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Chapter IV: Violence/Passion

He's going to die here.

History

The cabin comes into view blurrily, almost like they’re just waking up. They didn’t doze off in the cabin, did they? That wouldn’t make a very good first impression on the Princess.

Though, this cabin doesn’t look like that first one. Its walls are formed from pale, rough stone, with openings in the sides to serve as windows. The doors are more of the same, cutting quite an impressive figure. Instead of a plain wooden table, there’s a metal altar holding the blade, and a couple loose planks lie askew on the floor. The cabin normally wouldn’t look like this on the first go-around, would it?

So why doesn’t Smitten remember what they did last time?

It’s probably not all that important. Even if he doesn’t remember, surely someone must. He’ll just have to go along.

“Well, boys?” he asks. “Shall we go and see what form our beloved has taken this time?”

No one says anything. That’s rude of them.

No one does anything, either. That’s a bit far for a prank.

“Very funny of you,” he says, listening for any sign that someone else is here. “Yes, you’ve got me this time, good joke, now let’s be off to fulfill our… destiny…”

It’s completely silent. There’s no one else here.

His shoulders drop, and he turns around to face the door to the outside. His body obeys, allowing him to see that the cabin is entirely empty, except for him.

That probably isn’t good.

Maybe something happened to the others. Maybe they’re somewhere outside. Maybe they’ve been tossed about to different cabins like this one.

If they are, he’s sure it’ll all work out. They’re resourceful people. Everything’s going to be fine.

Still, he should try to find them. He’ll just pop down to the basement, free the Princess from her imprisonment, and then the two of them can meet up with everyone else who’s also made their way out. It’ll be easy.

He leaves the blade on its altar. Wouldn’t want to give the Princess the wrong impression, if she has as little memory as he does.

The doors are heavy, resisting his attempts to wrench them open no matter how much he strains. Eventually, one of them folds and scrapes slowly across the floor, and the other follows a little more easily. The stairs beyond are cramped, stone walls pressing in on him, but they don’t look as though they’ll pose any obstacle. If those doors were to decide to close again, though, he might be in trouble.

Oh well. He’s sure the Princess will be more than capable of getting the two of them out, if the doors even do shut on them. The Narrator, conniving scoundrel that he is, is blissfully absent, and he was always the one that tried to meddle.

“Is that a challenger?” the Princess calls from the basement. Her voice echoes off the stone walls. “Finally. I haven’t had a good fight in far too long.”

A fight? Why would she want to fight him? They have the same goal!

Maybe she just got the wrong impression in some time he doesn’t remember. He should say something to put her mind at ease. “Fear not, Princess!” he cries. “I have no ill intentions towards you!”

She laughs. “Is that so? Why don’t you come down so we can meet face-to-face, then?”

This is progress! Probably. She does sound like she’s willing to talk. And he was planning to finish climbing down the stairs anyway.

The basement is less like a room and more like a cave, not much wider than the stairs. The Princess stands at one end, taking up most of the wall, chain in place on her wrist.

A pair of horns rise from her forehead, framing a set of spikes that look almost like the crown she usually has. The skirt of her dress is translucent, with a slit in the side, and a long tail curls around her. Her feet look more like hooves.

She’s beautiful.

Her eyes narrow onto his hands. “No little knife, huh? Did you forget to bring it with you?”

Is she talking about the blade? She must be convinced there’s no way out unless she’s cut free from her chains. “Fret not, fair maiden. We won’t need the blade for this.”

“Is that so?” The Princess grins. “Good.”

Smitten steps closer, reaching for the shackle on her arm. This is going well. He’ll slip her hand from the chains with no problem at all, and they’ll leave the cabin and go see what else is out there… as long as that mirror doesn’t show up again.

It won’t. It can’t. He won’t stand for it.

He should probably ask her name once they’re out, too. But one thing at a time. He’ll slip her hand from the chains…

His back lands on the hard stone floor, sending shockwaves through his bones.

