eat before I go.”

She did get the doctor, and he said that Darren's leg was broken in at least five places and that he wouldn't be able to go anywhere for weeks. They moved him to her bed, and he wrapped his leg and chest in heavy bandages. She didn't like it, but she'd have to sleep on the couch until he got better. It was only good manners, anyway. He also had two bruised ribsl and gashes all over. He gave her medicine for his aches and pains and told her to keep an eye on him as much as possible.

“Damn it!” Darren lay back as soon as the doctor left, looking annoyed. “Kathy, thanks, but I can't stay here. My aunt...”

“Probably doesn't know you're alive.” She poured some of the herbs the doctor gave her into a warm broth she heated on the wood-burning stove. “Here.” She handed him a bowl. “Drink this. The doctor says it'll ease your pain and help you sleep.”

“If anything can make me feel like not screaming, I'll do it.” He grabbed the bowl from her and guzzled it down in one gulp...then dropped it on his lap and fanned his mouth. “Good grief, that was hot!”

Kathleen shook her head, but she was chuckling. “You always did have the worst table manners. I just made that. Of course it's hot! Didn't you see it on the stove?”

Darren was still fanning his mouth. “I was thirsty.”

She sat down next to him. “You could have waited a few minutes.”

“Not the way my leg feels.” He lay back. “Kathy...”

“Yes?”

His eyes were already starting to flutter. “Thanks for takin' care of me.” He yawned deeply.

“You're welcome.” She stood. “And now, I'm going to let you sleep. That's the best medicine you can have.”

“I'm not...tired...” Even as he said the words, Darren's head was lolling on the pillow.

Kathy smiled, rubbing his thick, wavy dark hair. “Poor boy. He needs his rest.”

Darren wasn't always a model patient. He could be demanding and was frequently stubborn. He wouldn't try half of what she cooked for him, at least until he was hungry enough. Then he'd eat most of it and ask for her share. Kathleen was accustomed to demanding people from dealing with her often obnoxious customers at the grocer's shop, but there were times when Darren was worse than any of them. He kept trying to stand on his own, without the wooden braces the doctor gave her. She'd hand the braces, and he'd try to “lose” them under the bed.

Gradually, Kathleen had to admit that she liked having someone around the house to talk to. It was an improvement over talking to herself and the animals in the woods. They played cards and games. She read passages from books and told stories from her own imagination. She loved telling stories. She always threw her whole heart into it, making up voices and accents for every character, creating sound effects, even acting out dramatic parts. Stories were her lifeblood, and she was glad to finally be able to share them with someone.

Regardless of her visitor, life did continue. She went to the grocer's shop almost every day to help with customers. She continued to write her stories and go for walks when Darren was asleep. She would watch him and listen to him, and she'd know what she wanted her hero to say, or how to behave. She wasn't very good with men, or people in general, really. She did better dealing with the people in her head.

One day, as she was returning home from work, she found Darren sitting up in bed. “Hello there,” she started. “I didn't expect you to be awake...” That was when she realized what he was doing. He held a pile of papers in his hands and was intently reading one. She recognized the papers. It was the story she'd been working on that morning. “Darren, did you go through my desk? I'm not finished with that one yet! I still need to work on the ending! Besides, you're not supposed to be up at all.”

“I got bored.” He put the papers down. “You know, Kathy, this is good. Really, really good. You should sell it when you're finished. I think a lot of people would read it.”

Kathleen blushed. “Oh, it's just silly fantasies. You know, boy meets girl meets dragon. It's not good enough to sell.”

He shook his head. “You were always so hard on yourself. I think you could sell this. I know I read some of your stuff before, but you've improved since we were together. I really feel for the characters' predicament. I want them to get away from the dragon alive. I don't usually get into stories like this, but you really drew me in.”

“Thank you.” She sat down next to him. “That's all I ever wanted. I want to tell stories, and let everyone enjoy them.”

“Then why don't you?” He waved the papers. “Why don't you try selling these? You have stories to share, and they're really interesting.”

“I...” She looked down at her lap. “I can't. I've tried.”

Darren snorted. “You're still scared of those idiots in town.”

“They're the town elders!” She played with her wrap. “They know a lot more than me.”

“But could they write stories like this?” He shook his head. “I never understood you, Kathy. You have talent. You're pretty, you're kind, you tell great stories, but you hide in your little cottage and never show yourself to anyone.”

