A/N: Oh, today I’m too lazy to reply to reviews!! But, everybody THANK ANASTASIA (that movie) for me actually FINISHING this chapter! :D Because Disney-type movies just make me gush. *gushes* See? What’d I tell ya? ^^;

I’m SOOOOOOO sorry for taking FOREVER to update U_U;; I’ve been overloaded with school work! Bombarded! Attacked! Damn those Nazis! T_T

Oh, does anybody have any suggestions for a title? ^__^;; I’ll give you candy! *hands out candy to all who do* Because Robbit’s Story is *not* the permanent title, just a clogger until I can find a better one.

One review reply, actually, for Granite Claws: ^^;; Don’t worry, Fetcher wasn’t serious. His character isn’t fully developed here (yet), but he’s quite a...hm...conman, I guess. ^^

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Fetcher died. The end.

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Hah, just kidding. You though I was serious! Ha! Ha ha! No, seriously...for the real story...^_^ [End A/N]

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            Well. It took aesthetic Fetcher five hours to get ready to leave.

            Five hours.

            I mean, that’s ridiculous. I know girls who go to prom and homecoming, right? And sure, it may take them ten hours to actually get around to buying a dress. But it doesn’t take them five hours on the eve of the dance. At least, I’d hope not, because that’s the most retarded thing I’ve ever heard. So when he came back, he found me staring holes into the wall and naming the bricks.

            I used names in alphabetical order. I was already my second way through the alphabet—currently naming one Bricky. The last “B” one had been Briquette. Am I not clever?

            So when I turned my hole-boring stare onto him, and glared with all my might, I can understand why he promptly backed out of the room, knocked, and waited for me to begrudgingly say, “Enter, you fiend.”

            I noticed at that point that he was different. I couldn’t put my finger on what was different until I saw him in the full light. He didn’t look weird anymore. Actually, he looked almost...normal. At least, he was normal for this crackhead place. He wore the same shirt that I’d seen on several other people: a simple, simple cream linen long-sleeved shirt. The only difference between it and the others I’d seen was it had a sort of V slit neck. That showed off his chest. Lovely. For the first time, I almost considered him...vain?

            Oh, I also noticed the swords.

            Swords.

            As in, the pointy objects that you can stab people with. Repeatedly. And make them suffer. Especially in those hyped up Japanese flicks. There were two of those suckers, hanging casually (yes, casually) off of two leather strips that hooked up to his belt. They were long, shiny, and looked very tempting. The only decoration were two rubies at the tops. At least, I think they were rubies. Who knew? They were read, big, and sparkly. Stuff you see in museums.

            He tiptoed in and stealthily dropped a satchel next to me. I call it such because, well, it wasn’t quite a bag, not modern or anything, more like a sack with a handle. Thus, a satchel. He sat down next to me and said amiably, “Whatcha doing?”

            Once again, I gave him the hole-boring stare. He stood up, bowed, backed out of the room, and knocked again. This process repeated about eight times, before I finally snapped out of my bored state and took to screaming at him.

            “What the hell took you so long?” I first demanded. “I mean, you were gone...FOR A REALLY LONG TIME.”

            “Well, excu-use me for having a few things to do.”

            “I have never conceivably heard a FEW things take FIVE HOURS to complete!!” I hollered. I wasn’t all that angry at him for being late. I was mostly angry at myself for allowing myself to name the bricks. I’ve hit rock bottom.

            “Oh! Fetchy! You’re back!”

            Hark! What was that noise? Oh, right. That was the noise of silence. Because, I realized, as I stared at Randy with utter befuddlement, that I had yet to hit rock bottom. Somewhere down the road, when I got so annoyed at Randy that I strangled her with her own bowels, then ate the whole thing and spit it up and let the spiders do what they will with it—now that is rock bottom.

            Randy waltzed in, looking for all the world like a complete idiot (which, I reminded myself logically, she was) and twirling up to Fetcher and planting a large, wet, disgusting kiss on his cheek. I raised an eyebrow.