The events leading up to the landing piece themselves together backwards. He landed on the floor because he fell. Why? Because the Princess pushed him. No, pushed isn’t the right word—she grabbed his arm and threw him to the floor. Why? Heck if he knows. All he did was reach for the chain.

He looks back up at the Princess, vision swimming back into place. She’s frowning at him. Why is she frowning at him? She ought to know he has no intention of hurting her, right?

“Are you really going to give up this quickly?” she asks.

His brain hasn’t finished pulling itself back together, so all he can say is, “What?” And, if he were being honest, that’s probably what he would say if he were in peak condition.

“You hit the ground once and you’re down for the count?” The Princess leans over him. “Did you just come down here to toy with me or what?”

Toy with… her? But he had no such intentions… right? “I can assure you, my intentions have never been anything but pure.” He pulls himself to his feet as his vision finally snaps back into one piece. “If you’ll allow me to remove that shackle, the two of us can go at once.”

The Princess looks down at the chain. “What, worried it’ll slow me down? You must be confident.” Before Smitten can figure out what she means by that, she begins to strain against the chain, metal groaning before it finally snaps. She’s free! This is great! “You’d better live up to the figure you’re making yourself out to be.”

“Oh, I would never dare mislead y—” Smitten begins, cut off by a fist landing on his shoulder and throwing him across the room. His flight is cut short by the wall of the basement, head directly striking the stone. Some imperceptible noise echoes in his ears.

Didn’t he just say she could trust him? Why doesn’t she trust him?

The world is slowly beginning to decide it would rather not remain in one place. Smitten wobbles on his feet as he takes a few steps towards the Princess, nearly having to lean on one wall for support. “Why would you… do that… my love…” he wheezes, lungs refusing to cooperate with him.

“What do you mean, why would I do that?” The Princess stares at him, her arms folded. “Why wouldn’t I do that? You did come down here for a fight, didn’t you? Or are you less honest than you claim to be?”

A… fight? He never said anything about a fight or that sounded like it was about a fight or fight-related or anything of the sort… right?

“I’m afraid I… don’t have any idea… what you’re talking about.” He slumps against one wall, legs unwilling to do their job on their own. “All I want is… to set you free.”

“And what if I don’t want to be free?” The Princess takes a step towards him—he thinks. It’s all a little blurry. “What if I want something else?” Another. Probably. “What if what I want is for you to fetch your little knife and fight me?” She’s either right in front of him or still by the back wall. It’s still unclear.

Smitten wobbles backwards. He can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. “Th—that can’t be right. Freeing Princesses is always the right thing to do.”

The Princess grits her teeth. “You are impossible! Why don’t you start thinking for once so that I don’t have to!” She reaches out with her hand, faster than Smitten can see—not that that necessarily means it’s fast, with the way he is right now—and grabs his throat. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to kill you, right now, so you can come back with a half-decent head on your shoulders. And when you do, you’re going to take your little knife, and you’re going to march right down to this basement and fight me.”

The pressure on Smitten’s neck tightens. He’s going to die. He should probably say something nice before he dies. A nice little pre-death one-liner while he’s still pre-death. A nice little… that shouldn’t be too hard…

His meandering is cut off with a pop, or maybe it’s a snap, or maybe it’s more of a squelch or even a crunch. It’s still a little hard to tell what’s going on around him, and more so to put words to it.

But words don’t matter in some cases. No matter what combination of letters accurately capture whatever sound he hears, soon after everything goes dark, and he dies.

He shoots to his feet before he can take stock of the cabin he’s in. That part comes after. The walls are made from a pale, rough stone, with open holes for windows, and the doors to the basement are heavy and carved from the same material. The blade lies on a metal altar—

This is the same cabin.

The Princess’s final words to him dance just out of his grasp. He certainly wasn’t doing all right in the head by the time she killed him, was he? At least that’s over and he can approach her with a clear mind.

It must have been important, though, whatever she said. “I’m going to… you can come back… and when you do… right down to this basement.” There must have been something in between all that…

Oh! Of course! She must have seen how badly he was doing and killed him knowing he’d come back in one piece and be able to hold a proper conversation with her. How thoughtful of her!

