The wizened storyteller took his usual place, at one corner of the busy square. Around him the city's denizens shopped and talked, and many stopped to listen in for a bit. For this man who called himself Faruq, truly had a gift for relating stories. He was grossly obese, but few had ever seen him eat; fewer still knew where he lived. But everyone knew his deep, resonant voice, and his laughter. And how he could bring children to tears with pleasure.
On one night, he was summoned to the Palace. This was truly where he made his money and gained his great stomach. There, at the whim of the Princess, he dined at the head table, mixing his great stories in between his sumptuous dining. The Princess, along with her very large entourage, beckoned him to tell the tale of that faraway Princess, locked in the highest tower in the unfindable castle, and cursed with the most heinous of curses.
Faruq told the tale, imbibing it with just the right amount of allusion and spice. The Princess had the grace to blush one or twice, while her handmaidens roared with gleeful laughter at the salacious tale. It was a rather trite story, how only true love could break the curse and set this far-off Princess free from her bonds of the curse. Oh, the handmaidens - and even the Princess had said - how delightful would it be to find that first kiss of true love.
***
His parents had booted him from their hovel when he was a mere boy. He fell into the city's great underbelly, where his dirty, smelly self managed to find work now and again, and managed to get the food he needed to grow. His father, a captain of the palace guard, was a brutal man, large and immensely powerful with tree trunks for legs and giant hands that were coarse from hard labor. Gavin grew into that same frame, large and stocky, and powerful. He was soon noticed not by the palace guards, who all knew him on sight and knew to avoid him at all costs, lest they incur his father's wrath, but rather from the shady mercenaries who got supplies from time to time in the city.
One of them saw him engage in a hand to hand fight over food. Gavin was the victor, and the mercenary captain who observed the proceedings saw the natural grace of the young man, and wanted to harness that hate. And so he did, and Gavin engaged in adventures for nearly ten years. He carried with him two deep, ugly scars, one on his upper arm where it had nearly been chopped off by an axe, and the other on his abdomen, where an arrow had pierced his armor and penetrated him. He had very nearly died after both injuries, and was now a tad slower than he had been, but was as thick, powerful and brutish as his father - at least in battle.
In camp, he had always been a loner. Men followed him not because of his words, but because of his bravery. He cared for his men, and did not scream or berate or punish, but worked to improve. Gavin recognized that his health and life were often due to the abilities of his men, so he led them, and led them well.
It was with a great deal of remorse that the same mercenary captain who'd spotted him on the streets so long ago now shook his hand as an equal, and wished him good fortune. Gavin was tired of fighting, tired of the life, tired of violence for pay. So he mounted his war horse, a trusty steed who like him was getting on in the years. Horse and rider trotted slowly into the west, into the setting sun. Neither man nor animal knew where they might stop. The captain watched him until he was gone, and then issued a small sigh, and a small head shake.
***
Somewhere far to Gavin's west, a most beautiful woman sat glaring at the setting sun, as if her scowl and fury could stop it. Nothing, she knew, could stop it. And the moment that the last direct rays of sunlight hit her tower, the change happened.
If she could go back in time! Oh, she would not have said such cruel, unkind words to the old woman and her skinny, bumbling child. She would have been that kind young woman her mother had always told her to be. But no, of course not, she mused. She had been the Princess, through and through, haughty and demeaning. The old woman and young girl had been sent sprawling, for this Princess was a sturdy woman.
It seemed that overnight on her eighteenth birthday that every dress she owned had suddenly become too short, far too tight at the waist and even tighter at her chest. In the days following, she would lie in her bed at night, her hands cradling these new growths upon her chest. She knew what they were and what they were for - to give suckle to babes - but she was astonished at their growth rate, and how heavy they were. The tiny strands of hair that grew sparsely between her legs seemed to erupt into a thick mat of coarse hair. The first night she lay awake, stiff on her bed, wishing the pulsing heat between her legs would just go away, she reached down to try and rub it away, like a bad itch. She had gasped then, both from the wetness that clung to her fingers and the intense sensation that came with it.
How often she explored her own body from that night forward! The way a gentle caress brought a deep pleasure, and how fast, hard movements on that one little spot led to the ultimate in pleasures. She touched and touched, learning about herself. Yet it was deeply shameful, or so her Mother constantly said, and she only did it on those nights when sleep would not come because of the same pulsing heat.
