Part 2
It was a day later and well past dark when the fox finally awoke. The prince was roasting a pigeon he had slain with a well-aimed stone over the small fire he had built in the shadow of the crucifix – sacrilegious, perhaps, but the summer nights were bitterly cold, and the prince was fairly sure the merciful Son would understand – when the fox suddenly spoke.
“That smells delicious. I do hope you plan to share.”
The prince started and almost dropped the bird into the fire, but recovered it in ungraceful time. Once he was certain his meal was no longer in danger of falling, the prince looked over at the fox and found the beast looking back at him with an expression that strongly reminded the prince of a lapdog begging its lady for table scraps.
“Well?” asked the fox with left-cocked head and perked ears. “Will you be feeding me or not?”
Were he a woman, the prince thought to himself, the pleading look in those watery green eyes would have melted his heart. As it was, the prince experienced the not quite unfounded feeling that he was being terribly unfair to the poor animal, never mind that the fox was likely a devil in disguise. It was with this misgiving in mind that the prince pushed away his pangs of conscience and replied, “It depends on whether or not you answer my questions.”
The fox’s ears flattened and eyes narrowed before it sighed and relaxed, resting its head upon its paws. “I suppose it is fair. Ask your questions, and I shall answer.”
“Then answer me this: why did you save me?”
“Why, indeed?” The fox ruminated for a moment. “Perhaps I did out of the goodness of my beastly heart. Perhaps it was because I had been commanded to. Perhaps it is because I want something from you. Perhaps it is a combination of the above. Or–” The fox gave a vulpine smile, its pink tongue lolling out. “–perhaps it is neither of the aforementioned. I am, as you so eloquently put it before, a magical abomination. Do I need a reason? Or, more importantly, do I need to inform you of my reasons?”
“A simple ‘my reasons are my own’ would have sufficed.”
“But I would have missed the opportunity to make a point.” The fox grinned more widely and flicked its tail at the prince.
The prince sat back on his heels, a small frown creasing the corners of his mouth. “You should know,” he said, careful to keep his voice level, “that you are speaking to a prince.”
“And what of it?” The fox shook its head in dismissal. “You are far from your land and vassals. You hold no power here. Besides which, I too am myself a prince.” The fox flicked its tail at the blaze on its forehead, which was in the shape of a five-pointed crown.
“Which makes me wonder all the more why you made the effort to save me, and what from.” Although the prince had doubts about the fox’s claim, he did not voice them. Etiquette was never his strongest suit, but even he knew when to be tactful.
“The why,” said the fox as it scratched an itch behind its ear, “I have already answered. As for the what, answer me this: you say you are a prince, but prince who and of where?”
“I fail to see why that is relevant.”
“Humor me.”
“Very well. I am Prince...?” The prince blinked in surprise. Surely he could not have forgotten his own name? “I am Prince...!” To his slowly dawning horror, try as he might, the prince could not remember his name.
The fox sat up and looked gravely at the prince. “I thought as much.”
The prince rounded on the fox. “What do you mean, ‘I thought as much?’ What do you know about this? How did you know to expect it? What have you done to me?” His voice cracked as it reached a painful pitch and volume, but he was too distraught to care. The prince knew he had a name, knew he had known it not too long ago, and knew that he should know it now, but he did not, and that terrified him.
“Calm yourself, princeling. I have done you no harm, and I will tell you all I can once you have regained control of yourself.”
“Control myself? Control myself?!” The prince was on his hands and knees, all-but lunging at the black fox. “I have forgotten who I am! And you expect me to control myself!”
“Yes,” the fox replied flatly, unperturbed by the prince’s outburst. It stared levelly into the prince’s brown eyes and continued, “As a prince, you should be well versed in governing your emotions, or are you so incompetent a princeling that your emotions govern you?”
“I am not incompetent! And my emotions do not rule me!”
“Then prove such.”
The prince drew his face back from the fox’s, marveling at how close to the beast’s snout he had gotten. Properly ashamed of himself now, the prince sat back on his heels, wrapped his arms around his folded legs, and buried his face in his knees. He looked up only at the scent of burning flesh – the pigeon had fallen into the fire, completely forgotten in his earlier distress.
His terror-turned-anger spent, the prince pulled the burnt fowl from the flames and stared at it listlessly, a hollowness echoing within his chest. “Will I ever regain my name?”