He strides over to the doors with a bounce in his step. This time, he knows to brace himself in order to wrench them open.

The Princess is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded. Her face falls when she sees him. Why would she…?

“I thought I told you to bring your knife this time around,” she says. “Do you just not have it or what?”

Is she forgetting something? Is he forgetting something? “You must be mistaken. We don’t need to cut you free. If you’ll just allow me to—”

She growls. “Did everything that happened last time breeze through your empty head? If I wanted to be free, I would be.” She pulls against the chain, metal snapping and falling to the floor in pieces, leaving only the shackle around her wrist. “Now go and get that knife so we can fight.”

The memories that abandoned ship the moment Smitten hit his head start to drift back. “Going to… take… knife… right down to this basement… fight me.”

But that doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you want me to fight you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you? It’s fun. And it feels right.”

Smitten laughs a little as he backs away. “I don’t know if I’d exactly describe it that way, though I suppose… if it would make you happy…” There’s something wrong with this Princess. Not that there could possibly be anything wrong with any Princess—they’re all perfect in their own way—but this one has something wrong with her.

He does a little hop back to the base of the stairs. The Princess continues to watch him. “I’ll, ah, be going to fetch that blade now,” he says. “I shall return posthaste.”

Then he turns and bolts up the stairs, not stopping to catch his breath until he’s well and fully in the upper part of the cabin.

She wants to fight him. But that’s not… that’s not how this works, right? She’s supposed to want to be free. Sure, there were a couple Princesses that had other intentions, but that was only after they’d been wronged and were out to take righteous revenge!

…Did something happen to her in the time Smitten hasn’t been allowed to see? Is she trying to take out her anger on him? But that doesn’t sound quite right.

She wants to fight him. Not to kill him, presumably. Just to fight him a little. She doesn’t look angry—at least she didn’t, not before they properly got to talking. Maybe a little spar could be fun, if it’ll make her happy. She said it would be, so he’ll believe her.

“I hope you aren’t trying to run away,” the Princess calls from below. “What’s taking so long?”

Smitten jumps and scoops the blade from the altar. “Don’t worry, fair maiden! I’m merely steeling my nerves for our battle.” He may as well play it up. If a fight’s what she wants, he’ll do his level best to make it as dramatic as possible.

He steps down the stairs, taking in deep breaths to steady himself. He can’t let the Princess down.

She is waiting for him in the basement, and her face breaks into a grin when he comes into view. “Finally. Let’s get started, shall we?”

“We shall.” Smitten raises the blade, pointing it at the Princess. “En garde!”

The Princess doesn’t waste any time in launching herself across the room, fist narrowly missing Smitten’s face. He ducks past her—she’s tall—and whirls around, catching her arm with the blade as she aims another punch. A few drops of blood fly away from the nick and splatter on the floor.

He didn’t mean to do that.

She seems to take notice, stepping back instead of continuing her attack and glancing at the cut in her arm. It’s shallow, at least so he hopes, but a drop of blood still traces down her wrist as he watches.

“I’m sorry—” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No. You didn’t. That’s your problem.” The Princess wipes at her cut with one thumb. “All this and you still don’t get what this is about.” She thrusts her arms out to the sides. “I died and I’m still fine. I killed you and you’re still fine. There are no consequences for us here. We can kill each other all we want, and nothing is going to happen.”

No. No, he was right. This one does have something wrong with her, no matter how he wishes he could look past it.

His hand trembles just enough for the blade to slip from it and clatter on the floor. “But I don’t want to kill you,” he says meekly.

“Don’t think of it as killing me.” The Princess takes a couple steps forward, and Smitten scrambles a couple steps back. Their dance as such is cut short by Smitten hitting the back wall of the basement, allowing the Princess to catch up to him and pick up the blade. “It’s not like I’ll stay dead. Now get up.” She tosses the blade at his feet. It lodges, tip-first, in the stone floor.

