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Rain fell across the battlefield, soaking the dead with its heavy drops, its runoff mingling with blood, mud, and tears. But Tristan paid it little heed, save to mark the change in footing as he swung his heavy broadsword to and fro, cleaving enemies and friends alike. A bloodlust had come over him, and his mind made little distinction between the two. There was him, and then, there were enemies. What lay between mattered little. He was a berserker, and one of the most feared of his kind in all the land. Ah, the land. That was the issue, in truth. Tristan was a warrior first, but when he wasn't cleaving his way through one of his country's many battles, he found himself attending courtly proceedings in his more official capacity - that of Prince of Honus. Yes, his father was the king, but that did not save him from obligatory military service. The war had started over land, it was true, but there was far more to it than that. There was an inescapable difference of ideology which had exacerbated the boiling inferno that was the relationship between the two nations of Honus and Einar. It began, like any number of conflicts, with a land dispute. Both nations wished to control the rich, fertile Gornos Valley, but both had a legitimate claim to its ownership. And so, the first war, which lasted for nearly a decade, was fought. Both sides won and lost many battles, but neither could claim victory. An unspoken agreement to cease hostilities was reached, and both sides backed off. They simply could not afford the monetary or human cost any longer. The second war was a little different. Land was the primary goal, but Honus took a different tact to rile up its troops. Einar had been ruled by a queen for as long as anyone could remember; it was a matriarchy through and through. As one might suspect, that tradition affected their general attitude towards women. Male and female soldiers fought side by side, and were considered completely, and unequivocally equal throughout the land of Einar. That is where Honus aimed its first of many political attacks. So, the propaganda machine was born. Until that time, Honus had taken a somewhat liberal view of women, and really wasn't all that different in its views from Einar. But it all changed with the second war. No one knows where the idea to demonize the matriarchy (and its resulting feminism) actually came from, but it was generally regarded as the sole reason for the continued animosity between Honus and Einar. The second war continued for nearly forty years, off and on. Both sides were unwilling to give up, but neither could keep up the battles for long. An uneasy peace was reached when, once again, neither side could muster a significant force with which to fight. That peace lasted for almost fifteen years, until the current war - called the Third War by most - began. As Tristan fought his way through the hordes of men and women, fierce soldiers all, little crossed his mind, save a need for blood. He was a brutal man, true, but he was, if nothing else, an efficient warrior. He had gained his reputation early in the the Third War, and had been fighting the Einarians for nearly a decade. They had come to fear him, and rightly so. Few could stand up to the hulking warrior. He acted without thought; his instincts guided him. Tristan ducked under the blade of a an axe, and opened the belly of its wielder with his broadsword. In the same motion, he spun, sending his blade arcing to decapitate a woman. He was unstoppable, hacking this way and that. Tristan took minor cuts and bruises, but no wound was serious. He battled for what seemed like hours until none stood before him. The battle was finished. He let the tip of his sword fall to the muddy ground as he panted from exertion. Slowly, the scene around him came into focus. It was strange. During the battle, he merely saw a sea of bodies through which to cut. Each time, however, the battle ended, and he was horrified by the carnage. Tristan, though, was a good soldier. He didn't let any of the horror show. Tristan felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and he spun, grabbing the offending hand. He yanked, sending his would-be assailant crashing to the mud. It was only when he had the tip of his sword at the man's throat that he realized his mistake. "Be easy, brother," Frederick said. Prince Frederick - Tristan's younger brother - smiled. "The battle is won." Tristan retracted his sword, and sheathed the weapon on his back. He extended a hand, "My apologies little brother." Frederick took the offered hand. Good-naturedly, he replied, "No need, Tristan. I should know by now not to sneak up on you like that." Tristan could only shrug. "The Einarians have retreated, then?" "Look around. They are all dead or running like the cowards they are," Frederick replied. "We have won, brother." Tristan snorted in derision, but not for the Einarians. No, he scoffed at his own brother's words. Cowards? He had seen none who qualified as such on that day's battlefield. But then, Frederick often thought of the defeated as having shamed themselves. Never mind that Frederick himself never actually participated in any sort of warfare, save whatever games he played with his friends. Prince Frederick preferred to view the battle from afar, to seize on any strategic advantages. Few would say it to his face, but many men thought him the coward. "Always so glum, brother. Can you not enjoy this victory? We have won the day, and we shall celebrate!" Frederick exclaimed. In spite of the way he felt about his enemies, Tristan was, in fact, happy. He was not without his pride, and the princely warrior's ego had been stroked that day. * The tent was magnificent. There were few other words to describe the silk structure in which the main celebration took place. Night had fallen, and torches and lanterns had been lit. The King himself had chosen to bestow the joy of his presence upon those beneath him. So there King Nalos sat on his uncomfortable, gilded throne, watching the festivities. It had been a great victory, to be sure, and quite lopsided. Nalos knew that his son had tipped the balance in favor of the war host of Honus. He always did when he fought. Nalos looked at his son, and not for the first time, thanked the gods for giving him such a gift. Tristan was huge; he towered over each of the other two-hundred people in the tent, and easily. But he was not lumbering, like so many other giant men. He moved with an athletic, deadly grace. Each movement was measured, and he maintained a warrior's balance even when at rest, far away from danger. Tristan, though, was more than his stature. He was a born warrior, his every instinct aggressively dominant. Nalos felt confident in the fate of his nation should Tristan succeed him. And then his eyes came to rest on his other son, Frederick. That one was far too clever for his own good. He wasn't a small man, but he wasn't terribly large, either. Average. What he lacked in size, however, he made up for in cunning. Frederick had always been that way. Perhaps it was growing up in his brother's shadow, or maybe it was the gods' own design, but Frederick had always preferred to think, to plan, rather than act. He was the exact opposite of his brother. Even their hair colors reflected their differences. Where Tristan was blonde, Frederick's hair was as black as the night. Tristan was fair, like his mother, and Frederick had taken after his own mother. The two could not be any different, and yet, there they stood, laughing, joking, and enjoying one another's company. King Nalos stood, and his retainer banged his scepter on the floor. The tent grew silent in a split second. "A great battle was won today, but the threat still looms. We shall need many more victories before our task is complete, and the Einarians lay at our