***Nathaniel Derrington***

Everyone needs to lighten the fuck up.

Life is short, so we all gotta let loose and live a little before it ends. It's something that took me eighteen years to figure out, but at least I finally got it. People with sticks permanently shoved up their asses (like a certain medical apprentice) will probably live the rest of their todays worried about tomorrows until they're lying on their death bed and suddenly realize how damned pointless it all was. And by then it's too late.

But hey, to each their own. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and daises are popping out of the grass like ripe zits. I'm feeling great. So is Leprosy, I think.

I found her in a neglected farm in a neglected stall on a little hill a ways from the royal castle, reeking of shit and piss. Usually I would have ignored her, but I needed a horse. And she needed a rider. Simple math. 

Her previous owner tried to stop the symbiotic relationship from forming, but I have a strict non-tolerance policy when it comes to villains that try to get in the way of justice and true friendship. So now she's a makeshift scarecrow guarding a rotting pumpkin patch. Way better than the old one she had up, in my opinion - that thing barely looked human.

In hindsight it probably wasn't the most practical of ideas since she'll attract more crows than she scares away, but on the bright side I don't think they'll be bothering her pumpkins anytime soon. I get the feeling that pretty boy riding ahead of me wouldn't appreciate the irony, so I keep those details to myself. 

Okay, so, maybe he's not really pretty - too manly for that. Tall, with broad shoulders and muscles and shit, which is weird because I got the idea that he spent his time at the castle watering sprouts and eating flowers or whatever the hell herbal doctors do.

The light catches in his thick black hair, giving it a rare silver-grey tint that only appears whenever the sun hits it at a certain angle. I think of the sight as a sort of good luck charm, like a four leaf clover or a rabbit's foot. 

"Is there something on my head?" Devon asks, looking back at me. His grey eyes are wary, the mind working behind them slotted with thoughts so surgically clean cut and precise I'll never figure them out. 

"No, just thinking how lucky we are to have you with us," I say in a singsong voice, glancing to my left. "Isn't that right, Connie boy?"

"Uh-huh," he replies with an agreeable nod. He can't talk too much. The herbs Devon applied to his face would speed up the healing process, but wouldn't do much numbing for the pain. That medicine would apparently cancel the effects of the initial herbs. In short, Connie chose a speedy, painful recovery over a slow, comfortable one. 

Even though he doesn't look like much, I like the kid. He's got spunk. But that doesn't mean I completely trust him yet.

The scroll they managed to steal back had some of Connie's blood on it. And, well, a few drops conveniently landed right on the seal. Once we picked him up for the ride we figured it wasn't that big of a deal, but what if we hadn't taken him? Even if Devon and I did the whole scroll seal activation just between the two of us, there was a chance that Connie would be looped into the contract anyway because of how conveniently his blood landed on the damned thing. 

He could have planned this all along, had some buddies waiting for us somewhere, ready to slit our throats once we closed our eyes for the night in the middle of nowhere so he could have the scroll to himself. Could barely sleep after I realized that. Drove me nuts. There were a couple times I almost sent him off to see his buddy Mack, but I always managed to remember in time that Devon seemed to like Connie and that I actually did too, even though I forgot sometimes. 

Most of the suspicion ebbed off after a few days. I'd been able to count at least twelve opportunities where he could have tried to off us with a little bit of creativity and quick thinking, but nothing ever happened. 

I guess it helped that he's actually a pretty useful kid, too. At his suggestion we traded in most of our stuff and replaced it with commoner equipment that usually turned out to be just as good and, in some cases, even better than the shit the crown gave us. The worn leather saddle I'm using on Leprosy is a lot more comfortable than the ones the Constallion family provided, which were heavy and stiff with the weight of stitches thickly woven into dense, complicated patterns.

I smooth Leprosy's tangled mane with my left hand. She flinches at first but relaxes after a minute or two. Progress.

Suddenly I feel the cords of her neck stiffen, the muscle tension increased by her gauntness. Her ears swerve back and forth, hungry for any scrap of sound.

I start whistling a friendly, upbeat tune as I grasp hilt of my sword, slowly slithering it out. It's a compulsion I picked upto hide the sound of blade scraping against metal back when my scabbard was made of iron. Even though I don' have that problem with leather, it's a hard habit to kick. 

Once I finish the tune I hear it, a faint tingling in the distance, so small and quiet I wouldn't have picked it up without Leprosy's nervousness or years of honing my own senses. 