“I never thought anyone wanted me around!” She couldn't help her blush as he rubbed the back of her hand with her finger. “You've never been pushed away or tormented because your story isn't the same as the rest of the world's.”

“No one's story is the same.” He kept rubbing her hand. “Isn't that what you've always told me? Everyone has their own story. Everyone has their own way of doing things. So you aren't like the rest of the town. Why is that wrong? Why can't you see your story that way?”

“I just want everything to be right,” she she said softly. “It's always right in my head. I can always work things out with my characters. I can handle them. I can't handle people.”

“Who needs people?” He shrugged. “I'm not much good with people, either. I do things on my own. I'm a loner. I talk when I have to. I've been like that for years, and sometimes, I do get lonely. But I'm mostly pretty happy that way.”

She finally just stood up, turning away from him in annoyance. “You don't understand! You never understood. You didn't understand when we were...when you were here the first time.”

Darren glared at her. “I understand fine, baby. You're just too used to feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I'm not!” she yelled, feeling her cheeks turn hot. “You're impossible!” She ran out, into the woods. He watched her.

Darren continued to recover, but she felt more awkward around him. This was what had happened last time, she remembered. He was an ex-soldier, a man of the world. What was she? Just some storyteller and grocer in a small town living all alone. They did make up after that argument, but it wasn't like it had been earlier.

It was nearly the end of spring before Darren could walk on his own, without Kathleen's support or the need for the crutches. His breathing was much better, too, and he no longer wheezed when he spoke. She knew he'd have to leave soon. She wasn't sure how much she was looking forward to that. While it would be nice to have her cottage back and have time to herself again, she knew she'd miss him. She missed him terribly the first time he left.

“You know, Kathy,” he said one night when they were playing cards over their simple dinner of vegetable stew and crusty bread, “I'm just about on my feet again. My leg doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to.”

“Darren,” she said quietly, “where will you go?”

“I haven't decided yet.” He put a card over hers. “I'm not going back to my aunt's. I can't.” He frowned. “But I can't stay here forever, either. I know you're nice enough to keep it dark in here for me, but I have to do something about this curse. I've got to find the cure.” He sighed. “And I'm gonna need to find a job, too. A guy's gotta make a living somehow.”

“I could do that.” Kathleen slapped a card over his. “I'm friendly with several bookmakers in town, and I volunteer at the town library every week. I could check magic books, see if there's any mention of a curse like this.”

“I wish you didn't have to go.” Darren tossed the last card, a grin spreading across his ruggedly handsome face. “There. Black Jack. I win.”

Kathleen rolled her eyes. “You always win. I think you cheat.”

“Me, cheat?” Darren rolled his eyes dramatically and clutched his chest. “You wound me, honey.”

“I would if I had a shotgun.” Even as she spoke, she was chuckling. “At least I don't have any money to wager.” She grabbed her wrap. “I've got to get to work. I'll be back in time for supper.”

Darren grabbed her arm. “Honey, I wish you wouldn't go. Something doesn't feel right. It's like we're being watched. I know it.”

“Someone has to pay for our food and supplies.” She gave him a gentle kiss on his lips, surprising even herself. She hadn't kissed Darren since...well, in a long time. “I'll be home as soon as I can.”

Darren held her hand. “Promise?”

Kathleen nodded. “I promise.” She knew he was watching her, with those velvet brown eyes of his, even as she left.

Kathleen usually hated her job, but today, she thought it might be useful. Many of her customers were elderly people who gossiped constantly. She generally disregarded their chatter about who married whom and how much better life was when they were younger and everyone did everything the way they did and didn't involve themselves so much with machines. Today, she thought they might be able to help her.

“Who owns the Rightsmith estates now?” she'd ask them. “I thought the owners had been dead for years.”

“I heard,” whispered one delicate, bird-like older woman, “that a witch moved in the Rightsmith estates. They say she practices,” her voice dropped so low, Kathleen could barely make her out, “black magic.”

“Oh, that's silly,” scolded her equally aged friend. “Her name is Sylvia Rightsmith. She's the older sister of Lord Adam Rightsmith, who died in that terrible carriage accident last year? Well, anyway, they say she's the most beautiful woman in the valley. Blond hair, blue eyes, looks like a princess from one of the fairy tale books. Smart, too. Runs the whole place by herself.”