            “Getting jiggy with it in the castle, are we?” I inquired. Fetcher’s face turned completely red and he sputtered a little. I don’t know if he was dying, or holding in laughter. Randy didn’t look so dead/amused, though. She narrowed her eyes at me.

            “I don’t know what language you speak, wench,” she threatened, “but I’ll assure you that I’m the only one who will get—” a slight pause, and a nose wrinkle “—‘jiggy’ with Fetcher.”

            “Like I would want to,” I scoffed, taking off one of my shoes and throwing it at her. “But if you do it in front of me, I swear I’ll smack you.”

            “You couldn’t hit anything.”

            “You couldn’t pick your nose if it were right in front of you. Which it is. How ironic!” I smirked. “Or, in all your infinite wisdom, were you unaware of this fact?”

            Randy’s jaw dropped. Her eyes bugged out, and she attempted to take grasp of the situation.

            Fetcher snorted with laughter. He just couldn’t contain it. Within a matter of moments, he was on the floor, gasping. “Your...Face...” he managed to breathe to Randy.

            Her hands flew up to it. “Is there something on it?!”

            “Yeah,” I snapped, “there’s a huge spot.”

            So she ran wailing out of the room, demanding a mirror, which surprised me. Were there mirrors in the fifteenth century? But I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t have time. Fetcher started loading my arms down with clothes, clothes, and, for a change in tone, weapons.

            You thought I was going to say clothes again, didn’t you? Well I’m cliché, but I’m not that bad.

            But the weapons surprised me. And it was sort of weapon, not plural. Even so, it made me stagger and tip the pile on my bed-like-thing that is also known as...A cot. A smelly cot.

            “What’s all that junk?” I asked, making a disgusted face. Fetcher smiled in a, “you’re so stupid I don’t know what I’m going to do with you” fashion.

            “Your outfit.”

            My jaw dropped. “But they smell like mothballs...and there’s like...a lot of them. That’s...layers. I don’t layer. Period.” I remembered a trip I’d gone on one winter with my dear, darling, wonderful (cough cough) family. My parents decided to drag me to—get this—Alaska. Whereas we could have been perfectly happily fighting the blizzards in Hawaii, or Australia, or something to that effect, they took me to the coldest place on the planet. And, with some insane taxidermy skills, managed to stuff me so full that I bloated outwards and almost imploded. Meaning lots of coats. Lots of boots. Lots of everything.

            “No, I mean you pick out what you want from them,” he said, that previously mentioned look (the “you’re so stupid I don’t know what I’m going to do with you” look) swamping his features again. He smugly grabbed a piece of cloth, unfurled it with a swoosh, and pointed. It was a very ugly shawl. I stared, dismayed. He was kidding...right?

            “I am not touching that, much less wearing it,” I told him, “for fear of infection.”

            “Infection of what? They’re all perfectly safe.”

            “Infection of...I don’t know...old woman’s disease. It looks like it could’ve been in the Revolutionary War.”

            “What’s that?”

            “...Righto. Never mind. But I’m not wearing that,” I grumbled. He shrugged.

            “Fine then. I brought lots, because I knew you were going to be difficult about it.”

            “Excuse me, but I’m not difficult. I’m reasonable. Reasonably, nobody in the right mind would wear that thing. They’d probably die of the smell, and the embarrassment. Spare me,” I drawled. “And why can’t I wear my clothes? There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. Jeans—you can’t go wrong with quality denim. At least, that’s what the commercials say.”

            “Because women here don’t wear that,” he explained impatiently. “Please, I’m not too good at this sort of thing. If you absolutely require my dressing you, I’m sure I can make arrangements.”

            He boyishly grinned. I widened my eyes, then made a very slow, angry noise, and swatted him until he left the room.

            “Women here don’t wear that my ass,” I grunted. And then I picked through what this terrible place offered. There were a few linen shirts, a couple cotton skirts, but nothing that really caught my eye. What would? This is the age of utter ignorance, after all. When people chopped up other people for sake of ruling the rest of the people they killed, the ones that’d die of plague anywho.

