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”Do I really have to go into detail there?”

He was actually hoping she wouldn't, but she had never really lived up to his expectations of her from the very beginning. She always has a way of bending all his pre-conceived notions about nomads and women in general. Which surprisingly Oliver actually liked. He was almost close to generalizing all women to be made of the same stuff, to speak and act alike. Yassia wasn't anything like most of the women he had met. And he liked it.

"All right, all right! I get your point," he replied with a chuckle. Half-nuisance? Where is she getting all these words? Oliver laughed more to himself. He never really expected a rather harrowing experience of having shot a woman with his arrow would turn out to be quite an enjoyable thing. He had expected to be more morose, serious. Not laughing like crazy and grinning like some madman on the loose. "Fearless Yassia, the cockatrice and Oliver the Great Half-Nuisance. Hmmm...sounds like it has potential to be a popular song that will last through generations and generations," he added, trying the most serious expression he could muster.

“Well.. judging the body it is attached to, I fear it might simply be too stubborn. What is the saying… like mind, like limb?”

Oliver ran a hand through his hair as if he was really concerned and was trying to think about a possible solution. To anyone watching, it'd look like he and Yassia had indeed quite a dilemma. "We can't have that." Most of that was true though. Oliver wanted her to heal because he wanted to see her all alert and kicking...and hopefully dancing. But then again that would also mean she'd be well enough to travel again on her own. "Although...I...uh...don't mind staying with you until you're...I mean she's had the sense to listen to us, be a good girl, and heal quick..." His mind was getting a tad bit woozy now, and he was surely losing control of whatever words that come out of his mouth. At this rate though, he was afraid he might start to confess all this 'crush' he was developing on her. No, Oliver had to rein himself in. Yes.

But even after Yassia drank from the bottle, he took it from her and downed another round. It was helping him calm his nerves earlier, but now that the worst part was over, he can't seem to want to stop. "Shush..." he practically silenced her when she insisted on him being passable. "I am not a salad bowl. Are you a salad bowl? No, you're not passable. You're beautiful. You're all grimy with mud on your feet and on your elbows, but you're beautiful like a vase full of flowers..." Yes, it was definitely a bad idea to continue drinking. Someone better take the bottle of whiskey from him now.

"Fine. The more you deny it, the more I think you agree to it. Let's leave it at that," he told her. "I am not a handful. You are. You practically have all of your weight leaning against me, I'm not complaining by the way because it feels nice, but yeah...you're a handful, not me." He ended that one with a wink. Did he just admit that he liked cradling her in his arms? Geez!

Someone must have realized that he was talking a bit too much, because suddenly the bottle of whiskey was already off his hands. He didn't know where it went though. He was just glad it was gone. Heavens! What had he been blabbing about?

”But if this is your sleeping mat I’m using, Oliver, where will you sleep?” That made Oliver stop and think. Where indeed? "We're taking turns for the watch, so Oliver can sleep on whoever's mat is vacant, miss." It was Sir Sigfried who answered her question, seeing as Oliver couldn't quite come up with an answer on his own. As soon as the mat was laid out, Oliver turned to Yassia, a tad bit more composed now. "Do you want to lie back down? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes I think. If you don't want to, it's perfectly fine by me to stay here with you." He hoped that sounded innocent enough for an offering, he wasn't suggesting anything whatsoever. Although he knew he wasn't fooling anybody judging from the chuckles that came from Lot and his two other friends. At least, Sir Sigfried still had the decency not to react openly to his words.

He was confident now it was her. There was no denying it. How he missed it earlier, he didn’t know. Blame the goblets and goblets of wine that he had consumed for his hazy cloudy mind. Couple that with the anger and madness that he had felt towards Yassia for putting a stop to his and Lady Electra’s not-so-public display of affection, and Oliver was off the edge. How was he to know that that grimy-faced nomad was actually a princess? Of course, despite all that she had been telling him earlier, he would try and remember her from the parties and soirees that he had attended in Mercia and in the other kingdoms. Who can blame him if he wasn’t trying to remember a princess from the many nomads he had met in the forests?

Focusing his mind as much as he can on her conversation with his father and brother, he found out that she had quite a trip from south to Camelot. Ailantha. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. He will probably do some reading later to know more about Ailantha and where it lay on the map---he stopped that thought. Why was he interested to know more about Ailantha when he was supposed to hate this woman? With all the warring thoughts inside his head, Oliver could already feel it about to explode.

