I know what you’re thinking.

I know the question that burns inside of you.

You are asking, “What color was Princess Tiffany wearing on the day of her disappearance?”

Fine, fine. I know what you’re really asking.

You are asking, “Who are you?”

(A question which, unless I am quite mistaken, is directed at me.)

At this point, we have covered four chapters of Atticus Fletcher’s epic tale, and no doubt it is abundantly clear to you that I know a great deal about this story. I know every detail, almost as though I was a part of the whole thing. And that is because, well, I was.

Yes! It’s true! I, [REDACTED], am a character in Atticus Fletcher’s story, and I still have a very important role to play yet.

(You laughed at the [REDACTED] thing, didn’t you? Well, shame on you for not expecting it. You must be accustomed to my frustrating air of mystery by now; did you really think I was going to simply tell you my name? Good heavens. Get a grip.)

I would like to be clear about one thing… and that is that I am ashamed of my role in this tale. However, I am greatly pleased with the ending, and I look upon that ending with pride. It pains me to write Atticus Fletcher’s story, as I know I cannot do justice to such a narrative without utter honesty regarding the part I played. So please, as you read, do not judge me too harshly. Had I known then all that I know now, I like to think I would have been a very different person.

Wonderful. Now that that’s cleared up, I suggest we move on. After all, you didn’t come here to read paragraphs of my own self-pity—you came here for Atticus Fletcher! The great knight of the Valley, valiantly pressing forward to rescue his princess!

And so here he is.

Atticus Fletcher faced a terrible realization one morning, as he stood alone by a stream, and the realization was this: that he had lost Tiffany’s trail entirely.

But let’s not cover that just yet.

Rewind an hour or two, and Atticus had just found a scrap of torn fabric caught on a bush. The fabric was thick, and of a dull brown color, and had been just beside his campsite. He had found it almost immediately upon awakening, just after dawn. What luck!

(Stop. Take a breath. Now go back and read the last two words of that paragraph again, and this time, pour in as much sarcasm as you can spare.)

Atticus moved in the direction indicated by the fabric’s presence, but he did not move far. How could he? There was no second scrap of fabric. There was no trail of footprints. In fact, there was no sign of human passage whatsoever. Tiffany and the man pursuing her had simply, as far as Atticus was concerned, vanished into thin air.

Hours went by before at last he realized his mistake. Before at last he realized that the question at the beginning of this chapter was not, in fact, a triviality. So I ask once again.

What color was Princess Tiffany wearing on the day of her disappearance?

In all honesty, I did not personally see Princess Tiffany on the day her wedding was to take place. I have no idea what color she chose to wear that day. She was rather fond of green, and took a liking to purple as well, so I suppose I could offer those as two likely options. But ultimately, I do not know what color she wore. I will tell you, however, one color I had never seen her wear, not in all the years I had known her.

That color, naturally, would be brown.

That’s right. The fabric Atticus held in his hand had not come from Princess Tiffany. His initial solution seemed simple—the scrap of brown must instead have come from the man chasing her through the woods!

Alas… no.

With a sinking feeling, Atticus looked down at the hem of his own brown tunic, where a small tear had been made as he set up camp the previous night.

To say that Atticus Fletcher was ‘discouraged’ would be a terrible understatement.

Atticus Fletcher was positively shattered.

There is an interesting notion in modern society, no doubt brought about by popular fiction and the world of digital gaming, that if the blade of a sword is broken and reforged, the reforged blade will actually be stronger than its original self. To be clear, I do not know if this is true; in fact, I highly doubt it. Nevertheless, it is a notion commonly believed.

Let’s assume, for just a moment, that notion is correct.

A person could easily be compared to the blade. People break all the time; really, I don’t see why there is any shame in it. But if they choose to be reforged—and most of the time, I believe they do—they come back stronger. Better. Almost invariably. And then, eventually, they break again, and the next reforging betters them that much more. A truly fascinating phenomenon.

If we are drawing comparisons between Atticus Fletcher and our metaphorical blade, he had, of course, just shattered completely. For any regular person, this wouldn’t have felt like such a terrible thing.

Unfortunately, Atticus was far from regular. Unlike literally everyone else in human history, he—if we once again compare him to the blade—had never broken. He might have reforged himself in those woods, had he known how. But the sting of his first real failure took such a toll that the concept of reforgery never even occurred to him.

(‘Reforgery.’ Is that a word? Oh, well. I’m using it, either way.)

So, what did Atticus Fletcher do then, you ask?

He just sort of… walked.

The trail was cold. Cold as Atticus’s own pride. He had no idea which direction Tiffany had gone from here. And his pride would not allow him to return to the Valley in defeat, and so he found himself banished.

Atticus Fletcher had, in essence, exiled himself from the Valley.

And so he walked, walked all through the day and into the night, with no idea where he was going, until a strange sound stopped him in his tracks.

It was gone almost as soon as it had come, and for a moment Atticus couldn’t be sure he had heard anything at all—until it came again. That was not a sound he had heard before, certainly not in the woods… a fast rumbling, a fleeting whoosh…

In that moment, he regained a small part of himself. Just as he would have done before the breaking, Atticus gripped his sword and walked directly toward the noise. Tense, on guard, he scanned his surroundings warily with his eyes, moving forward at a quick—but measured—pace. And suddenly he was out of the forest, and the trees were all behind him, and his feet were on hard, smooth ground, and his face was bathed in the glow of a foreign red light. Atticus blinked, his eyes adjusting. For a split second, he let his guard down, and lowered his sword.

That was when the dull red pickup truck slammed into him from the side.

Back to Episode 4

Forward to Episode 6

Tune in next Friday, October 18 for episode six…