Chapter Text
December 1777
Perched upon the narrow ledge outside the grand window, the silhouette of a small yet dignified creature could be spotted in the faint light of dawn. Sir Reginald Puddington III was his name—a name he bore with great pride, for he believed it did justice to his noble conduct.
And yet, Sir Reginald was not a regular man of fine breeding. For despite what his gentlemanly bearing, and how he stood with his paws clasped behind his back may suggest, he was… a squirrel.
Be that as it may, he was a squirrel of the utmost calibre—distinguished and academic. Sir Reginald’s accomplishments were many, but his greatest pride lay in having a mind that was as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife. Or at least, that was what he would tell others. Because in truth, he was most proud of his fur—a lustrous shade of chestnut, with golden tinsels threaded into the powdered wig he wore atop his head. Not to mention his tail, so voluminous and impeccably groomed.
He was, without a doubt, a creature of many talents and qualities, but on this day, he was also a creature of righteous fury.
For there, in the bedchamber beyond the glass, lay his beloved.
This was not the first time he had watched the beautiful Christine in her sleep, but it was the first time the sight filled him with rage. She was a vision of ethereal beauty, slumbering peacefully as she always did, but now, she was in the arms of that wretched brute. Sir Reginald’s beady black eyes narrowed with barely concealed disdain as he beheld the villainous interloper—William Ransom, Lord Ellesmere, as he was so unworthily called—wrapped around his lady like an unwashed, overly muscular leech.
It was as though the stainless steel kitchen knife used in that poor analogy pierced his heart. He had never felt such pain. And I… will always love you… he thought, and he felt his vocal chords twitch with the urge to let the lyrics be sung into the morning air. But alas, he held his silence. This was not the time for a heartfelt ballad. This was the time for action.
His whiskers bristled with indignation. It had been agony to witness the slow corruption of his dear Christine. Once, she had been a creature of purity and grace, untouched by the filthy hands of any human man. But he did not fault her for the misfortune that befallen her. Surely, a lady so illustrious as herself simply must see that a distinguished and academic squirrel with a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife would be a far better match than some titled brute with a jawline too defined, and all the refinement of a barnyard goat.
No, the poor sweet Christine must have been tricked!
And though the woeful Sir Reginald was a gentleman with a heart as broken as the vase he had knocked over at some old lady’s house in London, he would not give up.
The manicured claws on his delicate paws dug into the windowsill. He knew that with his stainless brain… no, mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife, he could easily—so terribly easily—break the glass and slip inside like a spectre of vengeance and restore the natural order. The brute would never see it coming, and he could liberate the poor lady once and for all.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, allowing the solemn silence to give him the peace of quietly singing songs in his mind—still sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife.
What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me… he thought sorrowfully.
And then William stirred, tightening his grip around Christine’s waist, pressing a kiss to her temple with the ease of a man utterly at peace.
Sir Reginald saw red.
“Never gonna give you up,” he whispered, the words spilling forth before he could stop them. And then, with the grace of a king and the fury of a thousand betrayed lovers, he launched himself at the window, using telekinesis to form a hole in the glass so he could pass through.
He felt not a tinge of surprise that his plan—so far—had succeeded. Of course it had, for it was a plan made up by Sir Reginald Puddington III.
The hole in the glass was perfectly shaped to his silhouette, as though the very laws of nature bent in deference to his noble composure. Not even Sir Isaac Newton with his little ideas could best the abilities of Sir Reginald Puddington III!
He landed on the Aubusson rug without a sound, because he wished it, and not even the rules of sound could defeat Sir Reginald Puddington III’s will. The disdain in his eyes was as evident as his esteemed nature—so like, extremely evident—as he watched his beloved lay in the shackles that were the arms of her so-called husband.
Husband? As if! That brute was a usurper at best.
With the stealth of a master assassin and the righteous fury of a betrayed poet, Sir Reginald Puddington III advanced across the chamber. He took a giant leap—think Neil Armstrong—and landed on the bed, closing in on his mortal enemy.
But before he could charge into battle, he glanced at his beloved, still in peaceful slumber.
“I wanna love you but I better not touch…” he sniffled to himself as he gazed at her with a love in his eyes that was… literal, for his pupils turned into hearts.
