As always, his white-haired uncle wouldn't stand for it. Just as he was beginning to feel comfortable, a small leather boot prodded his side insistently. "Oh no! Not right now you don't, Fletchy! This is important! Up!" Slim fingers grasped about the tiny boy's neck and dragged him upwards.

"Don't wanna . . ." he tried again. "Ships do instead."

His uncle looked mildly annoyed and pursed his lips tightly, hovering above his nephew. "Ships, my imp, are far away with your dear mother and very preoccupied. They wouldn't be able to get here in time even if they knew. Now let's get this over with. We don't have the rest of eternity." He thumped his nephew on the back absently, holding him up with the other arm.

"Yessir," he mumbled miserably and stood upright, waiting patiently for his uncle to guide him.

The white-haired fae firmly arranged his pupil's arms upwards until they were held over his head. "Now just let it flow out . . ."

Fletcher gulped and nodded unhappily. "Yes Unca Puck." He gnawed on his lip as he shut glowing green eyes, spreading his fingers out and allowing the pure energy that was normally bundled inside his frail frame to flow out, the green fire covering the grey-blue sea in front of the pair like a blanket.

"Very good, Fletch. Now, you remember those pictures of ships your father showed you?"

The tot screwed his face up tightly until he got a firm picture of the huge, dark enemy boats with the sigil of death on them and nodded miserably. "Yes Unca."

"See them out there?"

"Too much fog," he whimpered sadly. "Only see boats at dock."

Puck bit back a frustrated sigh. The boy was only four, after all. Only had two years of training. Had to remember that. "Try searching for them. They'll be far out there in the fog, so try to look through it, like with a telescope."

"Yes Unca," Fletch gulped and searched. It was hard and made his sleep filled head hurt. Stupid little dark boats. He prodded groggily in the fog until he finally hit on the deadly, advancing ships. "F-f-f-found them," his weak voice trembled.

"Good kid. Now mix that sea water up with your magic, slowly, gently . . ."

Fletched gulped and obediently followed instructions, mixing green fire with miserable, greyish ocean water into a strange glowing greenish-grey liquid, holding the entire sea under his shaky control.

"Perfect," the fae practically crooned. "Now just bring it up around those mean old boats and use it to drag them down and don't let them up."

"But people . . ." he faltered and the ocean heaved and trembled.

"Are trying to burn down all the villages and fishing boats. Get a move on, Fletcher," Puck almost snapped in impatience and twisted the tip of his nephew's ear just a tad.

Fletcher gasped painfully and the water surged around the fog hidden boats, striking their wides with enough power to push holes straight through the entire boat. Water filled the boats with an eerie, fast paced eagerness and the greyish water-magic sucked the boat into an impossibly strong and deep whirlpool until at long last Fletcher collapsed on the stones and sank into unconsciousness.

"Nyagh . . ."

"He's awake, your Majesty."

"Thank the Gods."

"Your brother," a frown, "seems to have pushed him too hard, especially for one his age and size. Two, isn't he?"

"Four."

"Ah." Another frown. "The recommendation remains the same, of course. Lots of rest, relaxation, and no more of those," disgust, "lessons for a few weeks. You're going to kill the boy at this rate. He's not strong. Unlike his sister," pride.

"Yes." Ice. "You can go now. I'll call for you when I need you, André."

"Thank you, your Majesty. It's an honour to serve you, as always." Footsteps. Shutting.

A sigh. Silk. Hand. Gentle, small, warm. Father. Fletcher stirred hopefully.

"You went down pretty hard, lad."

"Nnnn."

Worry, sadness. "You'll be back on your feet in not time, Fletch. André says it's just shock. You'll be fine." Again the hand. Caressing. Stroking. Brushing. Tender. Loving.

"Da."

"Right here, impling. I won't be vanishing off anywhere. Not about to leave my brave little hero of Marete all alone, eh?" Gentle, laughing, protection.

"Ppppp . . ."