He’s going to die here a second time. He’s going to die because he couldn’t bring himself to give the Princess what she wanted. That’s not right. He’s supposed to give the Princess what she wants, but what she wants is supposed to be freedom, and—

The Princess’s fist smashes into the wall where Smitten’s head would have been if he hadn’t thrown himself the rest of the way to the ground. As it is, some of his feathers float lazily through the air as a reminder of what might happen to the rest of him if he can’t keep this up.

He tugs the blade out of the ground as the Princess turns for another strike, and stands to face her. He’s going to die again. She’s going to kill him, and he’s going to deserve it. He’s supposed to be giving her what she wants, because she’s always right, but…

The Princess is always right. If she thinks they can’t die, if she thinks that him trying to kill her is fun, well, she probably knows better than him.

He lashes out with the blade, carving a stripe up the Princess’s arm. She swings at him, fist colliding with his shoulder. Something that probably isn’t supposed to go pop goes pop. He strikes back, this time burying his blade in the Princess’s chest, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

The Princess steps back, laughing, the sound wetter than it should be. She grasps the handle of the blade and tosses it back.

Smitten catches it. Then he drops it again as his injured arm decides it’s had enough of its current working conditions and falls limp. The Princess pretends not to notice as he reaches down to pick it back up.

“See? Isn’t this so much more fun than talking?” the Princess asks once they’re face-to-face again.

“I suppose,” Smitten says, unable to get another word out as the Princess launches herself towards him.

He lashes out with the blade again and again, barely deflecting each of her attacks with stripes of red carved across her arms. The Princess’s fists connect as often as not—there’s a crunch as she lands a blow on his ribcage, then a snap as his already-injured arm is well and fully put out of commission, then a squelch that was probably some crucial organ.

He’s going to die here. That’s fine. The Princess said it would be fine.

She steps back as though meaning for her next punch to be her last. “Are you sure you’re really trying to kill me?” she taunts. “You’re not just trying to postpone your own death?”

Smitten tries to answer, to say, No, of course not, I would never dare to imagine going against your wishes, but something is very, very broken in the parts of him in charge of speaking, and all he manages to do is inhale blood.

The Princess seems to notice. “I’d say you’ve only got a few seconds left this time around. Why don’t you make them count?” She holds out her arms. “Go on. Stab me—unless your heart isn’t in it.”

My heart… is always… in everything. Smitten raises the blade with his remaining arm, steadying it as much as he can. I hope this makes you happy. He brings it down with as much force as he can muster, right over her heart.

Then he falls, and none of his limbs opt to catch him.

The Princess continues to stand over him, unfazed even by the blade in her heart. Assuming it even made it to her heart.

Her sitting down beside him is the last thing he sees as his vision fades to a sort of reddish black. “Were you even trying to kill me?” she asks, followed by, “No. You were.” There’s a sound like she’s leaning back against the basement wall. “You’re no good at this. Even if you come back with the passion you had at the end, you still won’t be able to kill me.”

He says nothing, of course. He’s not sure he can even fully understand what she’s saying.

“You’re not meant to be here,” she continues. “If you were meant to be here, you’d be meant to fight me. And you’re obviously not meant to fight anyone.” Her hand lands on his neck, fingers pressing into his feathers as though searching for something. A pulse? Does he still have one of those? “Is there someone else out there who’s meant to be here? Is that what this is?”

If she keeps talking after that, Smitten doesn’t hear any of it. Everything goes dark—darker than it already is—and he dies.

He shoots to his feet before he can take stock of the cabin he’s in. Every piece of it lines up with how it looked the last time, anyway—same pale stone walls, same heavy double doors, same blade on the same metal altar. He grabs the blade without even thinking.

He needs to go back downstairs and apologize. He failed to live up to her wishes. Should he try to make it up to her? Give her the fight she deserves? He did make a promise to her. Or maybe he just thought it. Or thought he thought it. The latter half of the last go-around is a bit fuzzy again.

By the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s made up his mind. He raises the blade and charges towards the Princess—

—And she catches it before he can close the distance, tip of the blade sinking into the palm of her hand. She twists her wrist, and Smitten’s grip breaks before the blade can wrench free.