            I sighed. Well, there wasn’t exactly a way out. I could see what he meant when he thought jeans wouldn’t be entirely appropriate. So I picked out the least tattered pair of boots, skirt, shirt, and whatever else I could find that looked reasonably interesting. I also eyed the weapon that was topping it all off. A gleaming, wooden bow, about as long as I was tall. Real smart, Fetcher. He gave me a bow but failed to give me arrows. I’d file a lawsuit someday.

            Plus, I didn’t know how to use it. But that’s besides the point. I could just beat it over people’s heads and strangle them with the bowstring, like the improvisational elves of Lord of the Rings. Yeah, that’d work.

            I changed quickly, moaning to myself about the stench. Mothballs. Lots of mothballs. Everything was a little too big, also, which insulted me. I mean, I’m not like those anorexic girls who think they’re fat 24/7. But I do get a little angry when all that Fetcher could give me was extra-extra-extra large, as opposed to one-size fits all.

            And to make myself not so dwarfed in the fabric, I hooked on a thick leather belt and hitched up the skirt so it didn’t drag too badly.

            I must’ve looked like a pioneer lady.

            Pretty soon I’d be baking a lot of apple pies.

            “You done yet?” Fetcher grumbled from outside. He didn’t look too happy—and I saw why. Randy was hanging over him like a...necklace or something.

            I nodded and glared at him. Randy giggled. “You look dashing,” she mocked.

            “Yeh, so do you,” I said with a sweet smile. “What with the purple blotches and all.”

            “Purple blotches?!” Her hands attacked her face for the second time that day. “Gods, they’re back??”

            I nodded solemnly.

            She darted off, presumably to a mirror. Or perhaps an asylum. One can only hope.

            Fetcher cracked a smile and slung an arm around my shoulders. I picked it off, not so gently. “What’s our next fiasco?” I grumbled. “Do I get to learn how to fly?”

            “Not quite. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

            I turned beet red. The memories sort of flooded in like a huge blast of something I didn’t want to be blasted by. Ten years ago, my mom forced me on a pony. Six years later, she finally freed me from the horrible cage that is horseback riding. It’s not that I have anything against the sport—I mean, I completely support the horses doing all the work. But it was the horse I had to ride that I resented. He was this mean, gray, flea-bitten jerk who nibbled my toes and growled at me. Seriously. And...Horses can’t growl.

            “Duh,” I said, very spitefully, mind you. “Of course I have. And no way am I gonna repeat that.”

            “Poor you, were you really that bad?”

            “Of course not!” I snapped. “I was fine! But my horse was like, under the influence of alcohol or something.”

            “Or maybe your horse just didn’t like you. I wouldn’t put it past it,” he chuckled. I Death-Glared him and he shut up immediately, coughing politely and turning red. Oh, come on, he could have at least put up a fight. “Anyway, I had to get you a horse to ride, correct?”

            “Maybe.”

            “So...I talked to the stable hands. They weren’t willing to give up any of the better ones—” at which I snorted “—so I had to sort of...erm...weasel out a pack horse.”

            “And?”

            “And they gave me one who doesn’t...like people that much.”

            “So what are you trying to tell me? You have to ride a completely incompetent horse?” I demanded.

            “No, I’m saying you have to ride a completely evil one. But that’s all right, because he doesn’t hate everyone, just most people. And he’ll probably test you, but that’s all it is—a test,” Fetcher gushed very, very quickly. I blinked.

            “So I’m riding a—”

            “Yes.”

            “A—”

            “Yes.”

            “A—”

            “Yes.”

            “STOP IT! I’m riding a horse that acts like you?? Annoying, stupid, and mean?”

            “Eh, I’d describe that more as you, but sure, if that’s how you like to put it.”

            “Fetcher!”

            “Sorry! Just making an observation!”

            “Why the hell did you get me a horse like that?”