"What is it, Fletcher?" Worry.

"Pppp dddd?" Sweating, too hot, scared.

Confusion, hidden, tender. "I'm sorry, lad. I don't understand. Rest now. Tell me this thing when you're better, hmm?"

Fletcher tried vainly to fight it, attempting hopelessly to explain as the tender, softly glowing hand torched his eyelids. Love. Concern. Compassion. Power. Healing. Rest. Sleep . . .

"Sanny! Sanny! Wait up! Wanna talk Sanny!" the recently healed young prince scrambled awkwardly along the rocks, panting and trying to catch up with the chubby boy ahead of him.

"Star, don’t be being such a baby! Hurry up or go home!"

The scrawny four year old stumbled and fell into a miserable heap by the older boy’s feet. "Not baby. I’m big," he mumbled thickly as he tried to pull himself up, rubbing the silvery blood bubbling to the surface on his skinned knee and elbows. "Wanna talk, Sanny."

"'bout what?" the curly haired boy asked, sighing softly and helping the little prince up, setting him on a rock gently.

"People," he explained, swinging his sore little legs slowly, toes far above the little waves lapping at his rock seat.

"Go talk to your da then or something, not me," Sanny muttered, shoving the tiny boy rather more fiercely than necessary, eyes scanning the trees around the beach nervously.

"Sanny!" he whined faintly, rubbing his arm and plopping down firmly on the sand, slightly hidden behind the large rock he’d been sitting on. "Wanna talk ‘bout people who get hurt and deaded and stuff. Your papa does that sorta thing . . ."

"Shuttup Fally! He don’t. You wanna go find out about that stuff, go talk to a priest or something. And get outta here. People are coming."

"But Sanny . . ." the tiny boy whimpered faintly.

"I said go away! Not supposed to let you get hurt. Go bother someone else!"

"Kay Sanny," the prince sniffed softly and rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist, stumbling away from his friend uncertainly and heading back to the city, peering over his shoulder once or twice to look at the people who had come out of the woods and were surrounding his friend. Then he quickly broke into a terrified little run, not stopping until he was back near the city gates.

"Mister?" he whispered, scrambling as best he could up the large marble stairs almost as tall as he was. "Can I talk to you?"

The blue and grey clad priest rubbed his chin and blinked blearily down at the scruffy little blob of colour making its way toward him. "How can Zamta help you little girl . . . boy . . . ?"

"Boy," he panted, sitting down carefully at the priests feet and staring up with trusting, luminous blue eyes.

"Little boy then," the priest nodded sagely and put his glasses on, squinting down at the tiny golden haired boy. "What’s your name, my son?"

The child brightened faintly and pulled his knees up to his chin, hoping this was someone who’d understand. "Fletcher," he whispered softly, managing not to lisp like a little baby.

"Prince Fletcher?"

"Yessir," Fletcher nodded.

"Well what are you doing all the way up here, your Highness? I know his Majesty doesn’t frequent temple . . ." the priest frowned down thoughtfully at the boy.

"Someun told me to come here and ask you ‘bout something," he whispered, scuffling his feet uncertainly across the sparkling tiles, leaving a sandy trail behind.

"Well what would you like to know, your Highness?"

Fletcher licked his lips and raised his huge eyes to the priest again, "Is killing someone bad, mister?"

The priest tried very hard not to choke. "Yes, yes, I suppose you might call it . . . bad. Why would a little thing like you want to know about that? You’re such a good boy. Not like that horrible little son of Duke Ryclorve. Bad things will come of that one, you mark my words, your Highness . . ." he trailed off, frowning again.

"What happens to people who kill other people, mister?" Fletcher asked unhappily, carefully avoiding the priests question.

"Well, that depends on whether our Great Goddess Zamta chooses to forgive them. You have to work very very hard to be forgiven by Our Goddess. Sometimes it can hurt quite a bit." He squinted down at the young prince, "Can you read, your Highness?"