I coax Leprosy to a trot, leaving Devon and Connie behind.

"Where are you going?" Devon asks, what could have been concern tinted by suspicion. 

I wheel Leprosy around and give him one of my most winning smiles.

"If you must know, I'll be riding ahead to get a bit of fresh air," I reply, tossing my voice over my shoulder, keeping my unsheathed sword hidden behind the bulk of Leprosy's body. "It hasn't been exactly pleasant riding behind you all morning. Have you bathed since we started this trip?"

I dig my heels into Leprosy's skinny ribs before he can respond, breaking her into a nervous canter.

Yesterday the landscape shifted from nice little farming fields to rolling valleys and lolling hills, the kind that made you want to stop what you were doing, climb to the very top of one, and take a nap forever. But then it changed. Over the course of the past few hours, something shifted, little by little, so little you didn't really notice until you blinked, looked around, and realized how completely fucked everything was.

At the beginning it was normal enough, hills nice and round and smooth like someone had run their hands over them again and again until they were just the way they liked it. But at some point the hills started looking a little uneven, like the same person got sloppy about the symmetry. Nothing too bad, though. But it was something.

Then after a while they started getting twitchy, glancing over their shoulder at all the land they would have to mold. They had a lot of shit to do. Wouldn't finish with the pace they were going. Out with the tender smoothing and patting and in came the shoving, all impatient fists and elbows. Hills stayed baby-smooth, but started getting lumpy, awkward, crooked.

Then they realized that there was no end. No matter how fast they sculpted, no matter how far the hills spread, they'd never be done. None of it mattered. They pulled the ground, kicked it, shoved it, screaming and hitting and grasping until everything was a surreal mess of loops and blob and grass.  

I round pass a hill that's keeling over like a drunk about to vomit over the side of a ship, then around a tall one, about three stories, with a base so thin I could probably send it toppling over with  a well aimed kick. The small tingling sound gets closer and closer with each hill I pass, but just when I think I'm about to find it, it vanishes altogether. I adjust my grip on my sword and go still, waiting. Silence doesn't necessarily mean a lost target. If anything, it usually means you fucked up and the target is watching you.

Suddenly a humanoid shadow falls over my shoulder.

There's a slight whistle of sharp air, a flash of blade glinting against sun - a silhouette of decapitation - but no, it's wrong, that's not how a sword feels sliding through flesh -

The body - no, it's a doll of some kind - falls to the ground with a clash, sending kitchen utensils bouncing at Leprosy's feet. She rears, kicking at the air in silent terror.  Every time her hooves touch the ground they bang on a spoon or a pot or a pan, freaking her out even more. The sound brings Devon and Connie rushing over, but I'm too busy trying not to fall and break my legs to wave hello.

"What-" Devon starts, but something cuts him off.

Another shadow appears on the ground between us, growing bigger and bigger until a bulky figure lands on the spot, the heavy cloak around their shoulders billowing like smoke. They stay hunched over for a few moments before rising, little by little, in a slow, inhuman way that makes you think they'll just keep unfolding and never stop, which makes it a surprise when they finally do. Sooner than I would have suspected, too. They're only about five feet tall.

Leprosy has gone completely still at this point, but the terror is still there, locking her limbs in place. I know I won't be able to rely on her if anything happens so I slowly shift in my saddle, getting ready to jump off if the figure makes any sudden movements towards Devon and Connie.

The cloak shifts a little and the hood slips off. All I get a is a view of a messy silver-grey bun tied back in place with a strand of straw, but something about it makes my jaw lock. I adjust the grip on my sword and set my feet on the grass, each movement quiet and calculated.

"None of that now, dearie," she says, and with that something in me cracks. 

If I'm wrong I can glue everything back together, but then she faces me and the fractures run down my throat through my spine and into every limb into every joint. The thing smiles at me with beady, glittering black eyes and I need to grab onto Leprosy's mane to stay standing, only I stumble because her hair slides through my grip and I leave a red muddy stain trailing behind.

I need to wash my hands, I think, because I do and it burns and I can't think about anything else right now.

"Hello, boys!" she says, her head creaking back to Devon and Connie. "Lovely day for a stroll, isn't it?"

They both glance at me, at each other. I want to scream at them to kill it, to run, anything, but I can't move, I can't fucking move.