With him showing that hint of hostility, he had hoped for her to turn down his brother’s invitation. Sure, he was challenging her, but he had not expected her to rise up to it after what's happening between them now. Whatever good opinion she had of him when they had met in the Forests of Balor were surely shattered now. And Oliver didn’t know why he felt a stab of guilt at the thought.

He met her eyes when she spoke his name. Even with the forced calmness, Oliver still loved the sound of his name on her lips. He could see that she was definitely angry at him, but still…he didn’t realize how he missed her saying his name until she spoke it now. He listened as attentively as he could, trying his best not to get distracted by how beautiful she looked right now in her green gown and…clean face. She didn’t look a bit like the nomad Yassia, and yet she was still every bit like her. Oliver had been looking at the slender curve of her neck when she mentioned 'cockatrices.' He abruptly raised his head and met her eyes again, locking her gaze there. He knew that remark was intended only for him.

As if meeting her challenge, Oliver then crossed his arm over his chest. She wanted to play this game? Well, he was going to play it as well. “That must have been a pretty challenging experience traveling to Camelot, princess. Could you tell us your story? I’m sure my brother and father would be most interested to know,” he egged her on, matching the bite in her own tone of voice. He wasn’t sure if Edmund or his father caught the slight mockery there.

“You need not worry about dangers during our travel, my lady. I am quite willing and able to protect you all throughout the journey,” Edmund piped in wanting to be part of the conversation. Oliver remembered what Yassia told him at the Forests of Balor about her knowing how to throw daggers. Right, Edmund is in for a surprise.

When Yassia accepted the invitation, Oliver let out an inward groan. “That’s settled then. We’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow,” Edmund exclaimed, clapping his hands together with the glee of a five-year-old, and Oliver looked at his brother with undisguised annoyance. Of course, his challenge only spurred Yassia to accept the invitation. She was just like him, not wanting to back down from any "fight." This should be an interesting journey back to Mercia, Oliver thought.

She spoke about songs and dances, and that made Oliver smile. He had such lovely memories when it comes to festivities and merrymaking. Both his father Lord Bayard, the King of Mercia, and his mother the Lady Adelaide were big fans of revelry. Not a month goes by in the courts of Mercia where there is no big celebration happening. Lady Adelaide had always seen to it, and Oliver was only too happy to help her organize these events.

He playfully crunched his nose at her suggested song title. “Just ‘the huntsman Oliver’? Why not Oliver the Great? I’ve always wanted to be called that. ‘Fearless Yassia, the cockatrice and Oliver the Great’,” he said chuckling at his own lame suggestion. The thought of having songs written about them was amusing. It’d surely be a funny tale of how a nomad woman got into a race with a cockatrice and was shot unknowingly by a huntsman who became her healer. That’s a funny convoluted song if there ever was one.

“Dancing sounds wonderful. I love dancing, but I think in my current condition I would have to refrain from it.”

Oliver would love to see her dance. He was sure she’d be an excellent one. He could already imagine her swirling about in her skirts, her feet nimble, her arms slender and graceful. She’d be a sight to behold. He didn’t know how long until her shoulder would totally heal for her to be able dance, he just hoped that he will still be around by that time. The thought about leaving Yassia when all this is over filled him with a touch of sadness, and it somehow surprised Oliver. Never had he felt that way about leaving something or someone behind. Somehow, he already felt an ache piercing his chest at the thought of him and Yassia going their separate ways. He heaved a deep and heavy sigh. “You ought to tell your wound to heal faster so you can dance sooner,” he told her smiling.

“I like throwing daggers, and consider myself fairly good with it. My brother taught me years and years ago.”

Daggers. Huh! Why was he not surprised to know that? While she may look all helpless now, with that skill in her arsenal, she’s definitely no damsel in distress. Oliver couldn’t help his admiration for her grow more and more by the minute. “I'd love to see you wield a dagger. I’m not exactly a big fan of knives, but me and my arrows can certainly give all archers out there a run for their money.” Ha! He was boasting, certainly in the hopes of impressing her. But he doubt that would have the effect he desired though. He and his arrows had only caused her so much pain. “I can even hit a moving target, especially if they’re racing against a cockatrice,” he added jokingly.

“It means olive tree, but friends tease me and call me olive vendor. Do you know that the olive tree is a symbol of fruitfulness, beauty and dignity? I don’t know if I’m fruitful or dignified enough, but I certainly am a thing of beauty, aren’t I?” he replied with a cheeky grin when she asked him what his name meant. “And before you protest to that, I am not only beautiful but peaceful as well. Extending an olive branch traditionally signifies an offer of peace.” His mother had always told him that it was after his birth that his father Lord Bayard had thought about ending the strife between Mercia and Camelot, and help restore peace among kingdoms in Albion. It wasn’t until he was in his twenties that the peace treaty between the two kingdoms was finally signed by his father and Uther Pendragon.