feet! But we are not here for rousing speeches. Rather, we have come together to celebrate the achievements of our heroes. Ten men have been chosen to receive gifts befitting their valor on the battlefield. You ten, step forward," the king said. Ten men, Tristan among them, made their way through the crowd until they stood in front of the king. Nalos went to each in turn, and recited their heroic deeds. Most had saved a fellow warrior, but some, like Tristan, had simply outfought their peers. The king gave each a token. Some received golden trinkets while others were given jewelry. Finally, the king came to Tristan. "Ah, my son. Once again, you have proven yourself quite a formidable warrior, and once again, I stand before you with a prize. But this prize is unlike any other you have received. It belonged to your great-grandfather, King Piros," Nalos held up a golden torque, on which was engraved a series of whorls and knots. "And I give it to you, champion of Honus." Tristan knelt, and said, "Thank you, father." The king clasped the torque around his son's neck, and said, "Let the celebration continue!" * Tristan sat across from his brother, but he didn't see the smaller man. No, he looked past him, and saw only the bevy of young beauties across the tent. He knew he had their attention; why wouldn't he? Women had always been easily seduced by the hulking warrior prince. One in particular, though, had caught his eye. He didn't even know her name, but Tristan was captivated by her beauty. More, though, she seemed to be ignoring him. Tristan was intrigued by her seeming indifference. She even had her back turned to him, and Tristan's eyes flowed down her auburn locks to the pert buttocks which her dress, loose though it may be, could not hide. And then she turned, and Tristan's breath nearly caught. Green eyes flashed, and Tristan was smitten, then and there. "Are you all right, brother?" Frederick asked. "It looks as though you have seen a ghost." "No. A goddess," Tristan replied as he locked eyes with the red-headed girl. Frederick followed his brother's gaze, and Tristan asked, "Who is she?" "I do not know, Tristan, but I shan't rest until I do," Frederick replied, smiling. He removed himself from the table, and began mingling through the crowds. Frederick had a knack with crowds, something Tristan himself had never mastered. He always felt ill at ease when surrounded by people. A few minutes later, Frederick returned. Her name was Penelope, and she was the daughter of some minor lord, Frederick told Tristan. Her name mattered not at all to the big warrior. He knew as soon as he saw Penelope that she would be his wife. The fires of love, it seems, can ignite even at first sight. So it was with Tristan. He wanted her, and so he would have her. * Three days later, Tristan requested leave to marry Penelope from his father, who granted readily. He was so eager to please his son that he raised not even the slightest objection. The girl's opinion was not asked. Nor was it needed. The king merely decreed that she would be his son's wife, and so they were betrothed. The day of the wedding came, and the two were married in a lavish ceremony. Penelope's father was thrilled, for his status within the kingdom had risen seemingly overnight. Penelope played her role well, and the wedding went off without a hitch. On the wedding night, Tristan leaned back against the headboard of his ornate bed, waiting for his new wife. He had already undressed, and he lay there completely naked. His excitement grew with each passing second until Penelope entered, still wearing her bridal gown. "My lord," she said, curtsying. Tristan nodded. Tristan knew little of feminine attire, but Penelope seemed to only pull a few strings, and her dress fell off, leaving her standing there, bare- breasted and nude. Tristan had heard tell of women who wore clothes beneath their clothes - they called him undergarments - but the fashion had yet to catch on in Honus. Penelope was everything Tristan had imagined her to be. Her breasts were perky, and her figure was plump, but not fat. Her skin was pale, and creamy with a scattering of freckles here and there. And then there were the eyes, those innocent green eyes. She seemed to glide towards him, and Tristan grew more aroused with each step. She didn't even need to touch him before he was ready. Penelope climbed atop him, and they made love. Tristan had coupled with many women over the course of his twenty-six years, and Penelope was far from the most skilled or enthusiastic. But Tristan cared little for that; she was perfect. It wasn't the actual love-making which caused Tristan's pleasure. It was some indescribable emotion that was the source. Tristan had never felt anything of the sort, and, lying on the bed, Penelope's head resting on his broad chest, Tristan had to admit that it scared him, and more than a little. * Time marched on, and Tristan was given an entire two months before he had to return to war. They were simultaneously the most magical and most frightening two months of his existence. Penelope had a hold on him; that much was certain, and Tristan feared whatever deeds she may push him into. But Penelope played the submissive wife. She bowed to Tristan's every whim. Tristan, in turn, doted on his beloved, giving her gifts and showering her with affection. She accepted gracefully, for she truly was glad to be the wife of such a great man. Soon, however, the time came for Tristan to return to war. His absence had hurt the armies of Honus, and they had lost ground. Tristan returned to the front, a distracted man. Certainly, he remained the fearsome warrior, but in the back of his mind, thoughts of dear Penelope lingered. Battle after battle, though, the thoughts faded, and soon, Tristan had become the single-minded killer he had always been. Nearly a year passed, and the war had not abated. While Honus had the edge in martial strength, the Einarians boasted magicians of unmatched power. The result was a stalemate. Both sides knew that they were evenly matched, but still they fought, unable to throw the past aside. On one fateful day, Tristan fought on even after the battle had raged for nearly two days. He had barely rested, and was stained from head to toe with the blood of his enemies and dirt from the field of battle. Tristan stood before his army during a brief respite, and took in the scene before him. At one end of the valley were the Einarians; at the opposite were the men of Honus. Dead littered the valley between the two armies, and crows pecked at their flesh. Tristan saw the Einarian host poised for attack. The sun had reached its zenith nearly four hours before, and had already begun its descent. Tristan knew that only one army would be left alive by nightfall. There were no pretty speeches. No motivation was needed. These men knew what was at stake. Tristan nodded to a page, who then raised a flag in signal. Tristan broke into a trot, carefully placing his feet between the dead bodies as he gained speed. The men of Honus followed him. The Einarians followed suit, and charged as well. The clash was magnificent. Metal on metal, screams of the dying, and the battle cries of desperate warriors filled the air. Tristan waded into the battle, as he had always done, swinging his broadsword this way and that. He moved like a tired, but still powerful, predator, and he killed an enemy with each stroke of his sword. The battle surged this way and that, each side gaining advantage at varying times. A huge fireball landed amidst the warriors, killing Einarians and the men of Honus alike. Magicians. They cared little for the lives of lesser mortals. Balls of fire rained from the sky, each killing a bundle of warriors, indiscriminate of their allegiance. Tristan himself was nearly hit on no less than four occasions. The tide of battle turned, and soon, it was clear that