Fletcher nodded firmly, fingers twisting into little knots of skin and muscle nervously.

The priest nodded thoughtfully and hobbled up, carefully taking a book off a pile of many, then limping back to Fletcher and placing the smooth, thick book into his hands. "This is the Book of Zamta, your Highness. It should answer your questions better than I ever could. Now run along, your Highness. I have work to attend to."

"Thank you mister," Fletcher mumbled, clutching at the book uncertainly and bowing his way out before running back home, just as miserable and confused as before.

"Look, Fletchy, just nod and smile and try to look happy, okay? This is really important to Papa."

Fletcher looked doubtful but nodded meekly at his twin sister, trying to make his four and a half feet look taller than it really was and scrubbed his face with his hand in an attempt to not look like he’d been crying and sobbing all morning. "What’s Papa saying, Glori?" he finally asked, putting a tiny pointed ear against the keyhole, listening in confusion.

"It’s nothing important, Fletch," Glorianna evaded the question hurriedly. "Just about new sorts of lessons and stuff."

"Why here? I don’t like it here Glori. I wanna go home . . ." he whimpered, voice beginning to choke up again and eyes welling with tears.

"Look, just wait, okay? And stop crying, you look like a baby. I’ll explain later."

"But . . ."

"Be quiet or we’ll get in trouble," she growled, scratching her neck in frustration.

Fletcher slumped. "Yes Glori," he whispered, stumbling away from the door hurriedly and falling onto his back as the man his father was talking to opened it.

The tall man with the funny nose stared down at Fletcher with icy blue eyes and snorted, waving the two children in with distaste and sprawling back onto his throne once the door was closed, going back into conversation with the childrens father and occasionally sparing the pair a very disinterested glance, babbling in a very confusing language.

Fletcher stared about himself in confusion, rubbing at the tear in his pants and straining to understand his father and the tall man without success. He tried tugging on Glori’s arm and asking for an explanation, but she was growling and glaring at everything fiercely in a way that made the boy change his mind.

Finally, the tall man waved a hand in disgust and nodded at Fletcher’s father as a pair of men in funny looking gold and red clothes came over and lead the twins away.

"Papa . . ." Fletcher’s lip began to tremble of its own volition and he stared over at his father imploringly. His father simply gave a less than encouraging fanged grin and a thumbs up before returning to his funny sounding conversation with the tall man, letting the two children be lead away. Fletchers stomach sank and he knew instantly that this wasn’t going to be quick or fun at all.

Fletcher, or Falcon, Startredder woke up in bed and bit back a scream. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he panted unhappily, kicking the blankets to the floor. He rolled about on the bed in misery, tears trickling down his cheeks and trying not to make any noise, scars from the whipping Kervain gave him for dropping his sword in the middle of practice throbbing painfully. He groped in the dark underneath his pillow and slowly pulled out a thick leather-bound book, dog-eared, stained, and almost falling apart. Very carefully the boy who’d only held his position as a squire for three months sat up on his thin mattress and leafed through the book, not daring to light a candle for fear of waking up Knight-Master Kervain. His fingers trailed slowly over the fading ink of the book like those of a blind mans, familiar enough with the religious texts to understand without reading it. He paused on a picture of his Goddess and sighed unhappily, staring at that beautiful, motherly face and plump, pregnant figure, almost invisible in the darkness of midnight. Then he swiftly shut the book and shoved it back under his pillow, lying down and trying to look as though he’d been asleep at the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward the door. Those thick-soled, unsteady footsteps were easily recognized as those of Kervain in one of his very drunk states. Fletcher curled up miserably and bit back a whimper. Kervain would be very angry, he could tell immediately when he heard the familiar sound of the case containing his iron-tipped whip was unlocked and opened. He shut his tear-filled eyes fiercely and tried not to breathe. It wouldn’t hurt for very long. It was punishment from Zamta, he was certain, and all that he deserved.