When Yassia relaxed into his arms, Oliver felt like it was the most natural thing in the world. It felt very comfortable. He felt very comfortable. Funny how a total stranger was making him feel that way. He smiled down at her when she told him she was fine, their faces merely inches apart. He stared deep into her eyes, loving what he was seeing. She had beautiful eyes, expressive, kind. Then his own eyes moved down to her lips, and he felt himself swallowing hard at how near they were to his own. So near...

Then he heard shuffling behind him, and Oliver abruptly turned his head to see his servant Lot emerging from the bushes. When Lot saw the position Oliver was in with Yassia leaning against him, he gave his prince a knowing smile and a wink, and Oliver only rolled his eyes at him. He had the urge to thrown something at Lot for breaking his moment with Yassia. “Go and gather some firewood. We may have to camp here for the night. Tell the others,” he told Lot when he noticed that the sun had already started to set. There was no way he was moving Yassia when she was still too weak in her condition. “You don’t mind camping out here with us, do you? The nearest village is still hours away from here, and I wouldn’t want to unnecessarily move you. We’ll keep you safe through the night and hopefully by tomorrow, your wound wouldn’t hurt as much anymore to travel,” he told her, just to be sure.

“But no thanks, I make no secret out of my contempt for you! I wonder, is this your true face? Have I been so mistaken?”

There she goes again. Talking like they had exchanged more than a few nods and smiles at each other before by the hallways or at a party. She made it sound like she really knew him. Oliver tried to search his mind for any memory of meeting a lady who looked even vaguely like her before. He tried to remember the parties being thrown at Mercia. He tried to recall his visits to the other kingdoms. But nothing came to mind. He had not met her before. And Oliver couldn't deny that he wasn't really trying so hard to remember. His head was already pounding like the loudest drums, and every bit of exertion seemed to want to make it explode. So he quit thinking.

“You might not remember me, Oliver, but I certainly remember you! After all, our encounter left quite a lasting mark to me!”

What was she trying to prove really? That he knew her? He did felt that weird sense of familiarity towards her earlier, but he dismissed that as impossible or borne only out of his drunken stupor. All the words that were coming out of her mouth were nothing but gibberish to him. They don't make sense at all, nor did he have the patience to piece them together.

"Maleeixo..."

The curse flew from her lips, and that somehow brought Oliver out of his dizzy composure. He pushed himself away from the wall and advanced, rather menacingly at her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him again. "Maleeixo les estrelles!” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. He didn't know why he was suddenly so angry upon hearing those curse words. Was it because he knew what they meant? No, it was because it brought back a memory. Distant and a tad bit hazy in his drunken state, but it had been a beautiful memory, one that Oliver usually summoned when certain times get rough for him. He didn't want that memory tainted by this rather maddening situation he was in right now. "I know what it means. Go run to your physician and send me a bill for the damage."

With that Oliver turned and started to walk away from her. Yassia. His mind called out the name of that grimy-faced little nomad who he had accidentally shot with his arrow in the Forests of Balor almost a year ago. He closed his eyes as he tried to breathe in deep, recalling the sweet tinkling sound of her laughter, the craziness of her jibes, and the feel of her soft body leaning against him as he helped treat her arrow wound. The thought of their time spent together, albeit quick, seemed to have considerably calmed him down.

Before Oliver could manage a couple of steps, however, he heard someone else call his name, and he saw his brother Edmund. Walking behind him was his father Lord Bayard, and he tried but failed to suppress a groan. "There you are! Why am I not surprised to see you with a beautiful lady?" Edmund said, his eyes focused more on the lady than on his brother. "I am Prince Edmund of Mercia, my lady. And this is my father Lord Bayard. I hope my little brother didn't give you much trouble. He can be quite a handful."

Trust Edmund to rub it in. Oliver had to silently grind his teeth to keep himself from lashing out in front of his father. They must have been on their way to their rooms to get some rest before the evening festivities start, Oliver thought inwardly cursing the timing. Edmund then bowed before the lady and went on to kiss her hand. Even in his alcohol muddled mind, Oliver could clearly see that Edmund was immediately smitten. He couldn't resist but roll his eyes.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady," Lord Bayard courteously greeted her. He was looking at her and then to Edmund rather oddly. A knowing smile on his face that Oliver only knew too well. His father had a plan brewing inside his head, and Oliver wasn't sure he was going to like it whatever it was.