the magicians had all but won the day. Tristan, however, was a stubborn man. He would not give up so easily. His great sword in hand, Tristan waded through the battle, making his way ever closer to where the magicians had perched themselves. It seemed like hours, but in truth, it was mere minutes later when Tristan broke through. He slew the magicians' guards easily, and faced down the trio of magic users. And then he saw one smile. "We have you, Prince of Honus," a female magician said with a wicked grin. Tristan lurched forward, and nearly reached them before invisible shackles latched themselves to his ankles and wrists. He toppled to the ground, unable to move his arms or legs. Tristan peered into the faces of the magicians, and spat defiantly. The magician waved her hand, and blackness enveloped Tristan. * Tristan awoke to the dim light and cold solitude of a dungeon. He had been in enough of them to know their musty smell. His mind was cloudy at first, but in only moments, he focused. It had been a trap. The entire battle had clearly been a ruse to capture the prince. Einar only had a handful of magicians at its disposal, maybe as many as a dozen, and they had sent three into harm's way to capture Tristan. He almost felt flattered. He was unbound, but the cell was small. Tristan could touch all sides without even stretching his arms to their full length. He sat up, and ran his hands through his blonde hair; it was still caked with dried mud and blood from the battle. Then, he realized that he was completely naked. Though Tristan knew the seriousness of his situation, he was not frightened. Each time he went into battle, Tristan knew the risks. He was keenly aware of his own mortality, and did not fear it. No warrior could afford to. His captivity did irritate him, however. Patience was not his strong suit, and as time passed, Tristan's anger began to seethe, just below the surface. After two days with absolutely no contact or provisions, Tristan began to wonder whether the Einarians would simply let him thirst to death. No sooner had the thought flitted through his mind than a small flap opened at the base of his cell door, and a large bowl full of murky water was pushed through. Tristan lunged at the flap, hoping to grasp an ankle or foot before it shut, but hunger, dehydration, and fatigue slowed him. It clanged shut before he could reach it. Not one to dwell on failure, Tristan eagerly lifted the bowl to his lips, and drank. Small sips at first; he was no fool, and he did not lack self-control. Tristan had no desire to slake his thirst only to vomit the contents of his stomach because he was too impatient. After a few minutes, he drank again, this time a little more deeply. A half an hour later, he drank more. After three hours of slowly letting his body acclimate itself to the hydration, the bowl was dry. Tristan leaned against the wall, and continued to wait. His eyes never left the flap. A day later, his vigilance was rewarded. The small flap opened, and Tristan lunged. His hand wrapped around a slender ankle with an iron grip. A few seconds later, Tristan's hand began to burn, but he only gripped harder. The burning wrapped itself around Tristan's wrist, and traveled up his arm to his shoulder, then his neck, and finally, his head. He held on for almost a full minute, squeezing with as much strength as he could muster, invisible fire burning most of his body, before he could hold no longer. He let go, and his hand was pushed back into the cell. He burned for most of that day before the magical fire faded. However, Tristan refused to cry out. He would not give his sorcerous tormentor that particular satisfaction. The next day, Tristan received the first meal of his captivity. It was not much, certainly - just a tasteless gruel - but Tristan ate every last drop of the substance. He knew that he needed to keep his strength high, and whatever food they gave him would be necessary for such an endeavor. So his life fell into a routine. Each day, the flap would open, and food or water was shoved inside, but never both. They gave him a bucket in which to relieve himself, and each morning, it had been emptied. Tristan knew that magic was at play, for he would have awoken had the door been opened. Days passed, but soon, those days turned to weeks, and those weeks turned to more than a month. Day by day, his muscular body lost its heft; the lack of food, coupled with an inability to move, let alone exercise combined to create a much thinner Tristan. But he never lost his fire, his will to survive. Each time the flap opened, he would fight. One time, he even managed to trip his guard before she sent the magical fire. Tristan did not eat for almost a week after that. The days blurred together, and Tristan began to think that he would die in that small cell. After what Tristan reckoned was three months, on a day not unlike any other, he felt the magical bindings clamp onto his wrists and ankles. He did not even struggle, for Tristan knew it was pointless. He merely sat leaning against the wall of his cell as the door swung open on protesting hinges. And then she stepped inside. Beautiful was an understatement, Tristan thought. Yes, she was past that, but there was something else. It was a power in her eyes, something calculatingly superior in the way she gazed at the blonde warrior. Dark of skin and hair, Tristan had heard tell of that woman. She was the Einarian's second-in-command, a magic user of unparalleled gifts. Her name was Arista. "How are you finding your accommodations, Prince Tristan?" she asked, her voice like pure silk. Tristan remained silent, so Arista continued, "You are probably wondering what it is that we are going to do with you, I am sure. In all honesty, that question has taken us months to answer. We could kill you, of course, but what does that gain? You are already out of commission, and our armies have benefited. You are far too valuable to keep locked in this cell for the rest of your life, so that rules out prolonged captivity." She stepped closer, and, with a finger on Tristan's chin, raised his face. Tristan wanted to spit, but something stayed him as Arista gazed into his eyes. "But then it hit me." Her voice was the hiss of a snake as she whispered, "I needn't constrain myself within the confines of normalcy. You are special, Tristan. No need to deny that, and that fact means that you require a unique punishment. I won't spoil it for you, though. I would not dream of that." Arista touched his forehead, and Tristan blacked out once again. * He could not move. Tristan felt the bite of leather restraints on his wrists and ankles. He smelled burning incense, and felt the coarse grain of unfinished wood on his back. A low murmur surrounded him. Tristan's eyes fluttered open to be greeted by yet more darkness, though it was not complete. A soft glow permeated the room, and, as he focused, Tristan turned his head to see the dark shadows of cloaked and hooded figures surrounding him. He tried to speak, but his words caught in his throat. Never had Tristan felt more helpless than when he lay on that wooden altar - for that's what he realized it was - unable to move, unable to speak, and completely at the mercy of his captors. He lifted his head as far as he might, and soon found Arista. She was cloaked like the rest, but her posture and height was unmistakeable. Arista stretched out her slender hand, and extended her fingers. Tristan had seen enough spell-casting to know that magic was at play, but it was something far more complicated than anything he had ever seen. Magicians typically only had to utter a few words to cast a spell, but thirteen magic-users working in concert? That was unheard-of. A slight tingle started at his toes. It wasn't unpleasant, but Tristan knew what it meant. The spell was beginning to take effect. The blonde warrior wondered what was to become of him. The tingle intensified, and became a mild burn. The mild burn became a raging inferno, and Tristan tried to scream. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The pain was unbearable. A silent scream filled his mind as he passed out once again. * Tristan dreamed a strange dream. When he awoke, he could remember nothing about it, save a feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he remembered everything up until he had succumbed to the pain, and passed out. He didn't feel any different as he sat up in his cell, except for a dread which filled his mind. What had they done? It was complicated magic, he knew. Why else would they have used thirteen magicians? What other reason could there be for Arista's involvement? All questions would be answered in time, Tristan decided. Whatever spell they had cast, he would soon feel its effects. There was little use in filling his head with useless worry. Ah, but it is one thing to decide to put something from your mind; it is quite another to actually do so, especially when your day consists of staring at a stone wall. Inevitably, Tristan's mind continued to speculate. Aside from his mind's new obsession, Tristan's days fell back into the familiar rhythm. Except he quit his small show of defiance; he no longer lunged for the ankles of his guard. What was the use? Even should he actually reach his captor, Tristan knew he was in no condition to attempt an escape. He likely wouldn't get ten feet. The mysterious spell taunted him, day by day. For the first few days, he half expected to burst into flames, or be transformed into a toad. Soon, though, those thoughts faded in favor of more complex, sinister thoughts. After all, Tristan had little else to occupy his mind. A month passed, and Tristan continued to lose weight. Lack of food had turned his once muscular body into a thin caricature of itself. He tried to do what exercises he could in the confines of his cell, but he simply did not have the energy. More often than not, he merely sat, pondering his circumstance. Tristan knew that he was a shell of his former self, and after a while, he quit acknowledging his own body. Better to ignore it, than to think about the weakling he had become. Two months after the spell had been cast, Tristan's cell door opened. They hadn't even bothered to bind him that time. Arista loomed in the doorway. Somehow, she looked bigger than she had before. Tristan was on his feet in mere seconds, and he lunged at the magician. Or at least he tried to lunge, for she caught him by the throat, and slammed him against the wall. Tristan tried to fight, but she was far too strong, or rather, he was far too weak to match her. And then he noticed something. She didn't merely seem to be larger. She was actually taller than him. Had she grown? No. Tristan had shrunk. He was over a foot shorter than his normal seven feet. "Now, now, pet. Play nice," Arista sneered. She released him, and Tristan fell to the ground, rubbing his throat. The magician looked him up and down, and said, "Look at what has become of the mighty champion of Honus. Bested by a mere woman. For shame." She smiled. "What --" Tristan began, but was silenced by a stinging backhand from Arista. "Quiet, boy!" she said quietly, but Tristan felt the menace in her words. He obeyed. "Good. You can follow directions. Continue, and you will not be punished. Disobey, and you will regret it. Now stand." Tristan hesitated for only a moment. What use was there in disobedience? He didn't stand a chance in any physical confrontation, and could not hope to escape in that way. But perhaps he could lull them into trusting him, and he could escape sometime down the road. Tristan stood. He felt small as Arista circled him, and it had nothing to do with actual size. "Good. You are coming along nicely," she said. Arista patted Tristan's rear. "Soon," Arista said as she finished her revolution. And then she was gone, the door clanging shut behind her. Tristan was truly frightened, then. He had always been able to count on his size; it had given him a certain power that had nothing to do with his physicality. It had given him confidence. Without that crutch on which to lean, he felt lost. And it wasn't over. She had clearly implied that more changes were to come. Would he continue to shrink until he was the size of a child? Were they changing him into something else? He ached to know, but feared the knowledge. No, he thought. Tristan would not be conquered by fear. He would persevere, and take what opportunities which might present themselves. Despite his own admonishment, though, Tristan could not help but take stock of the changes he had undergone. He knew he had shrunk, but how much? After a few minutes of crude measurement and comparison to his surroundings, he estimated that he was barely five and a half feet tall - about average height for a man in Honus. Average. Normal. The idea disgusted him. Then, Tristan ran his hands over his body, feeling for muscles that weren't there. It was more than the near starvation that had robbed his body of its mass; the spell had contributed, he knew. He felt...soft. There was no other word for it. And then he realized why. He had no body hair. Not a single strand of hair was on his body below his eyebrows. Tristan had never been a particularly hairy man, but he had never been completely smooth, either. His hairless body was dirty, surely, but he could feel his silky skin beneath his wandering hands. A spark of familiarity flared in his mind, and he instantly knew why. His skin felt like that of a woman. At the thought, his hand inevitably went to his genitals, and as expected, he knew they had shrunk by nearly half. Was that the purpose of the spell, then? Were they going to turn him into a woman? He didn't think it possible. Tristan raised his slender arm, and sniffed beneath it. He hadn't bathed in months, and the smell was not pleasant. But it wasn't his smell. It wasn't the body odor of a man. He couldn't describe how it was different, but he knew that it was. How had he not noticed the changes before then? They were so dramatic. Of course, Tristan knew the answer to his own question. They had been gradual, and he had little frame of reference by which to gauge the transformation. That, and he had been distracted by his own depression at his weakened, captive state. Vowing to not be caught unaware again, Tristan found a loose rock, and marked his height on the wall. It wasn't much, but it would give him some way to keep track of the changes. That night, Tristan could not sleep; thoughts of what the future might hold prevented it. So he lay awake on the stone floor, thinking about life as a normal-sized man, or worse, a small man. He dared not think what was in his mind, though. He couldn't bring himself to ponder existence as a woman. * By Tristan's reckoning, almost a month had passed since Arista's last visit. He had continued to shrink, but had leveled off after three weeks. Tristan estimated his height at around five feet, four inches. The rest of his body had lost more mass, but he couldn't be sure how much. What he did know was that his hands and feet were dainty and feminine. In addition, his genitals had continued to shrink as well, but had leveled off at about a quarter of their former size. He looked like a child down there. He was sitting in his cell, his mind nearly overwhelmed with depression, when his cell door opened. In walked two burly men. Tristan was taken aback by how intimidating they were. He had never been afraid of a man before; sure, he had normal fears of abstract concepts, and he was uneasy when it came to great heights, but he had never feared another human being. Not until that day, at least. The two men said nothing, but merely took Tristan by the arms, and hauled him from the cell. Tristan, to his credit, tried to