And then, he turned his eyes to his enemy, and his tail—his magnificent, voluminous tail—twitched with barely restrained fury. This… this could not stand.
He would act. Now.
With a battle cry as fierce as it was melodic, he leapt.
“Don’t stop me nowwwww!”
The beast had no time to react before Sir Reginald landed squarely upon his wretched, broad chest, sinking his meticulously manicured claws into the unreasonably firm flesh. Ugh, even his pectorals were insufferable.
Sir Reginald had always deemed himself a worthy warrior, having had the most acorns out of any other squirrel in like… the world, or something! There was no other squirrel that could stuff quite as many acorns into its cheeks, and Sir Reginald always had his cheeks full of acorns. He thought it made him look younger, like Botox for squirrels.
And now, he could put them to good use.
As his enemy woke with a start, his eyes widening at the terrifying sight of the distinguished and academic squirrel attacking him. And beside him, Christine said: “Is that a chicken?” in a high-pitched voice.
The male human side-eyed Christine, then tried to grab Sir Reginald and remove him from his chest, but the distinguished and academic warrior-squirrel spat out a large acorn he had stored in his cheek—like a barrel full of bullets—and shot at his heart.
“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame!” Sir Reginald sang victoriously.
But rather than dying from the totally dangerous bullet, William only groaned at the sensation, his gaze hardening with anger. This time, when he reached to grab the distinguished and academic warrior-squirrel, he succeeded. Sir Reginald shrieked and shrieked as the brute stood from the bed and carried him away in his iron grip.
Christine held a hand in front of her mouth as she watched the scene unfold, her jaw dropping as Sir Reginald began to sing “baby bye bye bye” as the distance between them increased.
“Wait!” she called after her husband, who turned back around to face her.
Sir Reginald knew then, that he was right to love the woman, for she could see how worthy he was, and she could stand up to the brute who had led her astray.
He had never felt such joy, such relief that his plan had succeeded—even though all his plans did—because this time, Sir Reginald Puddington III was not just fighting for acorns—he was fighting for love.
But then Christine spoke again…
“Perhaps we could keep it as a pet?”
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Throughout her entire childhood, Christine had always wished for a pet. Never a distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel with a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife, and a powdered wig with golden tinsels… but nonetheless, she had gotten her wish.
A big cage was procured for her new pet, placed in her dressing room as she sat by her vanity, clad in a nightgown and robe, brushing her hair with a hot pink plastic fork. That fork actually did the job like no hairbrush ever could. Well, she wouldn’t know—ever since she was five years, three months, two days, five hours, forty three minutes, and fifteen seconds, Christine had only ever used that fork to brush her hair with.
The fork, with its googly eyes glued on, had seen her through many stages of her life.
Sir Reginald Puddington III, despite the indignity of his confinement, had not lost his spirit. He sat upon his small velvet cushion (for even captives of his calibre demanded luxury), one paw resting upon his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as he peered through the bars at his beloved Christine.
He had fought for her, had bled (not literally, but emotionally, which was far worse) for her, and now—now, he was reduced to a mere pet. A jester in the court of Lord Muscular Buffoon.
Unacceptable.
And yet… love knew no chains. Sir Reginald was still a distinguished and academic warrior, and not even the bars that held him captive could disprove that. And he would make sure his only love would know it. And if fighting for her was not enough, he would serenade her.
Sir Reginald cleared his throat, and with his high-pitched squirrel-voice, he began to sing with his heart. (Not literally, of course. He sang with his vocal chords, obviously.)
Christine froze, as suddenly, she heard a voice behind her. It was a voice with a very posh British accent—the kind that could usually only be heard in a parody—singing a song she had not heard for over half a year.
It was Grenade by Bruno Mars.
She slowly turned around, her movements mimicking that of a character in a horror movie. The sight she was met with made her jaw drop, and she had to catch it with her hand so it would not fall to the floor and possibly dislocate.
Putting her jaw back in its place, Christine stared at her pet squirrel, who was singing his heart out to her (once again, not literally, it was soundwaves he sang, not actually his heart). Startled, her gaze left the ludicrous sight, and settled on the hot pink plastic fork in her hand.
There was something about those eyes—googly as they may be—that always seemed to captivate her, as though they understood parts of her no one else did.