It felt good the kiss. Oliver had expected guilt to assault him for kissing his bestfriend's sister, but there was none of it. It was soft and sweet...and it was good. He couldn't deny that he was enjoying that sweet magical moment between him and Caitrin boldly exchanging the sweetest of kisses and right in the middle of their estate yet. Nothing but the smell of her perfume wafted around him, giving that ethereal atmosphere that well-meant kisses usually exude.

Oliver had meant it to be a quick kiss, the slightest of touch. But it obviously didn't turn out that way. When she moved her lip softly over his own, all thoughts were lost to the wind and he immersed himself in the taste of her lips and the softness of her body pressed against his own. How a young girl of 14 could make him feel light-headed like this was was beyond him. And he didn't care. All that mattered right now was this intimate little exchange between them.

“So this is what you like?”

When Caitrin pulled back, Oliver felt himself still drawn to her lips, but stopped himself when she spoke. He gave her another one of his charming little smiles before reaching a hand up to cup her cheek and graze his thumb over her lips. Then a hint of mischief flashed in his eyes.

"Hmmm...not really. I was actually hoping to shoot more arrows," he joked, a wide grin plastered on his face. Yes, he had just exchanged kisses with his best buddy's little sister and instead of feeling ashamed or guilty about it, he was actually feeling quite good. He didn't realize he wanted it until the last minute, and yet he took the chance. “Tell me...do you often practice kissing with noblemen?” he asked rephrasing her own question to him earlier, a playful and impish grin on his face. “Or am I setting the standard for you?” He wondered how many men or boys Cat had kissed before him...or if he was the first.

"“You’re not as irresistible as you think. Not in this condition."

“Oh, but you still think I am irresistible nevertheless. Admit it now. It’ll be our dirty little secret,” Oliver scoffed at her. She really knew how to rile a man up, and still rub it in, so he was going to do the same thing to her. Serves her right. Not only did she deprive him of his one and only "past time" for the time, she was turning it into a rather annoying and maddening battle between the two of them. With his head throbbing in pain from the amount of alcohol he had consumed, this wasn't exactly the one thing he had wanted to accomplish tonight. The sober Oliver would have apologized like the true gentleman that he is. However, drunk as he was now, all the courtesy flew out of the window, and was replaced with nothing but carelessness and an unreasonable urge to teach this lady a lesson she wouldn't forget.

Acting like the jerk that he was, he should have seen what was coming next. Fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't, and the force of her slap whipped his head to the right. Oliver could feel the stinging sensation of her hand against his cheek, and he felt his blood boiling at her. No woman had ever done that to him. Granted he had been rude to her, but his addled mind didn't know that. All he knew was that she had spoiled his fun and even had the nerve to lay a hand on him.

When he saw her raise her hand yet again, this time Oliver was ready. He reached up and caught it just before she could swing it. He held her wrist a little too tightly as he pulled her rather roughly towards him. As they stood there face to face, Oliver looked at her with seething anger. There was something in her eyes that made him stop and do a double-take. What it was, he didn't know. But it made him let go of her hand just as immediately, as if she burned him.

"I don't know you, and you don't know me. As a lady, you should have known better than to interfere in other people's private business," he told her rather firmly while trying to stand steadily on his feet. He could feel the walls around him starting to spin, and he stepped back towards the dark corner until he felt the wall behind him. The way she was talking to him, it was as if they had met before, had actually interacted with each other. And then there was that weird sense of familiarity that he had seen earlier in her eyes. But no matter how hard Oliver tried, he couldn't remember ever meeting her before. He was definitely drunk, so very drunk.

”See, now you’re not the only one getting something to last out of this encounter.”

She had this uncanny knack of turning would-be sarcastic remarks into something amusing. Either that or Oliver was too guilty to let her light mockery get to him. He knew she was referring to the scar that the arrow wound would leave her. He didn’t know if that would be a good thing for her to be constantly reminded of that blasted hunter who had shot a woman instead a huge cockatrice. Oliver already felt embarrassed at the thought.

Still, he couldn’t hide the fact that he was enjoying her company, and she had to be wounded at that. He wondered what she’d be like if she were all well and not in pain. With that thought, he made a silent promise to get her back on her feet as soon as possible. He owed that to her for shooting her. If not for him, she would probably be having the time of her life partying or whatever it is that nomads do.