struggle, but the men were far too strong. After a few moments of useless struggle, Tristan gave up. They led him through the dungeon, but Tristan barely noticed his surroundings. His mind was preoccupied with musings on his fate. Surely they wouldn't kill him then, but what fate awaited him, he did not know. The trip through the dungeon was a blur. He was dragged through it, up some stairs, and through some hallways. He absently noted that the decorations were getting richer as he progressed. Where were they taking him? Almost as soon as the question entered Tristan's mind, the guards stopped. One of them, a hulking, bald brute, knocked on a door. "Enter," the voice of Arista called from inside. The bald man opened the door, and Tristan was led inside. The room was spacious and richly furnished. Tapestries decorated the walls, and a trio of chairs dominated the space. Tristan could see through a door at the other end of the sitting room that a bedroom waited beyond. "Ah, Prince Tristan," Arista said, rising from one of the chairs. "Lovely, just lovely." She clapped her hands twice, and from nowhere came a pair of servant women. "Let's get you cleaned up, then." The two servants - both stocky and a bit bigger than Tristan - took Tristan's hands, and led him to and through a side door. Inside was a huge copper bath tub, and he was told to get into it. Tristan was eager to wash the dirt from his body, so he did not resist. As he stepped into the warm water of the tub, he noticed that the water smelled of flowers. Then, one of the women poured a bucket of water over his head, drenching him. Tristan's long, blonde hair obscured his vision as he felt the women rub him down with soap. They were quite thorough, and left no crack or crevice uncleaned. Tristan noticed a slight smile on one of the servant's face when she was washing his privates. When they were finished, Tristan stepped from the tub, and saw that the water was nearly black from the grit and grime of his imprisonment. He was dried, and then directed to sit on a dainty-looking chair which never would have supported his weight before the change. He sat, and the chair did not protest at the weight of his petite frame. Then, the servants went to work. They did something with his hair, and applied some things to his face, but Tristan had little idea what they were doing, as he had no mirror. After almost an hour, the women were finished, and led him back into the sitting room. Arista smiled when Tristan came in, and said, "Oh, that is just gorgeous. But something is missing." Her hand came to her chin as she thought. "Ah, I know." She mumbled a few words, and a pink ribbon appeared in her hand. Arista crossed the room, and knelt in front of Tristan. Then, she tied the ribbon around his penis. Tristan looked down at the perfect bow on his small penis, and could not deny that it looked, well, adorable. "And now the finishing touch," Arista said, holding the torque Tristan's father had given him. It looked smaller. "We had this torque adjusted. It is famous, you know. All know its story, having been passed down from father to son, King to prince. One of a kind." She clasped it around his slender neck, and then attached a six foot chain to it. "Come now," Arista said, tugging on the chain. "Let's look at the new you." Arista led Tristan to a full length mirror. Tristan kept his head down for almost a full minute before he dared to look. He raised his eyes to an image of beauty. Tristan's face was that of a princess, rivaling that of any woman he had ever seen, and surpassing nearly all. They had fixed his hair in quite a feminine style, weaving in a crown Tristan recognized as the style a princess of Honus might wear. His eyes traveled down his slender neck to his slim shoulders. He gazed at his torso, at his slightly rounded belly and thin waist. His hips flared out like a woman's, and his legs were shapely. He knew without looking that his buttocks had been feminized as well. The only parts of his masculinity which remained were his small genitals and a lack of breasts. "What have you done?" Tristan asked in a breathy whisper. He had not spoken in over a month, and was surprised to hear his high-pitched voice. Still holding Tristan's leash, Arista smiled. "Don't you like your new body, mighty prince?" Tristan could not contain his anger any longer. Months of seething frustration boiled out in an instant, and he launched himself at Arista. Surprised, Arista was knocked from her feet, and the two rolled around on the ground, each trying to get the upper hand. Years of training were thrown aside, and Tristan could not help but fight in what was an unmistakeably feminine style. He scratched, clawed at the bigger woman. Tristan even grabbed Arista's hair, and yanked some free. After only a few stunned seconds, though, the two burly guards grabbed Tristan, and easily pulled him off of their mistress. Arista took a moment to compose herself, and then said, "For that, you will be punished." She waved her hand at one of the guards. "Do what you will, but do not mark him up." Tristan looked at the guard to which Arista had spoken. He wore a crooked smile on his face. "Bend him over," the bald guard barked, and Tristan felt the rough, strong hands of the other guard push him over. Tristan struggled as best he could, but to no avail. He squealed, kicked, screamed and tried to wiggle free, but it did no good as the bald guard pushed Tristan's legs apart. Then it happened so quickly that Tristan barely registered it outside of a sharp pain in his rectum. The guard had entered him from behind. Helplessness. Despair. Pain. Humiliation. It is a strange thing for a man to be raped, surely. Yes, the physical pain is intense, especially for a virgin, but the emotional impact is far greater. It is enough to completely break a normal man. Tristan, however, was anything but ordinary. He was a champion. He was a great warrior. Tristan dominated everything put in front of him, be it women, battle, or other men. And so his fall, though no less assured by the rape, was from a far greater height. Every one of those emotions, that humiliation and degradation was felt all the more keenly because of who Tristan was, or rather had been.. Tristan fought as best he could; what else could he do? Soon, though, as the guard took him from behind, Tristan's struggle lost its intensity. He quit screaming, and just lay there as the man did his business. By the time the two men switched places, Tristan was sobbing uncontrollably. "Just relax, darlin'," the other guard whispered in Tristan's ear. "Relax, and it won't hurt so much." A big part of Tristan died that day when the second guard entered him from behind, and he didn't even move. There was no fight, no struggle. He just lay there, bent over the chair as the big man did his business. * Tristan sat, still naked, on one of the chairs, and he could feel a wet spot forming beneath him. The guards had not bothered to pull out. He couldn't get pregnant, after all. He wasn't a woman. But, then again, what was he? He certainly wasn't a man. Was he something in between? Tristan couldn't bring himself to ponder the question. It was almost like it had all happened to someone else, like he had been a spectator to the most humiliating, degrading, and painful event of his life. He had been raped, but that part wasn't the most troubling to the former warrior. No, the worst part was that they had treated him, not like a man, but like just another woman who needed to be taught a lesson. He had remained bent over the chair long after the men had finished; Tristan had simply been unable to will himself to motion. And so he had remained there, gently sobbing until one of the servants had helped him up, and onto the chair. Tristan hadn't said a word since then. He hadn't looked up, but instead, stared at the ground. He was aware, but