She stroked the three thick slots of the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush before carefully placing it down on her vanity, making sure her dearest friend did not get hurt. Then, she turned to face the singing squirrel once more.
With a shuddering breath, Christine stood from her vanity stool and took cautious steps towards the cage in the centre of the room.
“This cannot be real…” she murmured to herself, her hand never leaving her jaw, making sure it would not drop to the floor as realisation dawned on her—that song would not be written for… a really long time, and yet, this strangely distinguished creature was singing it now, and with his vocal chords no less!
“How do you know that song?” she asked frantically, pinching her arm with her free hand to make sure she was not dreaming.
Sir Reginald quieted down, searching his mind for song lyrics that may explain how he knew modern songs. He had travelled through time, but his memory of songs that mentioned time travel was limited. But the last thing he wanted to do was keep secrets from his dearest, and so, he decided he would remove the curse, so that he could speak like normal, and not have to only ever sing.
He knew what he had to do to remove the curse, and that was to transfer it to another person. It was the only way to be free of it, and he knew the spell by heart. He locked eyes with her, and began to hypnotise her with his song.
“Everything I say, it rhymes,” he began, reciting the lyrics of the Teen Beach Movie song that was the spell to transfer the curse. “Here comes another line,” he continued, his voice strained by the sorrow that filled him, knowing he was dooming Christine to the curse which had plagued him for so long. Like, three days!
“Just close your eyes if you don’t wanna see…”
But Christine could not close her eyes, she could only fall deeper into the trance, her irises swirling in her eyes as though she was a cartoon. “What’s this choreography?” she sang, so deep in the hypnosis she could only continue the lyrics.
“Someone won’t you make it stop?” Sir Reginald sang in an almost mournful tone, his eyes reflecting a deep sadness, knowing what he was about to do. He turned his gaze to the floor, releasing Christine from the hypnosis.
And it seemed to have worked, for Christine then snapped out of the hypnosis, her eyes returning to normal. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words that came out were not just words—they were song lyrics.
“Oh, I can’t stop singing. Make it stop, make it stop! Am I real or just a prop?” she sang with panic in her voice.
Her eyes locked on Sir Reginald again, the betrayal in her eyes giving him a pain unlike any he had ever felt. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?” She sobbed as she sang the lyrics to the Rihanna x Eminem song.
Seeing her sorrow, and feeling guilt crash upon him with the force of The Hulk throwing a stone at him, Sir Reginald jumped, using his telekinesis powers to bend the bars of his cage. He landed on the floor, and shapeshifted his legs to be much longer, allowing him to meet Christine at eye-level. “I am so bloody sorry,” he said, his posh British accent thicker than ever.
Though his heart was as heavy as stone (not literally, that would be very alarming and unhealthy), Sir Reginald Puddington III was relieved to be rid of his curse. His relief must have been evident on his face, for Christine scoffed and took a step back, disdain written plainly on her face (not literally).
With tears in her eyes, she sang, “You and your words flooded my senses, your sentences left me defenceless.”
“Christine,” Sir Reginald begged, his words laced with remorse.
But Christine only held up her hands, continuing her song. “You built me palaces out of paragraphs, you built cathedrals…”
Sir Reginald raised an eyebrow, straightening his posture to seem like the distinguished, academic, warrior-squirrel he was. “Madam, I must object,” he declared, his chest puffed out in defiance, despite the tears running down Christine’s face. “I did not build palaces out of paragraphs, nor any cathedrals for that matter. Surely a lady so intelligent as yourself must realise that a building made of paper would collapse!”
That only made Christine sob harder. “I discovered that my castles stand upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand…”
“No, it does not!” Sir Reginald insisted, jabbing a finger at her like an annoying school teacher. He was baffled, flabbergasted, and most of all, disappointed, that the woman he had thought was everything he had ever dreamt of could be so dumb as to think a squirrel could build palaces and cathedrals out of paragraphs. Even Sir Reginald knew that only Bob The Builder was capable of that! (Or Alexander Hamilton)
He shook his head, his powdered wig with golden tinsels sliding to the side with the motion. He immediately reached to fix it. Then, he spoke again, “And I assure you, that I—Sir Reginald Puddington III—would never be so foolish as to build anything out of salt, sand, or paragraphs!”
