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The Fool crossed his legs. Three had been in his head before he could speak words. Three was the language he knew best.
No one else in this realm could speak Three, of course, except all the tiny little people in his head. They were fluent in Three, they taught him Three, but neither him nor them could work out what each word meant.
There were no words, it couldn’t be spoken. English may impose itself on Three but Three is determined to speak up.
The Fool looked at the stream, gurgling between his pointed boots. He watched the water being sucked in, then spat from cracks and ferny nooks.
Three bubbled in his head, softer than any love.
No siege or stone walls mattered when he had room for Three and his wood.
The Princess sat behind him, blade shaving a rock.
“Hey, Princess,” said the Fool. “When do you think we’ll wake up?”