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Not a day goes by where she isn’t mentally cursing that nefarious woman for planting ideas of…whimsy inside of Father’s head. Sure, Sancho can admit that the woman’s tales did capture her reluctant attention little by little till the point where she herself was peering behind him with her solemn expression replaced by a look of curiosity. But never ever would her new found interest lead to them traversing through thick mud as seemingly vast as the ocean itself in search of some man-eating bear.
“Tis but the Fixer’s way my dear Sancho!” came her Father’s bubbly voice, as she scoops mud from out her shoes between groans. “Dirt and grime art proof of our hardships. But shame thee still lack the true heart of an adventurer!”
She can tell by the wide grin on his filthy face that his criticism was lighthearted and yet Sancho doesn’t stop herself from throwing him one of many exasperated looks.
“I look forward to the day when you stop that juvenile way of speaking,” she replies flatly.
‘Tis but the Fixer’s way’ is the usual excuse Father clings to to brush away whatever predicament they find themselves in. From being nearly skewered by wild boars to almost toppling over a cliff into the rocky depths below. Neither situation would spell death for the both of them, but she could do without those memories.
Her mind continues to race to find decent reasons as to why he would give up the cozier option of overseeing La Manchaland for this. Hell, Sancho would even wear one of Nicolina‘s gaudy dresses with minimal complaints if it meant never having to rid herself of layers and layers of mud on her skin and clothes.
Still, Sancho waits and waits for the weight of his actions to take their toll on him or until boredom rears its welcomed head. Until then, she will follow her Father just like every good Child and keep watch for the inevitable dangers.
Besides, even if she tags along begrudgingly, she notices that Father is oddly...happier than ever before.
Sancho eventually gives up on counting how many times the sky bleeds red to indicate the passing of yet another day. She no longer questions Father’s manner of speaking and can now in fact translate his speech to any bewildered humans that they encounter. Hearing ‘tis but the Fixer’s way’ is as natural as breathing.
He now has a list of “ideas most ingenious” that is most likely longer than her forearm and yet she doesn’t mind anymore.
As they venture further into flatter lands, they find themselves in the company of villagers more often than before. Their striking appearances naturally attract their attention like bees to honey. Father’s handsome face is guaranteed to be the talk of the town while some brave human children move in closer to touch Sancho’s fluffy boa before her hardened gaze stops them in their tiny tracks. She assumes that these simple folk are ignorant of the existence of Bloodfiends as the duo are never feared, but instead welcomed with open arms.
“Thee have but a scowl that wouldst make one cower in fear! May thee perchance smile more. Especially when we art in the presence of humans,” Father lightly suggests one day as he stirs a concoction that tries to pass itself off as hearty soup instead of a distasteful mixture of hemobar chunks, animal blood, and animal parts.
“Whatever you say,” Sancho sighs as she plucks shards of wood from her palms. This was the first and last time she would willingly volunteer to collect firewood.
There is one village in particular that pays no attention to their new unusual guests for the dwellers' wear faces filled with concern. Some even shed obvious tears.
“I say, whatever is the matter my dear lady?” Father asks one woman whose brow is creased with the same worry.
The woman tells them of a feared syndicate that was bleeding the village dry of money and other resources with thievery. Sadness struck her expression when she explains that anybody that went against them would disappear the same day.
“Such villany!” Father loudly boasts in outrage, making the woman practically leep out of her shoes while Sancho rolls her eyes at yet another outburst. “Rest assure my squire and thy shall deal with these heartless foes!”
“A-are you sure?” The woman stammers looking from Sancho’s vacant expression to Father's look of determination. “You two are just guests here, there’s no need to - “
“My squire and thy have sailed the many oceans, climbed the highest mountains, and felled the most villainous of foes! Tis shall be but a drop in the bucket compared to our harrowing tales.” Father gleefully interrupts, ignoring Sancho’s mutter of we didn’t do any of that .
Dealing with the “heartless foes” took a matter of minutes. A simple display of a fraction of Father’s power sent them packing with their metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. The same woman as before was shocked but immensely graceful.