He watched her as she lifted her eyes to the bright skies above them when she mentioned her mother. His eyes rested on her slender neck. Despite looking all grimy from the traveling, Oliver couldn’t help but admire the dainty curve it perfectly made over her shoulder.

The “neck adoration” was short-lived however when she made another mocking jest, this time with regards to his reading and shooting. He smirked at her and retorted, “I can read, but my arrows can’t. They don’t exactly swerve when they see your sign.”

”I am Yassia by the way.”

She had hissed when he sat her up, and Oliver took extra care removing her lacing. He had never expected to be doing something as intimate as this so soon. It was an intimate gesture usually reserved for a woman's husband on their wedding night. But he doubt she knew about that for she herself suggested it in the first place. What do nomads know about rules or traditions in court anyway? It was just as well. The last thing Oliver wanted was to be schooled on royal customs in the middle of a jungle.

“Oliver. You can call me Oliver,” he replied simply as he finally removed the piece of clothing from her wound, revealing rather fine and proud shoulders and an equally smooth back. “Would it be okay to clean the skin around the wound with some whiskey?” he asked quite distractedly. He was trying too hard to focus on the wound and the task at hand rather than the amount of skin that she was showing. As much as he would like to keep his own reactions tamed, he couldn’t deny that she was having quite an effect on him. She or the alcohol, whatever it was.

It took him quite a while to process what had just happened. When he did, Oliver felt a splitting headache piercing the side of his head. It felt like he was getting a hangover a little too early. Finally realizing that his “lady love” will not be returning anytime soon anymore, he heaved a deep and resigned sigh. So much for making the most out of the day. He turned to pick up his coat which had been haphazardly thrown on the floor during the heat of the moment with Lady Electra, and was about to leave the corner when he heard the lady exclaim his name.

“You… here? How… why?”

Not really sure as to why she was still there after she had broken up his own party, he looked at her with both disdain and irritation. He tried hard but couldn’t quite place her. No, he had never met her before. Though he wasn’t at all surprised that she knew his name. For all he knew, she could be one of Lady Electra’s friends from their group earlier. Right, that’s it, he told himself. She was probably one of them. He can’t be faulted for not remembering her face. Lady Electra had distracted him quite well.

Ignoring her, he hung his coat over his shoulder and stepped out of the corner. Just as she passed her, she spoke again. He couldn’t remember what he had been talking about with these ladies earlier, but she seemed to be quite angry about seeing him and the Lady Electra making out. With his head throbbing in pain, he decided it was best to end this now.

“Look, I am always on the prowl, my lady,” he replied a little too courteously to be sincerely courteous. He couldn’t help the bite in his voice. She was making him all riled up. “If you’re angry that I was more interested in your friend than in you, live with it.” Then he paused and looked at her, his eyes moving from her livid face down to her emerald gown. She doesn’t look bad. Actually, she looked prettier than Lady Electra although less forthcoming and seemingly more conservative. “Or would you like to fill the void she just left in this little corner? I'd gladly take you,” he added quite insensitively, drunk as he is. Yes, she was most definitely jealous she was not getting some action as Lady Electra did, Oliver told himself.

If she recognized him at all, she didn't show any sign of it. And Oliver had almost hesitated, not really sure if she was really the Lady Romily that he knew and had struck quite a long-distance friendship with. Oliver had only met her a couple of times when they visited Wolfhall years ago. He couldn't quite remember Romily's face, but from what his memory could give him, it was exactly like that one of their serving barmaid.

Jayne. She said her name was Jayne. And Oliver had to sit back down on his chair, and recollect his memory of his friend again. He hadn't exactly heard from her in a while now. They had been exchanging letters for years now. And since they discovered their love for books, they have continued on to exchange books from each of their family's libraries. Usually her letters and any books that they were exchanging would usually arrive every month, but Oliver hadn't received anything last month. He had resisted the urge to send someone to Wolfhall to inquire about her, but not wanting to sound all too eager or desperate, he decided against it. If another month had passed and he still hasn't received anything from her, then he would have probably traveled to her instead.

But what could have happened that prevented Romily from writing to him? He made a mental note to inquire as soon as they return to Mercia, but for now, he was going to get as much as he could from this Jayne, who looked enough like his friend. If she's not really Romily, then it wouldn't hurt either to get acquainted with a lovely golden-haired barmaid.

As soon as their stew and drinks arrived, Oliver immersed himself into dinner. But he couldn’t quite get his mind off that barmaid, and already a plan was brewing inside his head as to how to get "Jayne" to give them--him particularly--some company.