With those harsh words that broke Christine’s heart (not literally, she was not experiencing heart failure), Sir Reginald deemed that the best cause of action was to remove himself from the situation before that… that… deceitful woman called for that brutish husband of hers. And so, with a metaphorically heavy heart, Sir Reginald shapeshifted back to his original size, and jumped through the window using telekinesis to form a hole in the glass.
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After the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel had left, Christine ran into her bedchamber and threw herself onto the bed, crying very much. She locked the doors, refusing to see a single person, because she knew that if she did, they would expect her to speak. But she could not speak, only sing.
The light of the day dimmed quickly, as though someone had turned the light switch off.
Still laying in her bed, Christine frowned in confusion as she heard a melody play from outside her window. She languidly rose from the bed, making her way to the sound. She opened the window, and despite the fact that the ground was covered in snow and it was mid-winter, the cold did not bother her.
She felt her vocal chords twitch in her throat, an urge to sing rising within her unlike anything she had ever felt. And before she knew it, she gave in to the urge.
“The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen,” she began to sing as the wind howled beyond the window like the swirling storm inside her.
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“The cold never bothered me anyway,” she finished, shutting the window very dramatically, now magically dressed in a perfect replica of Elsa’s dress in Frozen.
Then Christine realised that she felt different—like she felt before that horrendous curse. Her vocal chords no longer twitched with the urge to sing, and… no, that’s all.
“Uhh testing testing,” she said to herself. A smile graced her lips as relief began to sink in—she was free of the curse.
All she had done was sing a specific Disney song, and, simsalabim, she was free of the curse! And she had not had to transfer it to another person, like Sir Reginald Puddington III—the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel with a voluminous tail, powdered wig with golden tinsels, and a mind as sharp as a stainless steel kitchen knife—had done.
Gosh, and here I thought my husband had a long name and list of titles, Christine thought, chuckling to herself.
With a mind unburdened of curses and distinguished, academic warrior-squirrels with… you know what, Christine began to walk around the room, merely taking in every detail and relishing in how her vocal chords did not twitch with the urge to sing. She had never known such peace since the curse—several minutes ago!
And now, she could be alone and utterly at peace—save for the company of her dearest friend, the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush.
“Oh, my hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes, wherefore art thou, my hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes?” she called out, twirling in place, before spotting it on the vanity where she had left it.
A smile instantly crossed her face as she approached her dearest friend and carefully picked him up, cradling him to her chest like a puppy, or something. As though wishing for assurance that this reunion was real, Christine stroked her friend’s handle, her smile widening at the calming sensation of the hard, worn plastic beneath her fingertips.
Ah yes, Mister Fork was an individual most experienced in the fields of both hairbrushing and emotional support. For as long as Christine could remember, Mister Fork had been by her side, his googly eyes always brimming with silent wisdom, his hot pink plastic body always ready to untangle the messes of her hair and, metaphorically, her life.
They had always had each other, and no matter the trouble, they stood together—fork in hand, fork in hair.
Though speech was an ability he did not possess, Christine had always known that Mister Fork had lived a life of calamity before they found each other. For even though his eyes—oh, those beguiling googly eyes—bore a wisdom that challenged the very philosophers of old, and a mystique that rivalled the Mona Lisa’s smile, there was a sorrow within them, a heartbreaking agony etched into his plastic irises like a tragic tale inscribed on a Viking rune.
Christine pulled her dearest friend away from her embrace, tears welling up as she witnessed the dark depths of Mister Fork’s anguish in his striking googly eyes. She blinked away her tears, knowing they would only upset her friend further.
With a heart as broken as the vase Sir Reginald had knocked down at some old lady’s house in London, Christine leaned in, pressing a loving kiss to Mister Fork’s shaft.
As Christine pulled away, she gazed into Mister Fork’s eyes with solemnity of a woman who had just kissed her dearest friend for the first time—a woman who, after so long, showed her feelings for said friend.
Although she was at a peaceful certainty her kiss told just as much as Mister Fork’s googly eyes did, Christine also knew that she, unlike her hot pink companion, had been blessed with a mouth, and thereby chosen by God to speak.