still dazed from the events. "You see what happens when you're a bad boy?" he heard Arista's voice ask. "Look at me." Tristan raised his eyes, and was surprised by what he saw. Arista sat across from him, and Tristan saw genuine pain. Did she regret what she had done? "You asked me a question before you attacked me," Arista began, her voice soft. "You wanted to know what we had done to you. Let me explain your situation. By now I'm sure you realize that the battle in which you were caught was a trap. We wanted to capture you, but we really didn't expect it to work. We had tried and failed many times before. But capture you, we did. As I told you months ago, we were unsure how to deal with you once we had you. My first thought was to turn you into a woman, but it soon became clear that that was impossible." She shrugged. "Our magic simply won't do that. We considered all sorts of possibilities, but none seemed, well, right." Arista paused, and stood. She put her hands behind her back, and started to pace. Finally, after a few moments, she continued, "Then, I realized something. We didn't have to make you a woman. We just had to take away your masculinity. So, we bent our will towards doing just that. It took a while, but we figured out how to do it without killing you - no easy task, mind you." She turned to him, "But you've seen the result. You have, to be blunt, the body of a young woman except for a two obvious differences, and a couple of subtle ones. Of course, you retained your male genitalia, but your, ah, equipment is much smaller now. No breasts, obviously. But there are two other things which you may have noticed. One, your anus is quite a bit more sensitive now, and is capable of taking quite aggressive penetration. Think of it as your new sex organ. You have no basis for comparison, but if we hadn't changed you, you would be bleeding quite freely right now." Arista smiled. "And then there's my personal touch. It is not as drastic as the other changes, but I think it is far more...profound. It's a mental change, so the degree of difficulty..ah, but you don't want to hear me prattle on about my craft. Suffice it to say that I took away a few of the rougher edges of your personality. What that means for you, we can't be certain. Time will tell, perhaps." Arista sat down next to Tristan, and put her arms around him. He was stunned, but unsurprised. He had, after all, seen the changes himself. He knew that the rape should have hurt quite a bit more, and, towards the end, he had felt the beginnings of physical pleasure. It had been overshadowed by his intense humiliation and mental anguish, but it had been there. "What is to become of me?" Tristan said in his soft, girlish voice. "That is my favorite part, for it offers a chance at redemption. We know that you have simply done your duty as a warrior, and we also know that you are no more brutal than any other. But you are a symbol, and one we must destroy utterly and without mercy," Arista explained. "So we have devised a plan. For two more years you will remain our captive. The first will be the most difficult, for you will be humiliated on a daily basis. Everyone will know what you once were, and we will leave little doubt about what you have become. It will be degrading, and most of my colleagues think you won't make it. I think you are a survivor, however, and I have faith that you will play your part. The only consolation I can offer is this: you have no choice but to obey, so try to enjoy what moments you can." Tristan asked, "And after that first year?" "The second year will be more relaxed. You will remain what you are now, but the humiliation will stop. You will be given quarters befitting your station, but you will be required to learn how to act as a lady. It will be difficult, and you will be unable to continue any masculine tendencies. I will not lie. The goal is to train the maleness out of you. After that year, you will be given a choice. I won't tell you the terms of that choice now; it is for another time, but know that you will be released should you wish it." "Why are you telling me?" Tristan asked. "Because, like I said, you have no choice. I just thought it was the decent thing to do to at least tell you your fate," Arista said. "And if I disobey?" "You will be punished, but this time, the men won't be so gentle," Arista said. "If your disobedience becomes too common, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your life in a brothel as a cheap whore." Tristan could not bring himself to doubt Arista's words. "Now then, let us go to dinner, shall we, pet?" Arista said, standing. She tugged on his leash. * Tristan's mind was reeling as Arista led him through the hallways. He hardly noticed his surroundings, so focused on his predicament was he. So that was their plan? To completely emasculate and humiliate him? Arista had said as much. Tristan was completely lost; he had no idea what to do. Should he play along, and hope that Arista would release him after the two years? Or should he fight, and endure whatever punishment they could throw at him? He knew that he wanted to fight. It was, after all, his nature to resist, but the combination of his new body, the rape, and whatever Arista had done to his mind made him hesitate. Tristan was afraid, more so than he ever had been before, and of so many things. He feared what men might do to him; he was afraid of whatever punishment Arista might mete out. And he was afraid that she might just doom him to a life as a cheap whore. He knew he couldn't really resist if that's what she wanted to do. Most patrons at brothels didn't really care whether their whore was willing or not. Some even liked the fighters. No, resistance seemed futile as Tristan was led through the halls. The servants had fixed his hair, and adjusted his makeup. But he wore nothing save the pink bow around his shrunken manhood; his feminized body was bare for all to see, though they passed no one in the halls. They reached a pair of double doors, in front of which, a pair of guards stood. One of the guards nodded to Arista, and pushed the door open, and Tristan heard a din of voices coming from inside. If he was going to resist, now was the time. He wanted to. He needed to, but he didn't. Rather, he followed Arista meekly into the dining hall. Tristan felt all eyes on him, though he kept his own to the ground. He couldn't bear to look at anyone. Arista stopped, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Prince Tristan of Honus." There was an audible gasp. And Arista was moving again, tugging Tristan along. She sat, and said, "Stand behind me, and do not speak, pet." She looped Tristan's leash onto a chair, and sat. Tristan hazarded a glance at the occupants of the table, and was unsurprised to see that nearly twenty sets of eyes were on him. But Tristan stood as he had been instructed. Servants entered, and set down the first course, and the diners began to eat. Conversation, inevitably, was dominated by talk of Tristan. "Is that really him?" a fat man asked. Arista answered in the affirmative. "Oh, he is just adorable," a woman who sat at the head of the table said. Tristan assumed she was the queen. "Well, done, Arista." The magician nodded in thanks. So the meal went, with many people barely touching their food. Instead, they stared at Tristan, or asked questions of Arista. Tristan found himself studying the people around the table, just as they were studying him. Their expressions were many and varied. Some viewed him with obvious hate. Others looked at him like he was some sort of novelty. And others looked at him with lust. Still others alternated between the three. Time passed, and soon, the plates were clean, but the conversations continued long into the night. Tristan learned a lot that night, not least of which that Arista really didn't care for the people at the table. She