            “Because the stable hands wanted to know what I’d be using it for, and I couldn’t tell them for riding, because then I’d have to announce who would be riding it, and then I’d have to tell them that you are coming. And you aren’t supposed to be coming, technically, because technically you’re supposedtostayhere.”

            “Run that last part by me again?”

            “Er...You’re supposed to stay here. But that doesn’t matter, now does it?”

            “Why am I supposed to stay here?” I shouted. “Do these confirmative bastards want blood samples, too?? Or are they just irked?”

            “Both, I’d say,” Fetcher admitted. “Plus, you don’t have immunities.”

            “Immunities?!”

            “Yes...As in...”

            “I know what it is! But what’s that supposed to mean??”

            “It means there are a few...erm...spells, shall I say, that your body can’t resist. Such as the senses spell. It’s very dangerous, and fortunately most of the natives have developed, well, immunities to it. It convinces you that everything around you isn’t what it seems, by tricking your senses. Hence the name.”

            I rubbed my temples. Fetcher shifted his weight and there was an awkward silence. “So are you ready to meet your horse?”

            “NO!”

            “Great!” He grabbed my arm and dragged me off.

            An hour later, the sun was setting. All three of us—Randy, Fetcher, and I—were miserable. Fetcher had several bruises up and down his arms from where my horse—Bellock—nipped at him for merely attempting to rope the beast. Randy didn’t like the smell of horses (her own, Princess (ugh) had a spell cast on it so that it smelled like flowers, but that didn’t stop Bellock’s horrible odor). I—well, to be frank, I was getting more and more ticked at the tightness of the ropes that bound my legs to the saddle.

            Yes, bound my legs to the saddle.

            See, after we finally managed to catch Bellock, and finally managed to put the tack anywhere near his back, we realized that it just wasn’t going to work. He would constantly bite at me, snort at me, stomp in my general direction, and have this superiority complex whenever I went near him. So, in one big heave, Fetcher got me into the saddle (Bellock is a very, very large horse) and immediately tied my legs to the stirrup straps with some old tack cleaning cloths he found lying about.

            Needless to say, Bellock wasn’t too happy. He eventually got used to me, I think, because he stopped rearing and bucking and craning his neck around to attempt ripping me out of the saddle with his teeth. He still wouldn’t go when I kicked him, turned left when I pulled the right reign, right when I pulled the left reign, and generally acted like a stuck up prat. But he would follow Fetcher’s horse, Ruth, rather compliantly, so I just finally agreed to tying Bellock up to Ruth’s side and letting Fetcher do all the work.

            I’m not a moocher—I just don’t mind benefiting from other people every once in a while.

            So here we were, lined up like the three musketeers and looking for all the world like were going to kill someone. See, on my back was the bow (along with a quiver of arrows that weighed too much), on Fetcher’s hips were the swords (that I still longed to touch, or maybe slit his throat with), and on Randy’s back was a huge metal thing that I really couldn’t name. Sword? Probably. But if she could actually lift it, I’d give her a cookie. Not that I’d ever give her a cookie.

            I doubted I could ever hit anything with the bow, and I doubted that Randy could ever chop anyone in half, but I’m not so sure if I doubted Fetcher.

            “So what’s the plan?” I muttered, staring at the gates before us. They were the gates to the entire Cradle of Calcaria—and they fit the part. They were huge. Fetcher told me before that they were the only entrance or exit into the whole place. I protested, and said the Fire Marshall probably wouldn’t like that. He didn’t know who the Fire Marshall was, so I told him he’d be swamped with taxes. The conversation had ended there.

            “Stop being stupid, Osman,” Randy snorted. She had taken to calling me by my last name. Why? I don’t know. It made her seem more like a cheerleader than ever. “Fetcher always has a plan, and you don’t need to know it.”

            Fetcher stared at the two of us hopelessly. “Actually,” he corrected, “I don’t.”

            “Don’t what, Fetchy, darling?”

            “Don’t have a plan, you idiot,” I shot at her. She stuck her tongue out at me. I pulled out an arrow from my quiver (with much difficulty) and tossed it at her. She screamed.