“No Syndicate shall ever dare invade thy village again after my demonstration of might. Haven’t I declared it upon mine arrival that no task is beyond us?” Father says, every word oozing with confidence while Sancho remains mute.
“And you weren’t kidding!” She answers with awe twinkling in her eyes. “Thank you so much, Don Quixote and Sancho. But..” she continues, voice trailing off with hesitation, “how could we repay you..? We especially don’t have much money after..”
Her head sags and Father casts her a sympathetic gaze while Sancho looks from the disheveled wooden homes to the fences littered with rot from lack of care and onto seemingly the only items of value.
“Your running shoes look like they could fetch a nice price…” Sancho states with an air of difference, already mentally preparing herself for Father’s admonishment.
“Fie on thee! A fixer doth not dole out justice based on the promises of capital” Father swiftly chides her before adding with a much more pleasant tone. “Still if thou truly wishest to help, then…wouldst thou behold this flyer? Prithee, spread the word, and invite thy fellows and families to this place.”
The flyer in question is an eccentric pink and purple invitation to La Manchaland made by the other Children. A place that promises fun for the whole family whether they be Bloodfiend or human. The woman takes the flyer despite the uncertainty etching onto her face.
“My most loyal squire, Sancho, shall give thee a better explanation,” Father continues with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
Sancho stares at him in disbelief. It’s bad enough that she must play audience to his shenanigans, must she also take part as one of the actors? When she fails to provide an answer, Father clears his throat.
“Don’t just stand there Sancho. Say something,” Father sighs as he briefly drops his act. “You are supposed to be my most loyal assistant.”
“I…I refuse to speak in such a manner. It’s very ridiculously juvenile” Sancho says, unwilling to look at the expecting woman.
“Is it that very ridiculous juvenility that adds color to life, Sancho,” Father happily reminds her. “Besides, how else will humans truly see us as just valorous Fixers otherwise. Let’s try again, yes? Hearken to me, Sancho! My loyal squire!”
After one last long, deep sigh she feels the last bit of resistance slip from her grasp. “V-verily! Thou mustn’t relent…no matter the hardship. Slow not they running pace until thou arrivest at thy destination; though hidden it may seem, perseverance shall thee through. Through to t-the La Machaland of…uh dr-dreams…and hope.”
She ends her speech with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, while the woman looks even more confused after her explanation. But Father doesn’t mind her bewilderment and he gives Sancho a supportive pat on her back.
“Good show Sancho.”
Sancho still remembers the day he breathed new life into her. The lonely woman laid in a garbage pile looking nearly indistinguishable from the trash itself. The odd man spoke of starting over. He spoke of a family that would never leave her side.
Although all she could feel was the bitter cold wrapped tightly around her, her shivering arm reached out to this stranger who dubbed himself Don Quixote. Perhaps it was simply the human instinct kicking in to resist that cloak of death. Or perhaps she took those words to heart that day.
One Child became two. And then three. And then four. The new siblings lived happily in that castle vying for their Father’s love and affection while Sancho rarely left his side. Either out of gratitude for this new life or some psychological pull she had yet to understand.
Until a certain human came and made Father become fixated on making the impossible possible.
Sancho’s thoughts now fall to La Manchaland and how her siblings were fairing. Even now, the tone of voice that Curiambro used gnaws at the back of her mind, but it’s impossible to convince Father to turn back now. Not until he finds some pointless relic.
“You seem lost in thought, Sancho. How about I read you one of Bari’s books? I remember you told her that you wanted to see how the dream ends for the Zwei Fixer.”
It’s a question that he usually asks at the end of the day, when the stars shine brightest. They make camp deep within the woods far from civilization, where the crackles of the fire serve as their lullaby. He sits on the ground with a kind look on his face and an open book resting on his lap. She rejected him time and time again, but this time she relents.
“Fine,” she plainly states and plots down onto the moss covered floor.
For a moment, Father is visibly taken back, but soon his face breaks into a wide smile.
Like all good Fathers, he reads a story out loud to his Child before she drifts off to sleep.