More Blushby

She quickly took to her newly found masculine ways. It was most helpful, and relieved her of the stress that befell most young damsels. When another young woman slighted her for the tackiness of her garb, she simply struck her over the head with a large stick. Consequently, the young woman made no more attempts of mockery. When the young cowherd she fancied laughed at seeing her, a woman, attempt such manly feats as swordsmanship and archery, she knocked a sword in her bow and shot it straight underneath his arm, lodging the sword in the cow at his side. She soon found herself having to make the excuse that she was preparing for that terrible day, and every bit of violence was necessary to this preparation. Did the villagers want to be quivering under their tables while their homes burned around them? It did not take long, though, before she no longer had to make excuses to others, as people generally avoided her; nor to herself, because she began to be genuinely comfortable with it all.

So it came to be that one day as she was shaving her chin (her face was quite smooth, as becomes a lady, but she felt she had best get into the habit in case she should be mistaken for the frail damsels prone to require rescue) with her sword that Edmund Humblebottom, master of the most prosperous farm of the forest, came to beseech her hand in marriage on behalf of his nephew, Blushby. She knew little of the boy, who was kept out of sight of the villagers most days, but she could not deny that she was pleased to be approached by so manly a villager with a personal invite into his hairy family. And besides, she thought, she would no longer have to be so careful not to permanently damage the eligible young men of the village.

The marriage contract was drawn up, the date was set for a lovely manly day in the dead of winter, and a tasteful dwelling for the soon-to-be happy couple was built by Master Edmund Humblebottom. It was furnished with the finest furniture that could be found after he had raided all the local carpenters for their finest furniture for his own tasteful dwelling, all those years ago.

As for Blushby, it seemed that he had resigned himself to his fate, his heart broken and hopes dashed. He could no longer hope to marry a fair elven maid from the old Elvenwoods or go on his grand adventures. It no longer mattered that he could fire seven arrows at once, with twelve more knocked by the time the string twanged (which he admitted was impossible, but how could he be expected to vanquish the heart of an elven maiden within the realm of possibility?). All that mattered now would be that the farm is taken care of, that he would not go hungry, and that the farm would be defended on the off chance that the evil king should ever want to hunt down him, specifically. It was as though no one gave the faintest care for his own hopes and dreams. His life was over, written for him to the final page; the only excitement left would be to turn the pages over the years. He wandered as though a ghost in the house, saying nothing and being ignored in return, staring with the most morose of eyes at Uncle Edmund. Unfortunately, Uncle Edmund had only eyes for his crops and his quite tasteful furniture.

Blushby sighed, and thought, Uncle Edmund may be able to arrange a room with excellent taste and bedeck it with the most beautiful furnishings and decorations, but for all that, he knows nothing of the furniture in the darkened room of my heart.