            “Osman’s trying to kill me!”

            “Too bad she didn’t succeed,” Fetcher coughed. I smirked.

            “FETCHY!”

            “Sorry. Anyway—Kate’s right. I don’t have a plan.”

            When I’m right, I’m right. Wait, no, I’m always right. Ha.

Here was the dilemma: Fetcher was allowed to leave the Cradle, on the basis that he was an outcast now, and not even allowed within fifty feet of the mountains that surrounded it. Randy was allowed to leave the Cradle, because she had asked her father, and he gave her permission, so long as she didn’t go any further than a hundred miles from it. I—well, I couldn’t leave the Cradle. Because of immunities, and the fact that the people of the Cradle are complete communists.

We sat on our horses in silence for a while until Bellock stretched out his neck and bit Princess hard on the butt. She whinnied angrily and put her ears back.

            See? Even if he doesn’t like me, Bellock has some good taste.

            “How about we just make a run for it?”

            “We can’t just make a run for it,” Fetcher protested sensibly. “The Elders themselves regulate who enters and leaves the gates. They give the Gatemasters heads up on who’s going to be going in and coming out of the Cradle. It stops spies and the like. If we made a run for it, Kate, we’d be making a run straight into two tons of rock.”

            “So? Bellock’s such a brute, I’m sure he could bite his way through.”

            “You’re so stupid!” Randy squealed.

            “You’re so ugly!” I retorted.

            “You’re so childish!”

            “You’re so gumberpunfin!”

            “I am not! What’s that?”

            “In my world, it means ‘one who eats from the rear of a rhino’. It’s a form of a Chinese proverb. ‘He who eats rhino rump turns into a Randy-fied ditz’.” And God knows what comes out of their rears.

            “What’s a rhino?”

            Are all jokes lost on her? I just rolled my eyes. “You both are idiots,” Fetcher said happily, and we both glared at him simultaneously.

            “How about we pretend that I’m just baggage? Because, you know, Bellock’s a pack horse...” I offered quietly.

            Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Then—

            “There’s a tarp in that bag,” Fetcher said, gesturing to the bag that was behind me. “You could put that over you.”

            “I wasn’t serious when I said it. I’m not luggage.”

            “Now you are.”

            And with that, Fetcher reached over, dragged out the tarp, and threw it over me. It was the work of a minute before Randy and Fetcher had both tied the tarp over me, and tied me down (uncomfortably) to the saddle, making sure to cover all of it.

            “I CAN’T BREATHE!” I screamed, but they ignored me. I could breathe, but that’s besides the point. It was painful.

            Fetcher and Randy walked lazily up to the gates (they were taking their time—can you believe it? With me under a tarp??) and saluted the Gatemaster (cheesy). He waved back at them and asked what was on Bellock. I guess that stupid horse is famous or something. “Supplies,” Fetcher said, but at the same time, Randy said, “Fetcher’s stuff.”

            Now, this isn’t going to work.

            “Supplies and my stuff,” Fetcher said gruffly. The Gatemaster guy grinned, nodded, and opened the gates. Then we were off.

            Full speed, might I add. Because Randy and Fetcher spurred their horses. And of course, Bellock just has to be a jerk. So he started galloping away, with me ramming into the saddle on every down beat. Which, I hate to admit it, was slamming sensitive areas. In other words, my improperly titled breasts. Because they’re not big enough to be called breasts. More like...lumps. So my lumps were in serious, serious pain.

            After what seemed like forever, the animals slowed, and Fetcher untied me. I noticed Randy didn’t lift a finger to help. She probably wanted me to die of suffocation, or heat stroke. Because it was hot under that thing.

            “Are you alright?” Fetcher asked. He must’ve noticed my incredibly pained look. I nodded, half-heartedly. “We can stop here for the night.”

            So gently, he helped me dismount and let me sit off in a lonesome corner of the campsite, on a rock, in the tall grass, wishing I were anywhere but here.