Her monthly was a rude shock, worse yet was the pain and rage that came with them. It was in the midst of one of those painful days where she had struck out so viciously at the woman. She ought to have stayed home, but listening to her Mother, the Queen herself, was equally out of the question.
The woman was a witch of sorts, and laid upon her a curse so vile that she was forced to flee the kingdom. She became an unperson overnight, once the curse's effects became known. She was seen as a freak, a demon, and driven out from her homeland. She wandered aimlessly, before finally arriving at the castle that sat atop the land's highest hills. Despite its position, the castle seemed shrouded in darkness, and she let herself in. The door slammed shut behind her, and she could not open it, nor any other window. The castle became her prison, and there she sat for a hundred years.
She did not need food nor water. She was left alone to find remorse for her actions, but it was at night that the vileness of the curse was truly revealed. How might she escape? For decades, she wondered and hoped, and then every so often a sterling knight would come calling. How had her story become known? Did they know about the curse?
Each time, the doors slammed shut on the knight, and he was not able to rescue her. Instead, he was forced to see the effects of her curse. Every one of those knights had taken their own life, or she had slain them in her own fury at their refusals to help her. She was a monster, and the decades of this isolation molded her mind into something deeply poisonous. Yet hope was retained, and it was this thin thread of hope that kept her from going completely, utterly insane.
***
Gavin's ride led him through village to glen, city to plain. Conversant enough in the local tongues, he was able to conduct trade to gain the food and water for himself and his horse, and the occasional item to assist him. His size and permanent scowl cowed most people, and once in a city, three ruffians thought he was an easy mark. Only one survived, though missing a limb. His savagery preceded him into these small towns where rumors flew faster than the eagles above.
He said few words and engaged in conversation. Always he was driven forward, never to look back, never to contemplate. Contemplation meant he was forced to consider his own wayward mind, and that could not - must not - happen. Now or ever.
So steadily he rode westward. He came to that forest, and there felt a compulsion to move forward. Must move forward. Something, he felt, was calling to him. A fellow rider had joined him. They spoke seldom, but neither was eager to ditch the other and ride alone. So they broke camp and exchanged their sparse words while cooking their day's kill over a fire. That night, Gavin suffered through dreams. He awoke early and in the blackest of moods, and barely said anything to his companion.
That compulsion was driving him forward, and his companion too. They rode, not hard, for the woods were deep and ancient and footing was treacherous, but steadily. Then, finally, to the end of the forest, to that great castle. A tower sat high above, overlooking the lands. His companion unsheathed his sword.
"I will go first," he declared, "for this is my destiny."
Normally loathe to allow another to lead him, he was about to object when some hidden sense warned him off. He had never had many "gut instinct" moments before in his life, but each time that he had, he had heeded such thoughts. Each time that he had, he had lived whereas he might have died. So he patted his sword, and wordlessly opened his arms, gesturing to his companion to ride on. So he watched as his companion rode to the castle, and flung the great doors open. The crash of their closure reached his ears. Then, nothing for the longest time, until the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The silence was deafening, and he found himself staring at the castle, awaiting his companion's return. It never happened.
For the first night in as many as he could remember back, his sleep was deep and unbroken by dreams. Neither the women he'd slain or the children, or the men who's heads he'd taken, appeared to haunt him. It was a peaceful night, and he woke knowing that something was deeply amiss. Was this to be his final day on this planet?
His companion, though neither as broad in shoulder nor powerful in muscle, had been a skilled fighter. Gavin had witnessed that first-hand. So whatever lay in wait in that castle was a most lethal foe. Whatever had bested his companion was certainly a worthy opponent, he finally decided. He chose not to wear the heavy, loud armor that he had donned so many times before battle. Something told him that he would not need it, that speed would be more necessary than raw strength, cunning more important than directness. So it was only with a boot blade and his trusty blade in his usual place upon his hip that he wore while walking up to the castle. His horse was untethered, and free to go, though she remained loyal and merely stood, grazing idly while waiting for his return. He hoped that his horse would not have to wait forever.
The door, heavy as iron, swung easily once pushed. It opened into the large ballroom of the castle. Now this looked familiar in a way, like his own castle back home. He stepped inside, and did not jump when the door crashed shut with an echoing boom. Rather than stalk inside, he stood and took stock of the place. For a far-off castle, he thought, it should have been in an advanced state of ruin. But it looked perfect, its walls solid and dry, and the foundation as sturdy as upon the day it opened.