Poor Mister Fork, she thought, though she knew she was gambling with her tears by even allowing the thought to surface. For what cruel fate had befallen her dearest companion, that he should be doomed to an existence without speech? To be blessed with eternal wisdom, yet cursed with the inability to utter a single syllable?
An injustice so profound it surpassed even the worst atrocities known to man, was its nature. A grievance beyond the comprehension of the human mind. And yet, anyone who gazed into the melancholy depths of those googly eyes, noted the residue of glitter pink hot glue around the edges, would be enlightened with the knowledge that the greatest pain any creature had ever suffered, had been suffered by an innocent hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush.
Oh, such tragedy!
And yet, Christine did not weep. No, she would not insult Mister Fork by flaunting her ability to form real tears in her real eyes. She knew Mister Fork was an envious individual, but he was also an individual deserving of respect and submission, and she, knowing what was best for her, would give him what he was due.
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When Christine retired to sleep that night, she did not allow her husband entry to her chamber. Nor did she sleep in her own bed, for she had experienced a spiritual awakening, and therefore, could not in good conscience steal from Mister Fork—whose possessions were everything his protector owned in name. And since long, Christine had been Mister Fork’s protector, yet she had been neglectful in her duty. And now, she ought to repent.
The Bed, previously usurped by Christine, rightfully belonged to Mister Fork. He would have his rest there, not Christine—a mere servant.
Yet, the thought of spending the night on the floor did not trouble her, for she knew it was what Mister Fork commanded, and she must obey. Serving Mister Fork gave her a sense of righteousness she had never once felt before—a pride that she alone would give the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush a rest worthy of his might and silent suffering.
And because of that, panic washed through her at the startling sound of a thud on the window. Christine immediately got up on her feet, glancing at her master laying in deep slumber upon the pillow before tiptoeing over to the window to put an end to the possible disturbance of Mister Fork’s sleep.
But there, standing on the snow-covered ground below the window, was Sir Reginald Puddington III. Though the darkness was near total, Christine could see that he held several acorns in his paws. She had heard the tales of Sir Reginald’s acorns—how smooth they were, glimmering like diamonds in the moonlight—and she simply had to see them in greater detail.
She reached into her Elsa style braid and pulled out a pair of professional binoculars, poised them before her eyes and then…
Awe struck her like a bolt of lightning,
For she had never seen such exquisite acorns before—they were perfect beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Each acorn was polished to a glossy sheen, reflecting the moonlight like the surface of a pristine lake at dawn. Their curvature was divine, their symmetry immaculate. Every flawless detail of the acorns drew her in like a moth to a flame, calling her name like a siren’s song.
“Do you want one?”
The words, spoken in that absurdly posh British accent by Sir Reginald, pulled Christine out of her trance. She lowered her very professional binoculars, held them firmly in her hands as she adjusted her focus on the distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel.
Of course she wanted an acorn so pristine as the ones her eyes were blessed with the sight of, but it was a wish she had never thought to voice. But now, when offered, she felt her desire surge within her. The acorns seemed to gleam even brighter, taunting her with their flawless beauty.
“Yes,” Christine replied, her voice barely a whisper, as though the very act of saying it would shatter the magic that the acorns had created.
Sir Reginald Puddington III, standing in the snow below, smirked in a way that only a distinguished, academic warrior-squirrel could—mysterious and filled with secret knowledge. He then tossed one of the acorns upwards, and Christine’s breath caught in her throat as the glimmering relic sailed through the freezing wind towards her.
The moment she caught the acorn with both her feet, she could feel its magic rush through her veins. “Deez nuts,” she murmured, her voice a breathless gasp of awe.
She looked down to the snow-covered ground again, only to find that Sir Reginald was gone. She returned her gaze to the acorn, and then realised how truly delectable it looked. Unable to resist, Christine took a bite, her eyes closing in delight as she tasted the yummy flavour of the enchanted acorn on her tongue.
“Mmm, scrumptious,” she murmured to herself, savouring the nutty flavour that seemed to dance a tango on her taste buds.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw the world in a different light, and her thoughts were different from what they had been before.
But most of all, she wanted to kill Mister Fork.