A gnarled old man had a more frightening tale to tell. “I was her gardener,” he wheezed to Kathleen as she bagged his carrots and walnuts. “She was beautiful, but her soul was like ice. She was demanding. The gardens were never perfect enough. She beat anyone who disagreed with her. She whipped her own nephew until the man could barely move.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “Her nephew? What was his name?”

The old man stroked his scraggly beard. “I don't rightly remember. He weren't around that long. She dismissed the servants before she dismissed him. He were kinda good-lookin'. Some of the maids sure found him pleasin' to the eye, if ya know what I mean.”

She blushed. “I think I do.”

Another woman, large and hearty, with a wrap around her silvery curls, confirmed the bearded man's story. “Never go to that villa!” She said, shaking her bony finger at Kathleen's nose. “It's a place of evil now. That Lady Sylvia, she's a bad one. People go in, but they don't go out. They say she has black magic. She can take people's minds, make them forget what they are. She takes their lives, their memories, their very stories.”

Kathleen laughed, but it sounded hollow to her. “No one can do that!”

“Mark my words, young lady,” the old woman creaked, “she has done it. She will do it again. My own granddaughter worked in that house. Now, she doesn't remember who she is, where she was, or anything she is or was. That house is dangerous! Stay away from there!”

Now Kathleen was scared. The rumors couldn't be true, could they? She had to know. She went right to the library after she left the shop to look at the city hall records...and there they were, clear as daylight. At least four people, mostly lower servants, had been at the villa in the past year, and they'd come back with no memories, no anything. They didn't know who they were or what their story was.

Her eyes widened. Darren had said they were being watched. She had the sinking feeling she knew who was doing it. She had to get back, before they hurt Darren...or did worse to him.

She ran as fast as she could into the woods, towards her cottage. It never seemed to be so far away before! The last rays of the blazing sun were just appearing in the treetops when she entered the clearing where her cottage was.

She gasped. The first thing she noticed was every single window was open. The shutters had been torn off. “No!” The horrified woman rushed inside, her tangle of brown curls bouncing behind her.

Her cottage had been torn to shreds. Furniture lay in splinters on the floor. Food was spilled onto the counter, the doors to the cabinets flung open. The cottage was filled with light from every angle. Her beloved stories had been flung off her desk, sent carelessly every which way.

An enormous creature raged in the center of the room, where the couch had been. It growled and snarled. At least three smaller demons, ones without wings, were trying to tug it away with rope. Kathleen screamed. “DARREN!”

It couldn't have been anyone else. He looked like he had the night she'd inadvertently discovered what had been done to him. His fur-covered head swiveled to gaze at her. His eyes...they were still a deep velvety brown, very sad and angry and very, very human.

“Darren...” She started towards him. He growled, trying to attack the smaller demons and throw them off, but they held firm.

One demon grabbed her arm. “No touch! Lady no touch! He ours!”

She slapped the creature's paw away. “He's not yours! He isn't anybody's.”

“Sylvia say his story belongs to her.”

“His story is his.” Kathleen stomped her foot. “I want all of you out of my cottage this instant! And please replace the shutters! Darren can't stay like this.”

“Kath...Kathy....” He let out one enormous roar and finally flung his wings into them, knocking them all away. He lunged for them as they squealed, trying to flee his claws. Kathleen did her best to help, smacking them out the door with the sharp end of a broken table leg. She stabbed one that tried to reach for her stories.

“Those are mine!” She pushed the little furry thing away. “Write your own stories!”

“Our lady want!” the critter whined. “All stories hers!”

“Not these.” She almost literally kicked the creature out the door.

When the last of the demons were gone, she turned to Darren. He was in the middle of the room, panting. “Darren...” Her eyes widened when he moved his clawed hand, and she saw blood on his shoulder. “One of them bit you! I hope they don't have rabies!”

He shook his horned head. “I...ok...not bad...”

“That's not what I see.”

He pulled away. “I...leave...not hurt you...”

“You won't.” She took his hand, letting her long, slender fingers rest in his thick, furry ones. “I'm going to stay with you. I don't care what you look like. I know who did this. I'll make her change you back. I swear I will.”