“Does your brain just stop working after you’ve been beat up enough?” she asks, tugging the blade out of her hand. There’s a visible hole in the back of it where the tip broke through the other side. “I told you, we’re done here. I’m going to find someone whose heart is actually in this.”

Smitten sputters, still in the process of grasping that the blade is no longer in his hand. “My heart is in this! It would be impossible for me to not put my entire heart into anything I endeavor to accomplish!”

“So I didn’t just disarm you before you could land a hit on me?” The Princess glances at the hole in her hand before tugging on the chains once more. They splinter just as easily this time as they did the previous two. “You’re not cut out for this, loverboy. Stick to writing poetry or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.”

“I can fight!” Smitten follows close behind the Princess as she strides up the stairs. She ducks a little to avoid hitting her horns on the doorway. “If you’ll allow me another chance, I can assure you I will not let you down a third time.”

The Princess glances over her shoulder. “You don’t actually want that.”

“I do! If a fight is what you want, I will gladly—”

She tosses the blade to him, and he fumbles the blood-slicked point of it, barely managing to keep his grip. “You’re just saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear. And it is. Just not from someone who’s lying.”

Smitten extracts his hands from the blade, looking around in vain for something to wipe his hands on that isn’t his own cape. He settles for smearing the excess blood across the cabin wall. “I would never lie to you.”

“Oh?” the Princess asks, eyes glinting. “If you’re so honest, then tell me: Was it fun?”

Of course it was fun. The Princess said it was, and it clearly was for her, and anything that makes the Princess happy is good enough for him. Right?

“I’ve… had more enjoyable experiences,” he finally admits.

She nods and turns her attention to wrenching the outer door open. It’s not as heavy-seeming as the ones to the basement, but maybe that’s just because she’s so much larger than him. It’s not as though he ever tried to open it himself. “There’s more of you, right?” she asks.

“Yes. Several.”

“Then there’s someone out there who doesn’t have to lie when he says he gets it.” The Princess steps back from the door. “Let’s go find him already.”

Smitten nods. “Certainly. Say, before we leave, you wouldn’t happen to have a name?”

She looks over her shoulder. “Adversary. You?”

“Smitten. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

The Adversary scoffs. “Suits you. Come on.”

They don’t get more than a step into the outside world before freezing again.

Everything is… meat. The cabin sits atop a hill of smooth skin that collapses into fleshy lumps of meat at its base, and the path, instead of packed dirt or smooth stones, looks more like the bones of a spine. In place of trees, clawed fingers reach from the ground, meat bared to the world and webs of translucent meat strung between their knobby bones. Smitten can’t resist glancing at his own hands and noting the similarity.

“So. Meat,” the Adversary begins. “Not normal.”

“No,” Smitten agrees. “Meat is most certainly not normal.”

The Adversary takes a few steps forward, hooves sinking into the meat with an array of smushes and slushes and squishes and sounds that can scarcely be put into writing. Smitten follows suit.

He can feel the meat between his toes. Also sticking to the bottoms of his feet, and wrapping above his feet. It’s very squishy.

There’s little reprieve from the meat. If he tries to pull his attention away from the sensations beneath his feet, there’s the sound to worry about. If he ignores the sound, there’s the smell of blood filling the air. And that’s to say nothing of the sight—the only place he can look without finding meat is the back of the Adversary’s head.

At least his focus on her means he notices when she suddenly stops walking, and he’s saved the embarrassment of crashing into her. He still almost does, losing his footing on the meat for a second before she catches him.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

She points across the meat. “That’s another one of you, right?”

Smitten follows her arm to the horizon. She’s right. Between a pair of meat hands is a figure wearing a long, black cloak, veil hiding his face at this distance. Next to him is a smaller figure, with a dress and a tail flicking behind her.

He can’t be sure about the second figure, but he certainly recognizes the first.