Her eyes turned red as she crossed the room towards the bed where the ridiculous little hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes lay sleeping. Christine picked up the pillow beside the one Mister Fork rested his prongs on, and then pressed it over the tiny individual’s whole plastic body, intent on suffocating him.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought that a fucking toy fork from, like… Toys “R” Us, or something, had her best interests in mind? No, he was obviously possessed by a malicious spirit intent on deranging Christine into insanity. And she, a naive fool, had almost—almost—fallen for it.
A vengeful smile graced her lips as she heard Mister Fork gasp for air under the suffocation of the pillow, but it was no use, for Christine—a human—was far stronger than her opponent, who was a mere plastic fork.
After exactly seventeen minutes and forty three seconds, Christine lifted the pillow. It was a gruesome sight she was met with. Mister Fork, now a corpse—and a dead one at that—lay crushed into more pieces than most three year olds could count. Luckily, Christine was not a three year old, and could therefore quickly assess the seven pieces the hot pink plastic fork/hairbrush with googly eyes had been broken into.
He truly was as broken as the vase Sir Reginald had knocked over at some old lady’s house in London.
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Two days later.
“Christine Ransom,” the judge’s voice rang out, sharp and foreboding in the cold, austere courtroom, “you stand here today accused of the premeditated murder of Mister Fork of Toys “R” Us. How do you plead?”
The courtroom was full of curious spectators that had come from the village, all eager to witness their countess be trialed for a heinous crime against a toy fork with striking googly eyes. Tales of the mysterious Mister Fork had spread throughout the lands like a wildfire, how the poor little fork had been abused and enslaved by one selfish lady who had forced the innocent individual to brush her hair, and ultimately, murdered him.
Christine trembled on her feet, glancing around the courtroom, searching the crowd for sympathy, yet she found none. The sheer, glittery cloak she wore suddenly felt as though it had been woven with lead, weighing her down like the weight of anvils upon her shoulders. She swallowed hard, attempting to steady herself against the burn of a whole lot of accusing eyes against her neck.
Two days ago, that one enchanted acorn had changed everything. It had opened her eyes to the truth—Mister Fork had been a malevolent force, a danger to society. And by ridding the world of the threat the hot pink plastic fork with googly eyes posed against humanity, Christine had done the world a favour.
And yet, instead of being awarded a superhero costume, she had been arrested for murder.
But in her heart, Christine knew she had done no wrong, and therefore, she lifted her chin and stood proud as her voice rang out in defiance. “I plead not guilty, your honour,” she stated firmly, with a conviction in her voice that sent a ripple of gasps through the courtroom.
Hushed murmurs erupted, and somewhere in the back, a child sobbed. The sound of the child’s weeps made Christine’s heart clench with sympathy, sorrow washing over her as she came to a startling realisation of how awful that era truly was. She had known about the deadly diseases, the patriarchal oppression that demanded women wear stays or corsets—evil torture devices that restricted breathing and deformed organs (and this is definitely not a myth that can be disproven)—and how no one ever washed themselves, because everyone in the past had a kink for stink.
But this was an injustice beyond anything history had recorded. Sweet, innocent children, forced to witness the trial of a murdered hot pink plastic fork with googly eyes. Christine could recognise how awful it was that these children did not have access to iPads, and instead had to entertain themselves by watching a trial, or worse, playing!
However, she could not grieve over the lack of cocomelon while facing a jury. And so, she began to explain herself, and how she had been forced to kill Mister Fork in self defence.
The trial went by, but even as Christine pleaded that she ought to be rewarded with a superhero costume for her heroic efforts, the judge did not approve of her actions. She was sentenced to death, and was locked away in a prison cell until the date of her execution.
Laying in her bed with her arm draped over her forehead like a sick Victorian child, Christine gazed through the bars of the small window in her prison cell, the only thing separating her from the outside world. The moon, yellow and made of cheese, hung in the sky like an ominous eye, watching her with the judgement of a thousand dairy-based deities.
Her eyes widened as she saw the shape of a bat reflect on the cheesy surface—the symbol of Batman. She jumped to her feet and strode to the window to get a closer look, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Christine sighed in annoyance and got back into bed, defeated and hopeless. But just as she thought there was no saving her from the fate that awaited her, a dark figure swooshed through the window bars and landed gracefully in the shadows of her cell.