He looked at their joined hands, then into her bright hazel eyes. “Can't hurt you,” he said in a small growl. “Must go.”

“Darren...” She said this to his back. She followed him as he rushed outside and took off into the rapidly darkening sky, ignoring her angry, heartbroken protests. “Darren!”

She went back into the cottage. She knew what she had to do. She gathered her shawl, her stories, and what little food remained in her leather satchel, changed into strong walking shoes, and headed towards the villa.

Darkness had almost fallen by the time she reached the tangle of greenery surrounding the villa. Darren told her it was once the most beautiful and extensive garden in the entire kingdom. When the lord and lady died, the gardens were permitted to fall into disarray. Now trees with branches as long as giants seemed to reach for her. Thorny bushes caught at her wrap and tore her skirts. She pushed them back with a thick branch, but they kept swinging back at her.

Only one flower bed had been tended to, recently from the looks of things. Two rose bushes, one larger than the other, bloomed despite the dreariness of the rest of the garden. One was awash in roses the color of a sunset; the other, in delicate snow-white blossoms. They'd been lovingly weeded and fed and watered; they flourished while the other plants around them wilted. She felt compelled to pick a perfect flower from each bush, being careful of the thorns.

All the while, she called Darren's name. She couldn't find him. You'd think a huge demon with horns and wings would stand out, but he wasn't anywhere. She dove around the colorful tangle, looking into every plant and garden shed.

That was when she heard a voice. “You won't find the one you seek where you think you'll find him, storyteller woman.”

Perhaps the darkness was playing tricks on her, but she was surprised to discover a little old woman. She was a tiny, wizened thing, wrinkled with age like a plum heavy on the vine. She was sitting by a gnarled tree, near a small house, barely more than a shed.

“Are you the caretaker?” Kathleen asked. “You wouldn't have seen a...a...”

“A demon?” The woman said with something like a cross between a croak and a laugh. “Your lover. Yes, he's here...but I fear he's in danger. She's taking them. The stories.”

“Why?” Kathleen asked. “Why does she want stories? Why does she want his story?”

The woman croaked again. She blinked her raisin eyes at Kathleen. “Because she has no story of her own. That's why she takes the stories of others. That, and she wants the villa. It's filled with stories. So many, many stories.”

“So I've heard.” Kathleen shook her head. “How can I stop her? I'm only a storyteller. I have no magic.”

“You do.” The old woman poked her in the stomach with her cane. Kathleen pushed it away. “You have one of the greatest powers anyone can have. You're able to create stories.”

“How will that stop her?”

“You have stories within you.” She handed her a box. “Put all the stories in here,” she said. “Keep your stories safe, for they are yours. We must never lose our stories...or we'll lose ourselves.”

“But how...” Kathleen began. The old woman shook her head.

“You'll know how.” She somehow waddled around Kathleen, looking her simple brown peasant dress and wrap over. “They'll never let you in the villa dressed like that.” The older woman simply nodded, and flowing white magic gathered around the young woman. It felt warm and glowing, like a fire without the crackling heat. To her surprise, her faun-colored dress was transformed into a beautiful silk gown of cream with brown trim, with many petticoats underneath. Her shawl became a wrap of chocolate-brown velvet. The two roses became a crown of flame-red and white blossoms in her brown-gold hair.

She frowned. “This doesn't feel right. I'm not a princess. I'm just a writer.”

“Every woman has a little princess in them.” The old woman poked her again. “Some more than others. Now, you go rescue your lover. He needs you, or he'll lose his story...and his life. I'll make the path clear for you.” She tapped the girl's head. “These flowers are magic. They will protect you when all else fails. The flowers and animals here like you. You're kind to them.”

The old woman waved her hand again. The tangles of bushes and thorns started to shift and give way, showing a clear path made of dark red brick to the villa. Kathleen turned to the old woman to thank her, but she had vanished, tiny shed and all.

She followed the red path up winding trails and down sloping hills until she reached the most beautiful, frightening home she'd ever seen. It was a massive mansion, a monstrosity of columns, towers, spires, and winding trim. There was a feeling of...foreboding about it. Though it was kept well, there were no lights in the windows or flowers or plants around the main house. It felt like it was haunted, or at least the home of many dark stories.

