DISCLAIMER: I do not own Princess Bride or any of its characters. All I own are my plot bunnies and Samanatrina. (I always seem to forget to put disclaimers on my other fics, so here's to all my other fics! I don't own any of the fictions nor their respective characters!)
Rated T for Language... and some kissing I guess... idk...
I wish I could've controlled who I was born. All my life, I've been looked down on—never good enough. Too outspoken when I should be silent; too strong when I should be fragile; born a girl when I should be a boy. My father hates me. He's hated me ever since I came out of my mother's womb—my mother died in childbirth, and I was left to an unappreciative, disappointed father. Since day one, he's treated me like it was my fault that I was a girl; he wanted an heir, someone to help him as a blacksmith's apprentice, and instead he got me—a loud and opinionated, rough tomboy of a daughter. I understand that he wanted a son desperately, but he treated me like garbage, demanding me to work around the house like a slave boy, and then yelling at me when my hands became rough and calloused, completely unladylike, making me undesirable to suitors. He was desperate to marry me off, though he worked me like a pack mule.
The maddest he's ever been was when I was patching the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm because "it just couldn't wait" and I fell off the ledge, breaking my arm and gashing a deep cut under my eye. Father yelled at me—now no man would marry me with a defining scar marring my already sunburnt, weary face. He was so angry at me that he refused to even set my arm. I had to wait in agony until the storm died down to go to town and get it set properly by a doctor.
My father gave me two sets of clothes—one male, one female. I had trousers as well as a dress. To some this would seem like a father giving his child enough warm clothing to last the winter, but to me it served a darker purpose. One day, he would make me get up a boy and do chores, work the land, fix the house, and hammer out swords in the workshop. The next, he would wake me up as a young lady, scolding me for slouching or acting unladylike. Besides my face, he was most angry about my hands, for they were not pale and delicate like all desirable brides-to-be's hands are. I have many sets of scars lacing each finger, each knuckle, each palm, and he would punish me for them. He made me wear gloves or extremely long sleeves on my girl-days.
I remember the first time I had my period. Father got so mad that he made me sleep outside in the snow to keep my "womanly curse" from bleeding all over the bed. I was only ten. The women in town took pity on me; they helped me, kind but always distant. They felt so sorry for me; I hate that feeling—people's pity. I wish that I had been born a boy, if anything just to shut my father up. I couldn't ever make him happy; I grew to hate him very quickly, daydreaming of him getting killed in a bar fight, or shot in a robbery... anything to get away from him.
And that is where my story begins. Today is a boy-day. Father makes me keep my long red hair tucked under a cap, so I look more like a boy. I think that in a way, he's trying to split me into two people. The only thing I like about boy-days is that I get to go to town and mess around with my friends. All of my friends are boys, boys that I learned how to skip stones, fence, play ball, and ride a horse with. Whenever I go to town, my friend Thom and I always grab a loaf of bread from the bakery before racing each other to the lake and then skipping stones, maybe swim a bit too before heading back to the workshop to hammer out some swords and practice fencing.
"Come on Sam!" yelled Thom as we sped side by side through the cobblestone streets of our small village. "I gonna beat you this time!" I grinned as we sprinted down a back alley and toward the grassy plains that hid our little lake from the view of the world.
"In your dreams, Thubby Thom!" I laughed/wheezed. Thom faked shock and hurt.
"Oh no you did not just call me Thubby Thom!" he said in mock anger. I laughed/wheezed even harder.
"Oh yes I did!" I yelled back to him, pulling ahead as the lake slowly came into view, a mere speck on the horizon, steadily growing larger and larger.
"Well then, I might just have to call you by your real name then!" he said evilly.
"You wouldn't dare!" I cried, the lake growing larger with each passing stride. It was less than twenty feet away now.
"Oh yes I would!" he yelled as we came closer and closer to the edge of the lake; I sprinted onto the old dock we had constructed a couple years back, when suddenly I was hit from behind. The breath was knocked out of me and I went careening through the air; I flinched, holding up my hands to shield myself from the impact on splintered wood, but it never came. Suddenly, my world became very wet and dark as Thom and I landed with a great splash in the lake. I swam to the surface, spluttering wildly as Thom laughed loudly.
"Samanatrina!" he finished, laughing even harder as I attempted to dunk him under the water's surface.
"Oh shut up, Thubby," I rolled my eyes as he splashed me in the face. I growled playfully, splashing water back at him, which caused an ensuing water war, complete with diversionary tactics, side-tickling, and piggyback dunking. Only when Thom got me in a chokehold and was threatening to drown me, was I forced to surrender.