was polite enough, but Tristan couldn't help but notice a certain curtness to her words. He also found out that the queen of Einar was an absolute dolt. She was flighty, vapid, and quite stupid. It was clear that Arista was the true power. At almost midnight, Arista excused herself from the table, citing a need for an early next morning. She tugged at Tristan's leash, and said, "Come now, pet." They were almost out the door when Arista was hailed by one of the men who had been at the table. "A word, Arista?" he asked. Tristan looked at him. The man was middle- aged, but had the body of a former warrior gone slightly to seed. What was left of the warrior in Tristan noticed that the man was not to be taken lightly. "Yes, Count Irving?" Arista said, turning. "I was wondering if I might have some time, ah, alone with your pet," he said. "Certainly, but know that he is not to be harmed. You may use him as you wish, but I can not abide your harming such a helpless creature," Arista said. Tristan's thoughts ranged from gratitude to outrage. On one hand, he appreciated Arista's protection. On the other hand, he rankled at being called helpless. "Oh no. Nothing of the sort, I assure you, Arista. But one thing," he paused. "I want him to enjoy it. Or at least act like it." "That can be arranged," Arista said. "Tomorrow night, then?" "I was hoping that I might have him tonight," the Count ventured. "No, I have plans for Prince Tristan tonight," Arista stated with a smile. "I shall send him to your quarters tomorrow night, then." The Count nodded, a hungry smile decorating his face. * "Hold very still, pet," Arista said, her slender fingers at Tristan's temples. They had returned to her quarters only minutes before. "You certainly don't want this spell to go wrong. You would end up a mindless wretch." Tristan believed her. He had seen the effects magic could have on someone's mind, and had no desire to interrupt the delicate process. Arista's brow furrowed in concentration, and Tristan couldn't help but notice that she was quite beautiful. Her dark, mocha colored skin was exotic, and she had a commandingly sexy presence about her which Tristan found quite appealing. Arista's fingers grew hot, but only for a split second, and then she said, "There. All done. Now you will be unable to harm another human being without causing yourself considerable pain. Even thinking about violence will cause unease. Try it." Tristan couldn't help it. He imagined snapping Arista's slender neck. As Arista had said, a slight nervousness bordering on fear enveloped his mind. He put the idea from his thoughts. "Stay, pet," Arista instructed, and she disappeared into another room. She returned a moment later, and she was as naked as Tristan. What was this? She sat on a chair, and spread her legs. "Kneel before me." Tristan did. "Now please me with your mouth." Tristan had no desire for punishment, and besides, he had done as much before. He lowered his face into her nether region, and began to lick. After a few minutes, Arista moaned. A few more minutes, and she had her hand on the back of Tristan's pretty head, pushing his face into her crotch. The whole time, even as he licked, Tristan couldn't help but note one simple fact. He was between the legs of a beautiful woman, and he was not even the slightest bit aroused. His member hadn't stirred. He might as well be licking some inanimate object for how much it excited him. That thought scared him more than anything else. What had happened to him? * The next night, Tristan was led through the palace, still completely naked, by a servant. Arista had told him to obey the woman like she was his mistress. Tristan, of course, obeyed. He didn't really have a choice in the matter. And so he found himself standing in front of an ornate door as the servant woman knocked, then waited. The door opened, and Tristan's leash was passed to another servant. For their part, the servants did not even acknowledge Tristan's nudity. He was grateful for that. Tristan saw the Count as soon as he entered the room. Dressed in a flimsy silk robe, he smiled suggestively as he leered at Tristan's feminine body. The Count waved the servants away, and rose, crossing the room to where Tristan stood. He took Tristan's hand, and led him to the couch. Tristan noted the lust in the Count's eyes. Count Irving disrobed, and pushed Tristan to his knees. The former warrior knew what was expected; he had prepared himself for that moment. But as he knelt in front of the Count, staring at the man's erect member, something happened. Tristan became aroused. His own shrunken member did not become engorged, but the feeling was unmistakeable. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to taste it. And he wanted it inside of him. He tried to resist, but it was nearly useless. Tristan knew that it would do him no good, and besides, he wanted to do it. Tristan looked up at Count Irving. "Go ahead, my sweet," the count urged. "I know you want to." Desire is a strange thing. No one can control the object of their desire. No one can change what they truly want, and Tristan was no different. He wanted that man as much as he had ever wanted any woman. Perhaps he wanted it more. With a tentative lick, Tristan's lingering masculinity was tossed into the back of his mind. The lick became a kiss, and Tristan lost himself to his lust. He took the Count's member into his mouth, just as he had seen so many women do to his own. The warrior screamed from the back of Tristan's mind, yelling for him not to give in, but he pushed the weak cries aside, and committed to his task of pleasuring the Count. He sucked, he licked, and Tristan kissed the man's privates until he was rewarded with a salty, sticky gift in his willing mouth. He swallowed it all. A few minutes later, Tristan still knelt in front of the Count, trying to coax the man's member back to erection. It didn't take long. Count Irving reached down, and hauled Tristan to his feet, then sat down on a rich sofa. "I want you to do this of your own volition, Prince Tristan. I want you to ride me like a wanton whore," Count Irving said. Tristan hesitate for only a second, his past masculinity eliciting a mere moment of reluctance. It passed quickly, and Tristan climbed atop the Count. Tristan reached back with a dainty hand, and gently teased the Count's erect manhood with a light touch. He hovered just above the man, the tip barely grazing his rectum. Tristan grabbed the penis, and lowered himself onto the Count. It was so different than the rape. Tristan had half expected pain, but there was none to be felt. There was only pleasure. It was similar to the pleasure he had felt when making love to a woman, but oh so different. He lowered himself all the way down, and sat there for a moment, staring into the eyes of his first real, male lover. Then he started to move, up and down just as he had seen women do. His hands roamed over the Count's hairy chest as he rode the man. They kissed as they made love, and Tristan felt the rough bristles of Irving's stubble on his smooth, delicate face. For some reason, that excited him even more. The orgasm shook Tristan like nothing had before. He screamed in pleasure as his body convulsed, but still he rode, not wanting it to end. Tristan came once more before the Count did the same. Tristan still sat astride the Count's softening member, and he leaned in, his face resting on the Count's heaving chest. "You killed my brother, you know,' the Count said. Tristan looked up to an evil smile. "Almost a year go. I had planned to kill you tonight, Arista's instructions be damned. But...I don't know. There you were, sucking, and I couldn't do it. It would have felt like killing a helpless woman." Tristan didn't know what to say, so he remained silent. Irving continued, "I don't know what Arista did to you. Maybe nothing. Maybe you've always