Kathleen squared her shoulders, pulled her now-satin wrap around her shoulders, and knocked on the door. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

To her surprise, someone did answer the door. He was a man dressed all in gold livery, from his head to his foot. He had a long, sharp nose that seemed to mainly function for him to look down at her. “Hello, madam. Welcome to the Villa of the Bella Mia. May I ask who is calling?”

Kathleen gulped, gave him what she hoped was an ingratiating smile, and fluttered her lacy fan. “My name is, uh, Lady Kara Du Mariner.” She curtsied before him, though she knew her knees wobbled badly. “I'm here to see the Lady Sylvia Rightsmith and her nephew, Darren Gurrier. It's a matter of some, um, urgency.”

The gold-dressed servant sniffed. “Very well. Follow me, Lady Du Mariner.”

She shivered. She'd heard stories about the villa being a beautiful home, warm and inviting, but it just seemed cold to her. The antiques were hard and shiny, the furnishings gleaming like ice in a riverbed. It was all so extravagant, and so very, very chilling. She shivered, pulling the fancy white wrap further around her body.

“Sir,” Kathleen began, “do you feel...do you feel the cold?”

The man merely tutted at her worries. “Lady Sylvia has an excellent fire in her room. I'll get the scullery boy to add more logs.”

“It's not that,” she admitted. “It's just...I feel so much sadness here. Pain. Fear. It's like there's hundreds of stories, but they're all being held and not let free.”

“I don't know what to say, Your Ladyship,” the butler admitted. “I only work here.” He lead her to the very end of the hall. “This is Lady Sylvia's main library and work room. She will receive you here.”

He opened the door for her...and Kathleen let out a gasp. She'd never seen such an enormous library...or one so full of fear. Every book she could possibly imagine was on shelves, behind glass and metal doors. The entire room was done in shades of black and gray and navy, with no relief from the stark outlines. She went to one of the glass doors to take a closer look at the books, but it emitted a small spark! She jumped back, rubbing her gloved hand.

The butler pulled her back. “The Lady Sylvia doesn't like people touching her books,” he explained. “These stories are hers, and hers alone.” He turned to the shining black desk in the back of the room. “Your guest has arrived, Lady Sylvia,” he said in his stiff British accent.

“Thank you, Cecil,” said whomever was behind the tall black leather chair. “Would you please bring my...um...very hairy....guest here?”

“Yes, Lady Rightsmith. But I'll have the footmen do it. I certainly have no desire to deal with such a feral creature.” The tall butler walked out with stiff strides, like he was a mechanical man.

A long, graceful hand with nails painted blood-red gestured to one of the smaller leather chairs in front of the desk. “By all means, Kathleen. Why don't you sit down?” She obeyed as best she could. Her wide skirts took up most of the seat, trailing on the floor around her.

Kathleen felt a little worried. “You know who I am?”

“I've been waiting for you.” The chair started to turn around. “Darren told me about you. He's really very attracted to you. Why, I don't know. You're a peasant. Not even a very pretty one, at that.”

Kathleen didn't like this woman's condescending tone. “Looks aren't everything. I know I'm not beautiful. Maybe Darren found other qualities about me attractive.”

She couldn't help gasping when the chair finally faced her. Lady Sylvia was simply stunning. Her mane of reddish-gold hair was piled on top of her head in an elegant chignon. She wore a deep purple velvet gown trimmed with silver lace and tiny purple jewels that was tasteful and obvious cost a great deal of money. She too held a fan, but hers glittered dimly, like it was made from black dragon scales. Her eyes, though, held evil and malice and ruthlessness. This was a woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.

“You have something I want, Miss Kathleen,” she purred like a feral cat. “And I have something you think belongs to you. He's really mine, you know. He's my family, and he belongs to me.”

“Darren.” Kathleen started to stand. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“Oh, he's here.” She smirked. “He's my property.”

“He's not property!” Kathleen exclaims angrily. “Just because you're his aunt – or you say you're his aunt – doesn't mean you own him!”

She laughed. “He's not even human anymore. I saw to that. I should have known he'd go right to an old lover when he escaped. It was clumsy of me to leave the window open like I did. It won't happen again.”

“Look, all I want is Darren, the way he originally was.” She held the book close to her. “You stole his stories, didn't you? I was surprised he remembered me. He couldn't remember anything before he went to war. Was that you, too? Sending him away?”

