***Devon Whittle***

To Her Majesty,

We remain unceasingly grateful for the crown's financial support. It is no doubt that without your generous aid that our mission to retrieve Princess Poppy would not be possible.

We share your concerns and have conferred over the accuracy of our prediction that the town the dragon attacked truly was Robin's Nest. Unfortunately, we had arrived to the same conclusion: aside from the kingdom's largest trading port, nothing to the east of Crown's Peak could have produced such a large mass of smoke.

We believe that we will arrive at Robin's Nest within the next three days. There we should uncover more clues leading to Princess Poppy's whereabouts.

As always, the health and prosperity of the crown is in our prayers.

Your Humble Servant,

Devon Whittle

I reread the letter another two, three, four times before deciding that it's decent enough to stamp with a royal seal.

So far Queen Eliza doesn't seem to have an issue with the vagueness of my reports. Her responses have been similar: short, courteous, and unwilling to go into detail.

The arrangement suits me just fine. After all, there is no way to truthfully recount what happened with the witch without the Queen demanding our immediate return. I shudder to think what she would do to us if Nathaniel proudly traipsed the scarecrow in front of her. The thing is a complete mockery of the person Rose used to be.

I softly whistle to the raven perched several branches above. In response, its head cocks to meet my eyes. Letting out a small caw, the bird hops from branch to branch until it reaches the lowest one, just above my head.

"You feel up to the job?" I ask, holding the letter up. Its pupils dilate as it hones in on the sheen of the wet seal.

Before tying the letter to its leg, I take a moment to study its bandaged wings. A couple days ago a fox or some other predator had broken into its cage. There had been a worrying amount of blood, but surprisingly enough the bird took little to no time to recover.

"Devon?"

I go tense but relax when I catch blonde cowlicked hair peeking out from the corner of my eye. As the only other completely sane person here, Connie's company is nothing less than therapeutic.

"Yes?" I ask, gently tugging at the raven's injured wing. It relents after a moment of resistance, allowing me to observe the limb at its full wingspan.

"Uh. I was wondering..." he trails off.

Connie's a little quiet at times, but never hesitant. I release the wing and turn to him.

"I was wondering if," he continues, glancing away, "y'know, if maybe I could ask a favor. If it ain't too much to ask."

I glance down at the scrunched up paper in his left hand. Maybe it's a list of personal things he wants to buy? That's fair. I could hardly expect him to join a quest without any sort of payment.

"Of course," I reply. "Just let me send this letter off and I'll see what I can do."

"Well, it's about that. I was wondering if I could use that bird of yours to send this here home," he says, waving the crumpled paper. Suddenly embarrassed, he shrugs and lets his hand fall to his side.

"Oh," I say.

"I know that bird is for official stuff only, but the thing is - I didn't really say too much when I left," he says, shifting on his feet. "Uh, more like nothin' at all. Just a note. And it wasn't a very good one. Pa must be worried sick."

It suddenly strikes me that I never once questioned the consequences of Connie's abrupt decision to join our quest. He had simply been inserted into the team and I suppose, in my mind, that decision severed any connection to the life he had prior.

I straighten my woolen vest, feeling a bit stupid.

"Of course. That's... very important. Keeping in touch with family, that is. I'll have the letter sent off right away," I say, holding my hand out.

"That's awful gracious of you," Connie replies, his face splitting into a crooked smile. With the help of the herbs the bruises on his face are all but gone. I couldn't help but feel a little satisfied that my services are of use, even if it's just for the little things.

Connie stands there for a few more seconds, debating on adding something else. Just when I think he's about to say it, I see a flicker in his eyes that tells me he's decided otherwise. He clears his throat.

"Nathaniel and, uh, Queen Rose found us a ferry to cross the river for," he says instead, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. "Looks like it'll save us time. Big enough for them horses too, I think. 'S what the Queen said."

"You know you don't have to call it that when he's not around, right?"

Connie purses his lips upwards and shrugs. "'S got a nice ring to it."

I almost argue, but decide to let it be. I'm fine as long as Connie doesn't seriously buy into the whole mess.

"Where's the ferry?" I ask.

