The Princely Wizard

Silence surrounded the lovers. They were in a cave, a place of wonder, of distances traveled and obstacles overcome. His fingers were lost in her hair...it was so soft and it had been so long since he´d seen her, been able to touch her. He sat his chin on the top of her head and tickled her sides, and she jabbed him softly in his stomach--she needed no reminder of her height. She laughed--oh, how he loved to hear her laugh--like gusts of wind through wind chimes. His arms surrounded her in a bear hug, and he could feel her heart beat against his chest. He pulled back from her a moment, nudged her chin up and was surprised to see her brown eyes glisten with a teary sheen. A single tear fell down her cheek as she smiled ruefully, obviously disappointed in herself that she´d let it slip. He brushed it away with his calloused knuckle. He look down at her and bent to kiss her...

* * *

Ron awoke to the smell of smoke. Panic shook him from the shrouded place where he was alone with Herm--Buttercup and happy, and his heart constricted. He jumped from his hammock on the lower level of the Queen´s Pride, the vessel en route to America and his new future.

Buttercup had seen him off nearly a month ago, and what a long month it had been. They were able to write, for the Queen´s Pride often stopped in towns long enough for him to tell her where he would be next. Her letters, tidily written with loops in all the right places and every "t" and "i" perfectly placed, told him of the provincial happenings back home with "I love you" written in a million ways that made him blush. Ron spent his days mopping the deck and learning all he could from the crusty sailors--everything from making an effective sleeping draught to knitting. He earned some money that he was putting away for their arrival in America by challenging overconfident (and most often drunk) sailors to a game of chess that was always quickly won. Life aboard the Queen´s Pride was simple, and he missed Buttercup very much.

He quickly banished all thoughts of Buttercup as his stomach dropped--he could smell charring wood. The deck! Ron leapt from his hammock and dashed up the steps. He knew at once what was happening--at their last stop, the crew had heard whisperings that the Dread Pirate Roberts, the feared and ruthless pirate who never left any survivors, had been haunting the Carolina seacoasts. The captain, a brave but foolish man, had thought their course to be far enough away from the troublesome area and continued as planned--they´d die because of it, naturally.

He had to get to the deck--the captain and the rest of the crew would already be rallied there with guns and swords ready. "O´Brian! Wilson! Oy, Captain Toby, where are you?"

He hadn´t even made it all the way up the steps before he was cracked on the head with the blunt end of a sword, and he knew no more.

* * *

The first morning after his departure, realizing how far away he was to be, Buttercup promptly fell into a slump and refused to leave her room. After all, the love of her life had fled, life had no meaning, how could she face the future, et cetera, et cetera. But after about three seconds of that she realized that he was out in the World now, getting closer to London every minute. Would he want her moping like this? Of course not. He would want her happy, and happy she would be, because every moment he was away meant it was one more moment closer to the time they´d be together. So she passed the time primping--she´d never been a tidy girl, and bathing, brushing her hair, and all that seemed just the mindless busywork that would make the days pass quicker.

Her hair was the color of deep chocolate, the kind that makes the roof of your mouth tingle, and it had never been cut, so a thousand strokes took time, but all the better, for it ate away the minutes, and besides, wouldn´t he be surprised at how shiny it was when she stepped off the boat in America. Her skin was the color of wintry cream, and she scrubbed every inch of it past glistening, which wasn´t much fun (and a bit painful, really), but wouldn´t he be shocked when she stepped off the boat in America. The time that wasn´t spent on chores or primping was spent reading and learning all she could, which was so much more fun than the primping was, and she was excited, for wouldn´t he be amazed at how clever she was when she stepped off the boat in America. She´d always been an apt student and had a passion for learning, but horseback riding had always held more allure for her than sitting in her father´s worn leather chair with a book. But as she devoured books, she devoured minutes, and wouldn´t he be proud of her when she stepped off the boat in America, clean, sparkling, and smart as a whip.

Her potential was quickly becoming realized. In just two weeks time, she had jumped from twentieth to fifteenth, an unheard of leap in such short amount of time. Just a week after that, she was already ninth and moving. She was nowhere near the most beautiful woman in the world yet, but the transformation was unbelievable. Just reading his last letter nudged her up to eighth, for it was that which was doing it for her more than all else--her love for him wouldn´t stop growing, and she dazzled people. Even the village girls would smile at her and nod, and some of them would even ask how he was faring, which was usually a mistake unless they had a lot of spare time, for when someone asked how he was, she told them. "He´s supreme, as usual--he´s the Chess Champion, did you know? Yes, he´s even beat the captain, he´s quite clever at it...He´s learning so much, being away and all, but do you suppose that the separation is good for us? I´ve read that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but bother, can it be too fond, do you think? I´ve been reading these wonderful old books of sonnets, and maybe I´ll even pen one myself. Think he´d like it? Oh, he´d think it was silly, I´m sure, but perhaps silliness is just what he needs right now..." She could go on for hours. Sometimes it got a little tough for listeners to maintain the strictest of attention, but they did their best, since her love was so obviously pure, unadulterated, and genuine.

Which is why news of his death hit her the way it did.

She came home from delivering the milk one day five weeks after his departure and her parents were ashen. "Off the Carolina coast," her father whispered.

"Without warning. At night," her mother added.

Buttercup sat down.

"Pirates," said her father.

Silence.

"Well. Out with it. What happened to him?" Buttercup demanded.

More silence.

"It was Roberts," said her father. "The Dread Pirate Roberts."

"Oh," she said. "The one who never leaves survivors."

"Yes."

Silence. Buttercup took a deep breath.

"Was he stabbed? Did he drown? I wonder if he was asleep, if he died in bed--I do hope he was warm. He told me once that it got dreadfully cold in his cabin. Perhaps they whipped him dead? I´m being silly, forgive me." She was speaking very fast. "As if the way they got him mattered. Excuse me, I have to vomit."

She went to her room and stayed there many days. She neither ate nor slept and cried just a little.

When at last she came out, her eyes were dry. She had never looked as well, actually. She had entered the room an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder. She was a thing of glass--a distant beauty, hollow inside, with eyes that could tell no more of her thoughts than a tree could of a summer´s day.

She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years and she didn´t seem to care at all.

"You´re all right?" her mother asked, offering her a mug of tea.

Buttercup nodded, took the tea. "Fine," she said. She sipped the mug. There was a very long pause. "But I will never love again."

She never did.