She fluttered her fan. “Well, he was needed in the ranks. Besides, he didn't want to stay. It was rather convenient. I just didn't know he'd come back and start making demands.”

Kathleen frowned. “What kind of demands?”

“Oh, acting like this is his home, rather than mine.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “He heard about his parents' oh-so-tragic death and had to come running home like a good little boy. I had hoped he was dead. It would have been so much easier to deal with.”

That was when four men came in, dragging something in chains along behind them. Kathleen stood in horror as Darren, or at least his demon form, was thrown into the room. She ran to his side, checking to see if he was all right. She looked up at the smirking woman in the leather chair. “What did you do to him? How did you get him?”

“He came to me.” She laughed again. “He thought he could destroy me. My demons were on him before he could even get close to me.” She came around the desk. “Now, we'll make a trade. You give me those stories of yours...including your own. You can take him and do whatever your heart desires with him. And we'll never discuss this again.”

Kathleen clutched the box with her stories to her chest. “I can't give up my stories...and I refuse to give you my story! That would mean giving up my life!”

“It's your precious story,” she stroked the fur on the back of hisneck, “or I do something far worse to him than turning him into a monster.”

“K...Kathy...don't...” Darren tried to move towards her, but Sylvia yanked him back. He let out a yelp, gasping.

She couldn't help herself. She jumped to her feet. “Stop! He's a human being. You have no right to do this.”

“He's my nephew.” She yanked the chain further. He howled. “My property.”

“He's not property!” She ran to him, trying to get the chain off. “I don't care what you want! I won't let you do this!”

Kathleen hadn't noticed Sylvia raise her hand. One moment, she was trying to undo the lock on Darren's metal collar. The next, she was being tossed head over heels into a bookcase and seeing nothing more than stars and falling books. “You'll not do such things!” Sylvia grabbed Darren when he tried to go after the fallen woman. She snapped his wings back until they nearly tore. He let out a pained roar that wrenched Kathleen's heart.

“Stop! Don't hurt him!” Kathleen looked from him to her. “Why do you want the stories?”

“Because I have no story!” Lady Sylvia grabbed the book, trying to force it out of Kathleen's hand. “I'm a dark sorceress. We take other people's stories. We feed on them. They sustain us. We keep them for ourselves. It's the only way we can live.”

Kathleen ducked back. “But...stories are for everyone, not just a few people. Anyone can tell a story.” She gazed at the book she was trying to tear from Lady Sylvia's hands. “Stories are how we live. They're how we communicate, pass down traditions and knowledge. Stories are in our blood. You can't take them away. They're part of our very being!”

But Lady Sylvia's eyes were growing more and more red...and her face was becoming an even darker shade of scarlet. “I want those stories! GIVE IT TO ME...ow!”

Kathleen was once again thrown back. Darren had leaped onto Lady Sylvia, his claws extended. He bit at her and scratched and clawed, his growls echoing in the enormous house. His attack gave Kathleen the chance to pull up the last page of her story. “I...don't know how I want this story to end,” she whispered. “All I want is for Darren to be all right and normal and to find out what's going on. I don't want beautiful gowns or elaborate homes.” She held up part of the skirt of her gown. “I don't need this to be happy. I just want Darren and my stories.”

She gasped. The words that tumbled out of her mouth etched themselves onto the page in thin, black lines that trailed glitter. She watched as they trailed around the pages, then moved to Darren. They surrounded him, tugging him away.

Lady Sylvia sneered. She wasn't so beautiful now. Darren's claws had left wide gashes on her face and tore her skirt to shreds. She glared red-hot fire at the panting creature. “You think this is yours, Rightsmith,” she hissed. “You abandoned this. This was never yours.”

“I don't...know....” Darren tried to get to his feet, but another blast of energy from Lady Sylvia sent him crashing into the bookcase in the back of the room.

“NOOO!” Kathleen ran to him when she saw he wasn't moving. She took his hand. To her horror, it had only a faint pulse. “I can't lose you! Not now! I have to change this!”

Sylvia was advancing on her. Kathleen swept her story into her arms. She held the box out before her. “And in the end, she found that she loved him. Their love, and her belief in their story, was able to defeat the wicked sorceress. The sorceress had no story. Without her story, she...she....she vanished!” Kathleen recited with all the feeling she could pour into it. “She wasn't able to keep the stories. The stories...had to be free!”