"Okay, okay! You win!" I laughed, spluttering in the lake water.
"Say I'm the smartest, strongest, most invincible man in town!" he teased, nougie-ing my head. I struggled against his grip, but couldn't break free. I sighed in defeat.
"Fine, you the smartest, strongest man in town," I said in a monotone manner.
"You forgot the invincible part!" he pestered, tightening his chokehold.
"Fine, fine! You're invincible! Happy?" I harrumphed. Thom laughed and let me go.
"Yes, yes I am. You wish you were as awesome as me," he grinned. I rolled my eyes.
"You are such a guy," I chuckled.
"And you aren't?" he said sarcastically. I narrowed my eyes and splashed a wave in his face.
"Only one half of the week, thank you very much," I smirked, splashing Thom again for good measure, before heading toward shore. I dragged myself onto the sand, flopping onto the soft ground. A thump beside me let me know that Thom had made it to shore too. We lay there in silence for a while, catching our breath. It was rare moments like this when I forgot about who I was or what I was wanted to be.
"Why do let him treat you so badly?" asked Thom after a while.
"What do you mean?" I asked, sitting up and turning to face him.
"Well, the man can never make up his mind—why don't you just run away and start a new life?" he shrugged. I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah, and what would I do for money? Shelter? Food? How on earth would I protect myself?" I stated. "I can't leave—I've been saving up money my entire life, and I still have barely enough to buy a loaf of bread at the bakery. My father knows that I want to run away; he's not going to let me go. I either have to steal from him or wait til he dies to leave this place."
"Yeah, money would be problem..." Thom pondered. "But as for protecting yourself—Sam, we taught you how to use a sword, remember? You're a blacksmith; you know how to gut a man. I certainly wouldn't want to get on your bad side."
"But I'm a lady," I sighed, emphasizing the word with definite hate, frustrated once again with what I was born. "I'd get torn to shreds trying to get work once I leave."
"Ah, but you forget—your father's blessed you with the perfect way to survive by yourself—you can be a boy," Thom said with a knowing grin. "You could get work pretty easily out there in the real world. I mean, c'mon, you've been working as a blacksmith all your life—you could any sort of labor work you tried for."
I sighed; Thom just didn't understand. I couldn't leave; I've never known anywhere else but here.
"Come on then—we best get home before dark; I don't want to get cuffed for being late," I said heaving myself to my feet.
"Oi, help here?" demanded Thom, holding his hands out for my assistance. I rolled my eyes and pulled him to his feet.
"Race you home?" I asked grinning.
"Fine," said Thom with a smirk. "On the count of three. One. Two-" and then he shoved me and started running.
"You arrogant little berk!" I yelled sprinting after him. "Afraid the only way you can beat me is by cheating?"
"You're just mad I'm so clever!" he shouted at me over his shoulder.
"Keep telling yourself that," I shouted as I pulled ahead of him, smacking him in the shoulder as I passed.
"Ow!" Thom said indignantly.
"Serves you right!" I laughed.
We wheezed and huffed our way back to town, adrenaline rushing through our veins. Thom and I parted ways in the center of town; his parents would actually be worried about him if he didn't return home. I wasn't eager to go arrive at my house; Father would be asleep, and boy, did that man snore. Alas, I rounded the final corner in town and skidded to a stop in front of my house. The lights were still on, and I frowned.
That's odd, I thought, looking at the illuminated windows. It's late—the old man's usually asleep by now. I cautiously walked up the steps and opened the door. What greeted me was an unpleasant sight.
Bartle Bailey, the most disgusting, violent man in town, was sitting at my table with Father, a nearly empty drink in his hand. I stepped into the room cautiously, fearful for whatever had transpired.
"Father," I said quietly, nodding my head to him. Father had a wicked gleam in his eye, like he had just thought of something particularly nasty for me to do.
"Well finally, " he spat at me. "Decided to show up, have you, you ungrateful bitch." I winced as his words cut like a dagger.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Father," I said bowing my head. "I thought you would be asleep."
"Well, obviously, I'm not," he growled. There was a silence that seemed deafening. I waited in silence; ladies only speak when they are spoken to. After a minute, Bartle got to his feet with an obnoxious belch, scratching his balding head; I eyed him warily. Bartle was the kind of man that was permanently drunk, and would lash out at the slightest thing.
"So, Samanatrina," started my father, also getting to his feet. I froze; something wasn't right. Father never called me by my real name; he preferred offending slurs like "whore" and "slut."