"Down the river, keep to the left," he answers. "Want some help getting the horses goin'?"

"I appreciate the offer," I reply, "but someone needs to keep an eye on those two."

"Roger," Connie says, tipping his hat. Although he doesn't say anything else, the way he starts into a light jog tells me he's probably just too polite to agree with the sentiment out loud.

I stare at his retreating figure until it disappears into a sloping hill, then back to the letter in my hands. For the first time I try to imagine what his story was before it merged into ours. He hadn't mentioned a mother, but for some reason it's difficult to imagine him growing up without one. Siblings, too, the kind that would chase each other under the table during supper, only settling down once they were chided by a tired but kindly father that would end every evening by lighting a pipe under the window. The smoke from the pipe would be the same silver-grey as the hair dusting the blonde on his head, and their home would always smell like firewood.

Unbidden, my fingers begin tugging at the worn folds of the letter, but I only catch a glimpse of an ink smear before it's plucked out of my hands and Nathaniel's disapproving tutting rings in my ears.

"Don't you know that letters are private affairs, Mr. Whittle?" he says, eyeing me from under his hood, sternly waving the paper at me. Then he breaks into his signature bloody grin. "Good thing I'm here to keep an eye on you, huh?"

"What are you doing, Nathaniel?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"Oh, you know, just heroically intervening a breach of privacy."

I glance around, both relieved and concerned that the scarecrow is nowhere to be seen. It's usually near impossible to pry Nathaniel from its side.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Finally concerned for the well-being of Her Majesty? How dutiful of you," Nathaniel replies. I can't tell if he's being sincere or sarcastic - at times his misplaced loyalty manages to eclipse even his own ego. "It's good to see that you're finally starting to return the favor. She's always worried about you, Gods know why. But I guess that's how a real queen works," he finishes, his last words tinged with pride.

I don't bother with a reply.

"In fact," he continues, undeterred, "she even sent me all this way to escort you to her debut performance, graciously ensuring your safety and comfort."

There were several things I could have pointed out, such as an escort being unnecessary for a fifty foot walk, or that me being alone with him was neither safe nor comfortable.

"Well, thank you for the offer," I reply, "but I'm a bit busy-"

"-being nosy?" Nathaniel replies, holding Connie's letter between his middle and forefinger.

I try to grab it but he whisks it behind his back with a sharp smirk, the glint that I knew would be in his eye obscured by the woolen hood.

"You can get this later, pretty boy. But for now, duty calls." He pulls the letter from behind his back and turns it over in his hands. I'm about to make another grab for it, but then he looks up at me with an expression that stops me short. "Listen, I know you're smart and all, but I just gotta ask - how were you planning on sending this thing?"

"Wait," I say, eyes narrowing, "how much of the conversation were you-"

"Nah, seriously, focus on the question for a second. You have, like, no fucking idea where the kid even lives. And even if you did," he adds, "alright, even if you did, how would you explain that to a bird? Would it hurt to take a second to think before getting his hopes up?"

The raven must have an incredibly advanced internal navigational system to be able to find us every time it finished sending a report to Queen Eliza. However, as much as I loathed to admit it, Nathaniel is right: tapping into that intelligence to instill a completely new destination is an ability beyond my skill set.

"Ah, well, forget it," he says, waving off my silence. "Connie seems like a pretty understanding kid. I'm sure he'll forgive you after the initial wave of disappointment permanently shatters his trust." Tucking the letter into his pocket, he jerks his head over to where our camp is. "Come on, show's about to start."

Hot aggravation smolders in my chest, but it can't be wrought into words I can use to defend myself.

Even when he's wrong, he can't lose, I realize, watching him eye me as he casually drums his burned fingers against the pommel of his sword. Should Nathaniel's silver tongue ever fail him, his blade could happily take its place.

When he starts walking I have no choice but to follow, hating every step of the way.

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Annnd sorry for that mini-hiatus. How long has it been? Weeks? My bad. I suck. I mean I'm also busy with life, but I suck. 

For critiques: How do you feel about where the story's heading? Grammatical errors? Just do ya thing.

All comments and votes are appreciated B-)