The two figures pause, clearly having noticed them at the same time. The shorter one turns to the taller as though saying something, but Smitten has no intention of giving them enough time for him to be the one to approach.

He strides across the meat, for once able to ignore every sensory detail of the stuff, and soon comes face-to-face with the worst one of the bunch.

Cold tilts his head to one side. “Oh. You’ve escaped. Good job.”

Leading with sarcasm, is he? Smitten has no intention of allowing him to have his way. He grips the front of Cold’s cloak and shoves him against the nearest meat hand. “I’m more surprised you didn’t leave your Princess rotting in the basement,” he growls. “Are you just toying with her? Does she know what sort of monster you really are?”

The Princess that was with Cold glances between him and Smitten, brow furrowed as though trying to figure out what to say.

“Ha! And here I thought you weren’t a fighter.” The Adversary seems to have no such issues. “Looks like there’s one person you’re supposed to fight.” She steps up behind him with a squelsh—she’s so tall she doesn’t have to strain to get a good look at Cold’s face. “Don’t know if it’s the same way for him, though.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Cold levels his gaze with Smitten’s, still not bothering to struggle against him. “If he actually followed through on his promises, I might be interested in seeing them play out.”

Smitten tightens his grip. “I am no liar. You would do well to mark what I say—I will drag you into the depths of my misery and leave you there to drown.”

“Been there. Done that.”

The other Princess seems to have finally snapped. “Would one of you shut up and explain what you’re talking about?”

Cold shrugs. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Not that interesting?” Smitten shoves him further into the meat with a wet smeesh. “You murdered my true love in cold blood. And so I took my revenge.”

“Was that really intended to be revenge? I thought it was just an attempt at reuniting with your ‘true love.’ Did you think I would mind being stabbed?”

Has he no limit to his insults? “Perhaps I hoped it would snap you into something capable of sympathy.”

The Princess sighs. “We get it. His brain is broken. Can you cut it out now so we can go somewhere with less meat?”

Fine. In the interest of the Princess being allowed to go somewhere with less meat, Smitten releases his grip on Cold’s cloak. Cold remains suspended on the meat hand for a moment, making no move to extract himself, before he peels off its surface with a long, drawn out squueeemch and lands on his knees with a pair of squishes.

“Sticky,” he observes, then stands (with a pair of ssspops) and turns back to the meat hand. “I wonder—”

“Nope! Not going through this again!” The other Princess grabs Cold by the arms and yanks him away from the meat hand. “Let’s go! We’re leaving!”

The Princess leads the procession, dragging Cold behind her despite his weak protests (“One couldn’t kill me, could it?”). Smitten follows close behind.

“If I may, could you tell me your name?” he asks the Princess. “My own is Smitten, and this—” he indicates the Adversary, who is currently trailing at the back of the pack— “is the Adversary.”

“We’re doing names now?” The Princess wrinkles her nose. “Witch is fine.”

Is she… surprised he’s asking for her name? No, of course she is. Of course Cold would never extend such a courtesy. “I’m guessing he hasn’t bothered to make a proper introduction? Allow me to correct such a grave error. This is—”

“I’m Cold,” says Cold.

The Witch turns to stare at him. “Really? In that cloak?”

“He means it as his name,” Smitten explains. “Though I’m not surprised he didn’t bother to adequately clarify.”

Before any arguments can start up again, the Adversary cuts in. “Do you two know where we’re going?”

The Witch shrugs. “Not really. We were following a river, but then it started to look like blood and he—” she jerks her thumb in Cold’s direction— “started asking me how I thought it’d taste, so I dragged him away from it. Now we’re just heading anywhere that isn’t made of meat. Unless you have a better idea?”

“No. Anywhere that isn’t meat is fine. Besides, now we know there really are other people out there.” Smitten hazards a glance back to see that the Adversary’s face has split into a sharp-toothed grin. “Which means there’s someone out there I can fight.”

The Witch whirls around so sharply Smitten fears she may have given herself whiplash. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Smitten tunes out the remainder of the discussion. He’s already heard it all. He doesn’t need a second reminder.

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