A hushed silence settled over the cell, save for the drip of what was hopefully water and not aqua regia against the stone flooring. Christine’s heart leapt faster than Usain Bolt could run as she stared at the cloaked figure standing in the centre of her cell.
Then, Batman stepped out of the shadows and slowly removed his mask. The face beneath it made Christine’s breath hitch—it was Lord John.
“My dear,” he said, his voice a calming sound against the chaos the past two days had wreaked upon her soul. “I have come to save you.”
Lord John extended his gloved hand, and Christine placed her trembling hand in his. He gently pulled her to her feet, drawing closer as he did so. His free hand encircled her waist like a boa constrictor that wished to hug its prey with affection rather than crush it.
Because, as the saying goes: not all snakes.
Christine gazed into Lord John’s yearning eyes, fluttering her lashes so much that her feet lifted off the ground. But he held her steady, his grip firm yet tender, as if he feared she might vanish like a dream.
“We must make haste,” he whispered, letting go of her hand to caress her cheek, “the guards will return soon.” He paused, torn between whether to leave now, or tell her what he had been longing to say for an unknown amount of time. He sighed, his thumb brushing over her cheek in a caress so tender one might think Christine was as fragile as a sand castle. “But before we leave, there is something I must confess,” he added, his eyes gleaming with an emotion rawer than chicken contaminated with salmonella, and a depth deeper than the Marijuana Trench—or whatever it is called—that made Christine’s breath catch in her throat.
Lord John hesitated for a moment before finally uttering the words that had been locked in his heart for what felt like an eternity, “I love you, Christine.”
In the background, a prisoner in one of the other cells whistled the melody of Baby by Justin Bieber, adding a romantic soundtrack to the moment.
“I love you too,” Christine replied, her heart wiped of any romantic notions she may or may not have felt towards Mister Fork… and Sir Reginald… maybe even William.
“Hold on tight, spider monkey,” Lord John said before sweeping her off her feet and into his arms. With a quiet shriek passing Christine’s lips, they flew through the window and into the night, soaring over the prison walls like a pair of majestic, romantically entangled bats.
As Lord John carried Christine through the dark, cheese-moonlit sky, the air rushed past them, cold and exhilarating. The moon hung ahead, its cheesy surface glowing softly against the endless night (not literally endless, they are not on the Norwegian island Svalbard). The big cheese ball grew larger in their view, and for a moment, Christine feared it was about to explode and ruin her hair with its cheese debris, but then she realised that the moon was not literally expanding—they were simply getting closer.
To her surprise, Christine was not unable to breathe once they exited the earth’s atmosphere, like NASA, with their deceitful lies of a round earth had proclaimed. It now made sense how Sir Reginald had been able to bend the laws of physics to his will—Sir Isaac Newton, along with some other people, were liars.
They landed on the cheesy surface in complete silence—because they wished to, not because of the conspiracy that space was silent. Christine took in her surroundings, noting the surreal, cheese-crusted landscape beneath her feet. The moon was nothing like the fake, photoshopped, studio-recorded, lifeless images she had been indoctrinated with throughout her life. Instead, it was warm, yellow—like cheese usually is—with pools of mac’n’cheese (without the macaroni) in the craters, inviting a spa-like bathing experience.
She was surprised to find that a civilisation of chumans (cheese-humans) inhabited this wonderfully cheesy biosphere, living in little houses of Parmesan bricks and cheddar shingles. The chumans were walking around on the yellow brick roads of their cosy little chity (cheese-city), wearing robes of mozzarella and top hats of Brie.
And beside her, Lord John stood in his bat-suit, an arm wrapped possessively around her waist. “Do you like it, my dear?” he asked, the warmth in his voice as palpable as the scent of cheese in this cheesy chplace (cheese-place).
“Yes,” Christine answered, her voice breathless and awestruck, “This… this is my chome.”
A loving smile immediately spread across Lord John’s face, his eyes reflecting the cheese around them. “Our chome,” he corrected, and pulled her in for a cheesy kiss.
⊹₊˚ ‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚₊⊹
Christine and John were henceforth known as:
Her Chmajesty Chempress Christine
and
His Chmajesty Chemperor John
The generous chumans built them a chastle of the finest Parmesan bricks, with fountains of cheese fondue, and a lush garden with cheese-carved flowers.
And then they lived chappily ever after.
The End.