been like this, and she just gave you the body to match your cravings. Either way, you may go now." Tristan rose, and felt the man's semen dripping out of his anus as he left the room. Shame, excitement, fear, and indignation roiled in his mind all at once. * Tristan was back in Arista's quarters, sitting on the couch, and staring into nothingness before he came back to himself. The sheer horror at what he had done nearly overwhelmed him. What had come over him? Was it some sort of compulsion? Was that part of what Arista had done to him? No. Tristan had felt magical compulsion before, and he felt confident that he could recognize it. It was something else. The feelings, the desire, and the attraction had come from within him. Tristan thought back to what Irving had said. Maybe he had always been like that, and he had just been strong enough to deny it. Now, though, in his weakened physical and mental state, he simply could do it no longer. But that made little sense either. Tristan had always been attracted to women, but the night before, he had felt almost nothing when he had been with Arista. Something was different. He vowed to ask Arista when she returned. Even with that decided, Tristan found his mind could occupy itself with little else. Was it so bad, though? It had been pleasurable enough, more so than sex with any woman had been. Even after the fog of lust had lifted from Tristan's mind, he grudgingly admitted that he wanted to feel such pleasure again. Irving wasn't terribly attractive, so Tristan couldn't help but wonder how he would react to a young, handsome, and muscular man. Tristan tried to stop himself, but failed. Images of naked men - some familiar, and others complete conjurations from his imagination - flowed through his mind, and Tristan became aroused. He felt a slight wetness in his anus. Tristan pushed his bottom forward on the couch, until it hung off, and he spread his legs. He closed his eyes. Before he really knew what he was doing, a small finger had found its way to his anus, and slipped inside. Tristan worked it in and out, as he imagined scenarios where handsome men would ravish him. He moaned, and increased the pace. Tristan pleasured himself for only a few minutes before he was rocked by another screaming orgasm. It wasn't as intense as it had been with the Count, but it still left Tristan panting. He opened his eyes. Arista was sitting across from him, smiling. "Don't let me interrupt you, pet," she said. Embarrassed, Tristan closed his legs, and sat up. Remembering his decision, he asked, "What did you do to me?" "It appears that you've been doing things to yourself, pet," she answered. Tristan felt himself blush. "No. Did you put some compulsion on me? To make me, you know..." "Did I change your sexual preference?" Arista asked. "Most certainly. You are as close to a woman as we can make you. You aren't a man anymore. Therefore, you are attracted to men. It is only natural. From what Count Irving said, and what I just saw, you seem to enjoy it, anyway. Men have the equipment to give you pleasure. You must see the logic of it all." And Tristan did. He didn't want to, certainly, but he saw that it made sense in his twisted situation. That didn't prevent his anger from rising, however. It was a split decision, so the spell had little time to do its work. Tristan leaped at Arista, and bowled the larger woman over. He raised a fist, and was about to send it into Arista's face when an indescribable pain wracked his entire body. He tried to fight through it, but it was far too strong. He collapsed to the hard, stone floor, and writhed. Vaguely, Tristan saw Arista pick herself up, and straighten her dress. Through eyes bleary with tears, Tristan saw the woman as she stared down on him, and said, "I will leave you like this for tonight. Let that be a lesson to you." Tristan managed to stay conscious for almost an hour before the pain was too much, and he blacked out. * The next day, Tristan awoke to a surprising lack of pain. There wasn't even any soreness. He sat up, and saw Arista sitting on the couch staring at him. "I am sorry," she said. "That was unfair." "What?" was all Tristan could manage. "I shouldn't have left you like that. Your anger was understandable; you needed to be punished, but given the circumstances, I should have restrained my temper. I apologize," Arista stated. Tristan thought that she almost sounded genuine. Was this another game? "Furthermore, I shouldn't have been so cryptic about your situation. Generally, I feel that knowledge of one's situation makes it go down more easily," Arista continued. "So, I have decided to explain more fully." Arista stood, then, with her back turned to Tristan, said, "Of course you know the changes to your body. And I explained what was done to your mind. You will be aroused by men, and they, by you. I could tell you how we accomplished this, but you probably wouldn't understand a word of it. Suffice it to say that it is so." She turned back to him, "As to what you can expect. Well, more of the same. You will be a plaything for whoever might wish it. Men or women, it does not matter. You will be instrument of sexual pleasure. I think I am right in saying that this will be quite enjoyable for you." Tristan knew she was right. "Your partners will be chosen by me, and for maximum diplomatic effect. Mostly, they will be envoys from other nations, but some will be selected as a special favor for select Einarians. I'm sure you can see the benefit. Envoys will inevitably report that the mighty Tristan has been transformed into a simpering sex slave. They will think twice before any aggressive action against us," Arista explained. "As to the Einarians, well...you have wronged a great many of these people, and some will wish to humiliate you by taking you to their beds." Arista smiled, but Tristan detected a hint of sadness. She continued, "These activities will occupy your nights. Your days will largely be your own, save a few in which you will be instructed in your new role. After the first year, you will be, as I said before, trained as a lady. Before that, though, you will wear no clothing at all. The world has to see what has become of Prince Tristan for this to be a success." Tristan had guessed at the plan, certainly, and he had gotten pieces here and there. But hearing it all spelled out like that was difficult for him to bear. Years later, when he would look back, he would cite that day as the one in which he truly lost the last shred of his masculinity. It wasn't his new body. Nor was it the rape or the subsequent sex with Count Irving. He wouldn't even credit his attraction to men, and the pleasure he felt when one made love to him. No, it was none of that. It was the helplessness he felt in that moment, just after Arista had fully explained his future. He broke down and cried, and not from pain or humiliation like he had after the rape. There was absolutely nothing he could do about any of it, and for a man who had grown accustomed to simply taking what he wanted, that feeling, that emotion, was devastating. Never before had Tristan been confronted with an inability to change his fate. The fact that he always had been able to had become the cornerstone of his personality. Before, he saw what he wanted, and he took it. No one dared challenge him. It was both the source and confirmation of his own confidence. It was the core of his masculinity. And that core had been shattered. Arista cradled the former warrior in her arms, and stroked his hair. She even hummed a soothing tune, and Tristan couldn't help but feel a certain affinity for the woman. She was the cause of his predicament...no, that wasn't right. She hadn't captured him. She likely hadn't even been the driving force behind his punishment. And she had shown him some kindness, before, and as Tristan was at his most vulnerable. No, Arist