LET'S GO BACK TO THE STREETS. We were there last time-you know, the quiet, dirty streets-with one of the Haenraets children, Romhild.

Yes, I said Haenraets children. There's Elsese Haenraets, otherwise known as Penelope Haenraets-they always called her by her middle name, she wasn't fit to be an Elsese-and Reginald, the youngest of them all-just about 13 years old-and of course there was Beatrice Haenraets.

Beatrice Haenraets ran away. I know the reason, but to intrigue the reader I shall not say at the moment, just to keep you wondering-perhaps every narrator, author, storyteller does this, but doesn't try to inform you. Be thankful that I did, at least. Now I can keep you wondering about whatever happened to Beatrice.

Eh-no apologies needed.

We could just move to the lovely princess-not technically princess but sure is treated it like one-and the boy. Not prince, just boy. He prefers it that way, the boy that was forced to be like his-father, but not really-and he hates it.

But then again your lovely narrator doesn't want too. Let me describe some parts of the street, just to get your mind off Hans of Nottingham:

Multiple whines from Reginald.

Shushing from Romhild.

Romhild's foot crushing Reginald's

Reginald screaming for a second and then Romhild clasping her hand over his mouth.

Reggie-just to annoy him, the nickname was always used by his siblings-scoffing.

A young peasant girl looking at the hooded figure and the boy with smudges of charcoal on his face, startled.

The siblings stopped arguing, and looked at the girl in front of them. Her legs trembled like the rain, almost about to collapse, her eyes filled with guilt, her mouth curled up like flower petals, hair of fire, looking nothing like a peasant with the stars smeared across the fire, it seemed like the stars and nebulas above given her a crown. In the girls-who was a star-hand, there was a loaf of bread.

Reginald and Romhild looked at the girl, with tantalizing urge to run away, but the star girl-named Geraldine-looked frail as a wilted flower, the type of wilted blossom that never bothered to get up again, the ribcage was clearly visible and her bones-although connected like constellations-were weak and starved for love, food, and happiness.

And Robin Hood stayed with Little John, went to the star girl's family, giving them more bread-they sneaked into a fair lady's home, taking the freshly baked loaves and the grapes, even though the siblings hated grapes-and that's how Robin Hood began.

But isn't it quite strange? To become a beautiful star, you must start from a massive explosion. You must let it out, and you must break, you must cry with your heart aching, with your soul leaving and love breaking. But, please note that after all of that-you will be born again, your armies and walls around your heart so no one can get in, your soul coming back and finding someone and falling in love all over again. Surely, it will get better, star child.

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HANS STRAIGHTENED HIS COLLAR. He looked at his reflection, annoyed. His father was having one of his social events again, and as any rebellious son would, he hated going to them. He met me there, actually, and that's how I started writing these tales, I promised him. Hans was quite dear to me; there was just one flaw.

Hans thought of him as a young god. He thought he was powerful, his mortal hands were desperate for power, and it felt like he deserved the power. He wanted a crown on his head, he was thirsty for power, his hands were greedy, and he was Hans of Nottingham.

Not Hans of Nottingham-he was Hans Olawumi, adopted into the bloodline of heirs of Nottingham, and that's why he felt so imperfect. He didn't look like his sister-yes, she finally accepted his loving sister as his actual sister-with the eyes of a dreamer, and hair full of stardust. His eyes were speckled with sawdust and hair full of the earth, underground.

Most of the readers probably know about Hades and Persephone, right? He was Hades, and she was Persephone-just forget the love bit, since they never felt anything for each except for mutual sibling love, strictly platonic-for Hans could never love a woman, and Aurora could never love a man. It's barbarous that this town doesn't allow it. It disturbs me, but right now, my existing state is in a red police box slowly sinking into quicksand. It's not that pleasant. And one of my good partners, Chase Spock is laughing at me from a distance. Again, not pleasant. Does he only invite me to his dinner parties to merely torment me?

And that's why Hans wanted power, for he was so different. Here's his list:

He doesn't love women.

He's not a part of his family.

His mother-we mean Lily White here-is gone, and she was the only one who loved him.

His father hates his sister and him.

He's drunk, so drunk, in power. Power takes you in, turns you inside out, and spits you out. Like nothing.

Lily White and Axel, the sheriff of Nottingham.

Oh, how can I describe the-I'm going to be using an awfully overused term here-star-crossed lovers?

I won't-for now.

It's like explaining a girl named Liesel who loved to write poetry and plot down plans for kill people, and a star boy-he shall remain unnamed-who was just someone who didn't deserve everything that was thrown out him-even though he had to pay all of the consequences.

It's like explaining the relationship between two people that have almost identical names, the rivals at everything.

It's like explaining how one girl, who writes and her best friend, who is the most stupid but amazing person she knew, the one who forced her to get into his hobbies, the one who opened her heart and took care of it-until he had to leave. He also left the heart. Somewhere, she still couldn't find it.

Who's that girl? Good question.

None of them had happy endings. Most books, which you really, really, really, really enjoy don't have happy endings. This book doesn't have a happy ending, but death comes out beautifully from my ink pen. Just the blood dripping down in words is amusing to the murderer. The colours of the dream is vague to the dreamer. The energy of love is tantalizing to the ones who could never have it. All in pages of a book.

I didn't have a happy ending; perhaps it was because I thought love itself was stupid and a waste of time. It is, I assure you. Why do you waste your time on loving someone who doesn't love you back? Why don't you spend your time having tea with Liesel-the orphan, not the poetess-as she explained dressing up as Julius Caesar, with the dressing as her wig?

Thought so.

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YOU KNOW WHAT DEFINES A CHARACTER A CHARACTER? That event that makes them a different person. Perhaps they were based off someone else, but when the character does something that wasn't done by the individual themselves, it makes them different. Unique. Special. Your own.

It's one of those moments-with Reginald Haenraets.

He looked up at the tower, the unusual tower with the flower in the middle and he threw his shoe away and, instead of grabbing the curtains and hoisting himself up, he shapeshifted.

The Reginald I know wouldn't do that. He would probably casually walk away since he doesn't enjoy towers that much anyways. I remember when I took him to Paris, and instead of seeing the Eiffel Tower, we ran across the streets until we saw a bridge, and he pushed me into the water. I'm still quite mad at him for that. I also stuffed a frog in his mouth after that. It wasn't that bad...

How does one shapeshift? Another good question, dear reader. Well to tell you