"Yes?" I asked.
"Bartle here has made a generous offer, a very generous offer indeed," Father said with a sickening smirk.
"What offer would that be?" I asked warily.
"Samanatrina, meet your fiancé." My heart stopped in my chest as I stared in panic at Bartle; he leered at me perversely, taking a step too close for my preference.
"No," I said quietly. My father looked sharply at me.
"What was that?" he glared, nostrils flaring.
"No," I said more clearly. My father had pushed me around my entire life. This is where I put an end to it.
"You dare disobey me?" he growled.
"I refuse to marry him," I stated.
"You have no choice," he sneered. "As if any other man would want you. This is the only chance I have to marry you off, and so help me, you will do as I command!"
"No, I will not!" I cried, stepping toward him. "All of my life I've done whatever the hell you wanted, trying to please you—always to please you! But it was never enough, and I will not live my life in hell just because you want to get rid of me!"
Quick as a flash, his hand shot out and struck me across the face. He hit me so hard, little stars flashed in front of my eyes. That was the last straw.
"YOU WILL NEVER DISRESPECT MY WISHES EVER AGAIN!" he roared as Bartle grabbed me by the arm and started dragging me out the door, very keen on taking me back to his residence.
And then, I snapped. I whipped around, kicking Bartle in the shin, and shoving his nose into his brain as he fell to his knees. I smirked as I felt his nose crack beneath my palm. I felt an odd sense of triumph as he roared with pain and writhed on the ground. I kicked him in the side five times for good measure, hearing the satisfying crack of his ribs, when suddenly a filthy arm wrapped around my neck and squeezed, cutting off my air supply. I gasped, unable to breathe. My vision started to go fuzzy, but I mustered all my strength and threw my elbow back into my captor's chest. I heard an oof, and the arm around my throat loosened enough for me to gasp a breath of air and throw another elbow into his stomach. I wriggled out of the chokehold and turned to face my attacker, only to see my father huffing angrily to his feet. Before he could stand up fully, I threw a right-hook at his face, successfully hitting his cheek with my knuckles, and jabbed him in the chest with the other fist, before darting to the door. I fumbled anxiously with the lock and managed to throw it open, dashing into the darkness of the blacksmith shop. I stumbled through the pitch black room, stubbing my toe on various items in the dark. I felt along a table, trying to find the other exit, when something sharp pricked my hand- a sword.
My eyes widened, staring blindly, as I tried to find the handle of the sword in the dark. A loud bang echoed through the workshop, and a glimpse of light allowed me to find the handle, and I snatched up the much needed weapon. Then I realized where the bang and light had come from.
The door. Now I wasn't alone. My father was in here too. I tried to lay out a mental image of the workshop in my mind; I knew this room backwards. Now where was the door? To the right, I thought. I stepped as quietly as I could to the right, following my mental map until I finally felt the doorknob beneath my fingertips. I breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, a blinding pain sliced across my side. Shit. My father was right behind me.
"Gotcha girlie," he snarled. I whipped around, stabbing my sword blindly into the dark, feeling the tip connect with something, and I heard a roar of pain from less than a foot away.
Fear and anticipation took me, and I fumbled with the doorknob, flinging it open and dashing into the dimly lit streets of the town. I ran, ignoring all pain, just running as fast and frantically as I could, not knowing if Father was following me or not.
Suddenly, the wind was knocked out of me, as something hard and wooden collided with my back. I fell on my face, crying out in pain as a wooden chair from our kitchen skidded to a halt beside me. Weary and trembling, I crawled onto my back, grasping my sword like a lifeline.
My father was stalking toward me; I now saw where my sword had hit; he now only had one eye, his other was bloodied and swollen. His chest was heaving with hate; he had found a sword of his own and was prowling toward me, tip pointed directly at my chest.
"I always hated you," he growled, standing over my bruised form. He raised both his arms, preparing to stab me like an animal. With one last ounce of strength, I thrust my sword up into his chest, directly into his heart. His expression was priceless; the shock, the pain and disbelief were etched on his face perfectly. A ghost of a smirk graced my lips as he fell to the dirt, dead. Never again could he hurt me. Never again would I feel the sting of his hand upon my face. I was finally free.
I know, I know, this seems like it has absolutely nothing to do with Princess Bride, but trust me! It does! I believe it's introduced in the next chappie, so read on! I literally had NOTHING to do while sick over spring break, so I pooped this out in a couple of days. Hope you guys like!