Sylvia's eyes widened in horror. “Stop! No! What are you doing?”

Kathleen dashed to every bookcase. She broke the glass doors with a fireplace poker, throwing all the books to the floor Normally, she would never treat a book so callously, but this was an emergency.

“These aren't books, are they?” The storyteller asked, holding one up to Sylvia. “They're stories. The stories that belong to other people. The stories that belong to the townspeople who disappeared.” She snatched her papers. “I'm giving them back. You had no right to take them.” She opened the box, then said out loud “The stories in the books returned to the poor people they had been stolen from, never to be removed again.” Even as she spoke, the books on the floor dissolved and vanished, their glowing forms flowing out the window with the last rays of the setting sun.

“No!” Sylvia slunk closer to her, her gashes bleeding, her teeth glowing sharp and white in the oncoming moonlight. “Those are MY stories! I NEED them! Return them to me!”

Kathleen glared her down. “I'm telling you your last story.” She threw the box with her unfinished stories down in front of the trembling, horrified Sylvia. “This is how the story ends. The woman rescued her lover from his unspeakable fate. He was restored to his original form, thanks to her love, and their joined words. The sorceress dissolved. She had no story to sustain her, no life to call her own. She was a parasite that fed off the stories of others. She had discovered that no one can live that way.”

“Nooooooo! No!” Syliva lunged for Kathleen and the box in vain. She was already little more than a blood-red outline, surrounding smoke and bits of glitter. The moment the last words left Kathleen's lips, the outline faded, and she vanished into the either, her screams echoing in the rapidly dying sunlight.

“K...Kathy....” Kathleen rushed over to Darren, the box in her arms. “I...you know I love you...”

She nodded, her eyes filled with tears. “I've always known. You really came through for me tonight.” She threw her arms around him. “If only I could re-write our story! I don't want it to end like this!”

Darren gave her a tiny, weak smile. “Tell....your story...that.”

Kathleen wiped her eyes as she pulled the box to her. “In the end, she...she kissed him. And she restored him, and his memory, and made them both whole again.” That was what she had to do. That's what happened in all the fairy tales.

But the glitter and thin light of the words were already surrounding them, even as she kissed his furry, cracked lips. They went through every pore of her skin and his. She could almost feel their stories meld and come together. As it had in her home the first time she'd discovered his demon form, the fur dropped away, the claws shrunk into fingers, and the horns evaporated.

“Darren?” She helped him to his feet. His knees were wobbly, but he gave her his sort-of smile. “Are you all right? Is this...did I...”

Darren's brown eyes were directed behind him, at the soft sunset glowing in the window. “Kathy, it's light out still. I'm in the light...and I'm not a demon. I'm human.” He grinned. “Good work, honey. I knew you could do it. You always were a smart lady.”

“What did I do?” She took his hand. “Who are you, really? What's your story?”

He sighed. “I didn't want to tell you this. My real name is Darren Rightsmith. Yeah, Adam and Pallicia were my parents. Gurrier is my grandmother's maiden name.” She let him lean on her. “I wanted to get into the army on my own terms, not because of my heritage. Lady Sylvia was no aunt of mine. I never found out for certain, but I think she murdered my folks. She wanted the money, the prestige, the stories that surround this house. The Villa is hundreds of years old. There's stories in every wall.” He rubbed her hand. “I never wanted this. I'm no businessman. I don't know what I am, now that I've been discharged from the army, but I want you to be there to help me figure it out.”

“You know,” Kathleen began, looking around, “maybe you could keep this. Darren, look at this library! And the grounds! Wouldn't this make a wonderful place for other people to create stories?”

Darren rubbed her hands. “You mean...”

She smiled. “This is too beautiful of a home to not share it with others. I want to help everyone find their stories. Everyone deserves one. Even you.” She reached up to kiss him again as the last rays of the setting sun made Darren's dark hair glisten like silk.

And so Darren did wed Kathleen. They used the money from the Rightsmith fortune to publish Kathleen's stories, which were popular among children who adored her fairy tales. They opened the house and gardens to all people for miles around. Everyone came to hear stories, to write them, to make their own memories. The gardens rang with love and laughter. They made sure everyone created wonderful stories, and that those who wished to share them did so.

For what is life, if not a story?