"It sure is, ma'am," Connie replies politely, slowly, like each word hurts and I know it does, he shouldn't be talking, not to anyone, not to that thing, and then he looks up at an angle that's really gotta fucking hurt like hell, the only thing the kid's got going for him is that his hat shields his bruised eyes from the sun's glare and I need to tell him to go but I can't so he won't. "That's a big fall." He jabs his thumb towards Devon. "He's a doctor."

"Well, aren't you just the sweetest thing. But as you can see, I'm doing just fine!" she croons. "Although I most definitely could have used someone of his expertise not too long ago."

Don't listen. She's a monster, a freak, a demon - 

- a witch. 

When I realize this, she some of her power slips, just a little, just enough, the curse shatters and it feels so damn good to be able to flex my fingers and then my legs and the sword and -

"Nathaniel!"

It's Devon. He sounds scared. 

The blade shimmers in the sunlight, hovering inches away from the witch's neck, her scarred, stitched neck. And then her curse goes creeping back into my skin and I can't move a muscle, all I can do is stare at the body on the ground that isn't really a body, not the kind I thought it was, it's...

"Not very original, this one," the witch scoffs, not even bothering to look at me. "You can give it another go, but playing by the same formula won't change the results."

"What are you talking about?" Devon asks, and I want to shake him, push him, tell him to run before she fills his ears with poison and rots his brain, his brilliant brain, from the inside out.

"Your friend had already tried to play executioner with me once before. What an unpleasant first impression! Back in my day, the youth had much more respect for their elders." 

No, shut up, stop it, you lying hag, you whore, shut up, shut up... 

But of course she doesn't listen. Instead she opens her soft, wrinkled mouth and tells them a story: 

One day an old woman was tending her garden when she witnessed a stranger guiding her mare out of its stall. It was her only horse. She needed it to transport her pumpkins to the market, so she tried to stop the thief. Alas, her efforts were in vain! Before she could even get out a single word, the thief cut her down and nailed her arms to a wooden post, leaving her to bleed out and die among crows and weeds.

I drop my sword and take a step back. That story, it's different from the one with Mack, for some stupid fucking reason it is, and I know they'll treat it that way. I have to fix it.

"She's a witch," I explain. "She's a witch, she shouldn't have been there, not so close to the royal family -"

"Is that what's considered an apology these days? Not much of a knight, is he? No matter - I doubt there will ever be an appropriate apology for attempted murder."

Her cloak shifts and she lifts an arm for them to inspect. Devon takes in a sharp breath and Connie turns away. So do I.

"Nathaniel - you didn't... You didn't really do that. The missus just got the wrong fella." Connie says after a moment, taking a step forward. Then he takes another, this one less confident than the first. "Right?"

The hope in his voice is hard to listen to. I want to cover my ears, but I can't. I want to open my mouth and push out the words he wants to hear, but I can't. She's a witch, I finally tell him, but that's not it, that's not the right answer, so he takes a step back and another and another and I can feel the hope curdle into fear and I want to reach out and yank him back but I know it'll only scare him, that I scare him.

My eyes snap back to the witch, to her glittering black eyes and red saggy cheeks and soft, smirking, mouth, and I realize my mistake. 

I should have done more than cut off her head. I should have snapped her wrists and popped her eyes and ripped out her guts, should have chopped her into so many pieces she never could have hoped to stitch herself back together, should have fed her to the crows myself, carefully, bit by bit. 

But I didn't. I was sloppy. Focused too much on the immediate task on hand, relied too much on gut instinct, didn't think ahead. The sun was beating hard on my head and everything was hot and it was hard to breathe and I didn't know what I was doing, didn't have a plan, just knew I had to get Leprosy out safe and get back to the person that needed me. 

But I was careless. And now she would manipulate my friends and turn them against me, a hard but fair price for a lesson I didn't learn the first time around.

They're all staring at me, and that's when I realize I'm laughing. I try to smother the giggles with my hand but it's red and slimy and cracked and doesn't do the job at all, so I turn away, let my back take the brunt of their accusing stares.

Fine. She could have this one. But I'll never lose again. I'll make sure of it.

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All comments and votes are well appreciated :D

For critiques: How was Nathaniel's voice? My goal was to make him sound rational in his own mind, but in a way that would completely nutters if you took a step back and observed from another POV. Because nobody actually ever feels insane, even if they are. So I thought that would be a good way to go about it.