The fox’s voice was soothing now compared to its earlier sharpness. “In time, yes,” it replied and nuzzled the prince’s hand. “This church, though abandoned and surrounded on all sides by the Witchwood, is not part of nor influenced by that enchanting place – in fact, the power of this place counteracts the power of the Witchwood. By remaining here for a time, the Witchwood will be unable to maintain its sway over you, and so will you become able to recall your name.”
“And how come you to know this much of the Witchwood?” asked the prince as he leaned back upon the altar and stared at the hole in the roof.
“I am a creature of it, and so such is my nature.”
The prince looked sharply at the fox who merely shook its head sadly.
“It is not what you think. All who reside within the Witchwood, aside from the Witch herself and her children, are as much victims of its power as you. I was not always as I am now, and the same is true of all the others.”
“There are others?” The prince was struck breathless. “How many others?”
“Many others. There is Wolf and the White Hart, Squirrel and Hare, Hound and Hind, the Faun and the Huntsman... Many others.” The fox sighed, its ears drooping and tail limp. “I beg you, believe me when I say I mean you no harm.”
The prince, sobered, curled forward so that he could rest his arms and head on his knees, the burnt pidgeon dangling by its stick from his hand. “What were you like before, then?” the prince asked at length, his gaze focused on the blackened fowl.
“That I cannot say; it is part of the power that binds us to the Witchwood.”
“Is there a way to break that hold?”
“Yes.”
The prince looked to the fox, intent. “How?”
The fox sighed heavily and closed its eyes. “That is another thing I cannot say.”
“Would I be able to break that hold?”
The fox shook its head. “That I cannot say for I do not know. Have you any other questions?”
“Do you know what happened to my brothers?”
“I may. Describe them.”
“My oldest brother, Mark, was said to have entered the Witchwood a year and some months ago. He is tall and long of leg with dark hair and eyes of sky. He carries with him a sword of bright steel with a red stone, carved in the shape of a rose, set in the pommel. My other brother, Edric, is of my height with lighter hair and darker eyes. He carries with him a shield with field of blue, a white iris as its charge. He was said to have followed my brother two months less than a year ago.”
The fox lay down and did not look at the prince as it replied, “I know of them. Wolf went to guide your eldest brother, Mark, but he was too headstrong and did not heed Wolf’s warnings. Hound went to aid your elder brother, Edric, but he was too loyal and so was lost when he tried to rescue Mark. Both have fallen prey to the power of the Witchwood. Both are beyond my power to save.”
The prince closed his eyes and buried his face in his arms. Tears welled up in his eyes as emptiness left by his brothers’ departures grew and metamorphosed into despair. “Is there truly nothing you can do?” the prince asked, his voice choked.
“Nothing.” The fox’s cold, wet nose pressed against his hand for a long moment. “Do not despair, princeling. They may be lost to the Witchwood, but they have not been lost to Death, and so they may not be lost forever. Now, enough of this glum talk. Are you going to eat that?”
“What?” The prince looked at the fox, surprised at the sudden shift in subject.
“Well, are you going to?” The fox watched the prince with its green eyes wide open and pleading, a paw lifted up to point at the charred bird clutched in the prince’s right hand.
“It’s quite burned. Are you certain you want to eat it?” The fox stared at him, head cocked to the left, and the prince got the distinct feeling the fox thought him lacking in sense.
“I have not eaten in almost a week. I am too hungry to care whether or not my meal has been cooked to perfection.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.” The fox looked pointedly at the pigeon, and the prince laid the fowl at the fox’s feet. “Thank you,” was all the fox said before it fell to its meal, devouring the charred bird with amazing speed and unparalleled gusto. There was nothing left, not even the beak or the feet, once the fox had finished.
“Now that,” said the fox with a yawn and a final lick of its chops, “was a satisfying meal.” The fox curled up near the fire and closed its eyes, its belly bulging and tail swishing with contentment, much like a cat’s. “And now I can sleep at ease. Good night, princeling.”
“Good night,” the prince replied, more out of habitual politeness than anything else; this night had been far from good for him.
As the fox fell asleep and began to lightly snore, the prince looked through the hole in the roof and up at the stars, only slightly dimmed by the light of his fire. He did not fall to sleep until morning brought forth its first light.
I don't think that made any sense.