There are few certainties in life, and the vast majority of those that exist involve Atticus Fletcher in some fashion.

Nobody fought like Atticus Fletcher. Nobody rode like Atticus Fletcher. Nobody was as strong, or as smart, or as brave, or remotely as handsome. In short, Atticus Fletcher was God. Or at the very least, he felt he might as well be.

People like Atticus Fletcher annoy me to no end. But to be quite frank, they also sadden me. I could explain; however, that is bound to take a great deal of our precious time, and in any case I believe you will understand my meaning soon enough. If not, I am afraid you are likely the very kind of person I am talking about, and you, like our young friend Atticus Fletcher, will be in part responsible for the further deterioration of my disastrous mental state.

But I digress.

Atticus Fletcher lived in the Valley. Yes, yes, a wonderfully creative name, I know. But the Valley people were simple-minded folk, without much of a penchant for creativity. Truthfully, it is not entirely their fault, and though the naming of the Valley is egregious, I ask that you grant them the benefit of the doubt. A little forgiveness, after all, tends to go a long way.

I say that as though it is the moral of the story. It is not.

Anyway, where was I? The Valley! Yes, the Valley. A boring name, but an accurate one, as the entirety of the little kingdom was contained in the low space between many mountains. (Bear-infested mountains, I might add. Don’t forget that—it’ll be on the test later.) Everything in the Valley might be aptly described as quaint, or merely simple. The people lived in small homes, the royal family in a small castle. Nothing came large. I know that is difficult for you to imagine, living as you do in a world where everything, from fast food orders to income tax, comes in a remarkably (and often disgustingly) large size. In the Valley, this is not the case. The Valley is your child-size order of French fries, if you will. It is many tiny things, all contained in one tiny box. I would go on with the description, but I think you get the picture, and in all honesty, most of the Valley isn’t terribly important to the story anyway.

For the story I am about to tell you, simply pay attention to the castle.

The castle was home to the royal family, of course—King Douglas being the current ‘man in charge.’ Now, I recognize Douglas is not terribly important either, at least not until much later, but before we go any further I would like to introduce him, just a tad.

Ahem.

Douglas was a horrible coward and always, always breathed out a smell akin to that of mushrooms after they’ve been chopped up and forgotten on the countertop for a week and a half. Contrary to what you might believe of a powerful king, he was unathletic—so unathletic, in fact, I found it impressive. Douglas was not the sort of man you would want on your fencing team, or really on any team, unless you’re eager for a humbling lesson of failure and embarrassment—but to his credit, he was a very nice person. He spoke very kind words, which were appreciated by anyone far enough from him to escape the fungal odor of his breath.

But as I’ve already said, Douglas does not matter until much, much later. The person who really matters is—well, Atticus Fletcher. But as for members of the royal family, the one you will hear the most about is Douglas’s daughter and only child: the Princess Tiffany.

While Douglas has been described as just about the furthest thing from your expectations of a king, Tiffany is everything you might picture when I say the word ‘princess.’ Taller than most women in the Valley, her skin a shade different and her hair the loveliest cascading mass of brown I have ever seen, Tiffany truly was the most beautiful woman in the Valley. She was also the kindest, and had the added advantage that her breath carried a scent nothing remotely like mushrooms, forgotten or otherwise.

Everyone loved the Princess Tiffany for her kindness, but unfortunately, as we have mentioned, she also happened to be very, very beautiful. Breathtakingly gorgeous from every angle you can possibly imagine. No doubt her looks would put your own to shame.

But make no mistake—this was no blessing. For she was the most beautiful of women, and who might the handsomest of men be?

Of course, that is easy. It was Atticus Fletcher.

That, among other reasons, is why the two were betrothed to one another.

And that, my friends, is where the adventure begins.

Two hours before his wedding, Atticus Fletcher was out casually slaying wild boars in the forest.

I say ‘casually’ because, well, for him, this was nothing special. No big deal. He hunted boars all the time. Nearly every day. You see, I have mentioned that Atticus Fletcher was the bravest man in the Valley. What I have not mentioned is that Atticus Fletcher was, in fact, the only brave man in the Valley. Really, he did wonders for that place. What on earth did the Valley folk eat before he was old enough to hunt for them?

Anyway, yes, the boar.

Two hours before his wedding, Atticus Fletcher was out casually slaying wild boars in the forest.

At that precise moment in time, he had just made his second kill, and the royal hunting party (really just cowards sent by the king to carry the meat) had begun the arduous process of transporting the dead beast back to the Valley. Douglas’s steward—a vertically challenged, yet horizontally unmatched man with small, squinting eyes—approached the great hunter.

“Yes, Reuben?” Atticus Fletcher snapped.

This was how it always worked. If Atticus Fletcher was approached, Atticus Fletcher spoke first. That kept him in control. And at the moment, he also happened to be rather annoyed; Reuben had interrupted him as he cleaned the boar’s blood from the blade of his sword. In other words, Reuben had entirely ruined the best part of the hunt.

The steward flinched slightly, but to his credit, held his ground. “Do you not think you should be getting back, Sir Atticus, sir? The wedding is set to begin in only two hours…”

Atticus shook his head. The motion was condescending in a way that only he could achieve. “Simple, simple Reuben. This is no mere ‘wedding.’ It is a royal wedding, and nearly the whole Valley will be there!”

Reuben swallowed, still unsure what point was being made. “Er, yes, sir…”

“And,” Atticus went on, “those people will need to be fed. Now tell me, Reuben, do you really think two boars is going to be enough?”

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention that. Yes, Atticus Fletcher was, at that very moment, in the process of hunting his own wedding feast. Remarkable, don’t you think? He certainly did.

To spare you all the gory details, I’ll simply tell you that Atticus did kill another boar before the wedding. The largest one yet, to Reuben’s relief—for they had enough meat, after that kill, to satisfy the soon-to-be prince (a near impossible task, I might note), and Atticus finally allowed the party to return to the Valley.

By the time they reached Douglas’s castle, the festivities were about ready to begin. Bright banners and colorful flowers decorated the castle grounds. Tables piled high with cakes and pastries lined the paths. The boars had already been taken to be cooked for the feast later that evening. Atticus’s stylist had his (rather fashionable) wedding garb ready and waiting to be worn.

There was only one problem.

There was no princess.



Forward to Episode 2

Tune in next Friday, September 20 for episode two…