This is just a short story that's actully a crossover with Tamora Pierce's books set in Tortall. It's baised on a concept that I'm toatlly obsessed with. A chacter from a TVshow that I really like (in this case, Fonzie) went to Tortall VIA an accident involving the magic of two young apprintances. Here we go.

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It was dark, and Fonzie didn't even bother reaching for a lightswitch for he knew there was none. At a glance this room appeared to be nothing but a closet...a closet that remained locked at all times. No one knew of the trapdoor that Fonzie grasped the handle of without even thinking...or the stairs that led to a basement he'd discovered when exploring this place.

Shutting the trapdoor above him as he decended, Fonzie shut his eyes. It made to diffrence visually in the pitch blackness, but it made everything so much more real. He could pretend he wasn't in darkness, but decending the stairs to the courtyard of the Zanicea palace.

Upon reaching the bottom, Fonzie took two swift strides and grasped a match from the small contanier, and quickly lit the gas lamp before putting out the small flame. Light now filled the room, reflecting on the weapons that covered the far wall. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at them. He came down here a minnimum of once a year...but today was special. Today was the aniversery of both his arival and his departure in the magical relm of Tortall.

The events of that magical day filled his mind, sending a flashback rolling over him like a wave.

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It was strange, beautiful, unknown, and maybe even dangerious. Author Fonzerilli stared at the georgious wall of gold and pink lights. He'd never seen anything like it in his life. He walked towards it, and realised his mestake too late.

A sharp wind hit him from behind and forced him through the wall. Screaming in terror, Author fell onto his stomach and rolled onto his back just in time to see the wall vanish behind him leaving him flat on his back, on the ground, surrounded by trees. Author was alone.

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Slowly, Fonzie approached the wall and studdied the weapons. They were all there, his sword, his weighted staff, his spear, his bow, his lance, even the sheild he had worked so hard to win. It had been a long time since he'd worked with any of these weapons, so he had to start out slow.

His hands curled arround the staff as he removed it from the wall and stepped away. Soon, they found their way into the fimmilar hold, and his body naturally slipped into the too-fimmilar pose that he used. He was in middle guard, the position he'd been most comfortable starting his pattern dances from.

Soon, he fell into the rythem of the simple patern dance he'd learned as a page. A combonation of blocks and strikes, deflecting and hitting nothing, but following a rythem that would make any knightmaster of pages proud. As he had done, many times. Lord Willsen had been a strict man...but had been like a father to Page Author.

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His dark eyes were set on his opponent as he worked through the fimmilar pattern. He was a good six months into his first year, and staff lessons had growned tedious. He kept the pace easly, and had to restrain himself to keep from going faster. High strike, High block, Middle Strike, Middle block, Low Strike, Low block.

The speed gradually picked up, and Author got into it more. He relaxed as he focoused on his oppoents eyes. Shalena of Queenscove was a nice girl, and potentially a wonderful knight...but for now Author was bound and determened to make this look good. Suddenly, he heard the knightmaster call "Good, good! Keep it up Zanicea, Queenscove"

Beaming with pride, Author realised they were speeding up, and kept pace. The clicks of the other staffs in the line were drowned out of his conciousness. He'd made Master Willsen proud...and he didn't want that to change.

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Breathing heavlly from the fast pace he'd set for himself, Fonzie put the staff back and reached for his spear, his third-favrete weapon next to his sword and his bow. Spearfighting had always been entertaining to him, as well as a chalange. Although he prefered the risk of jousting with his lance, he distinctly remebered Squire Author's work with his spear...and the day that had frightened him out of his mind.

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Sure he'd fought spidren's before, even a stormwing once. One didn't get through the pages' summer camps without a battle or two with some unfriendly imortals...but this was the first time he'd had a genuene battle with a real live human being. He'd left his sword in his room agian...and now he regreated it. His spear was his only defence aginst the robbers that were closing in fast on him. Breathing heavily, Author gripped his spear and braced himself...preparing to fight...and to kill if he had to.

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The pattern dances had worn him out...but there was one last thing to do before he went back upstairs. Back to being The Fonz. The swordhilt sent a fimmilar tingle along his arm, across his shoulders and down his spine. Even as fimmilar as it was, Fonzie still jumped. It had been years since he'd felt the magic in the sword, the magic he had unknowingly put there himself.

As he fell into yet another pattern dance, this time acting as though he was facing a real oppoent, for this magical sword would stand for nothing less, Fonzie finally ceaced to exist in his mind. He was Sir Author or Zanicea, Tortallen Knight.

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Author sighed as he waited. He knew that he'd promessed Lady Keledry he'd watch over her son...but accepting the boy as his squire had been almost too much. Not that Author didn't have great affection for the boy...it was just that the young man was easly distracted and not the strongest person in the world.

Suddenly he heard something. It was Neane, his squire, and he was crying out. Author's sword, which he had dubbed Centor, was out in a second as he dismounted and hurried over to the young man. The question "Are you alright?" died on his lips when he saw the problem.

Sidrens, at least three of them, and they were awfully near. Author lept into action, cutting left and right, getting between the monsters and the boy who, although he wouldn't admit it, was like a son to him.

He would protect his squrie...and then the young man would protest claiming he could've done it himself, and then Author would give another lecture. It was just another day in his life...the life that he had grown accostum to.

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Fonzie ended the patern dance before more flashbacks of worse, or better, times envloped him and instead looked at the sword. He still remembered what he'd said when he'd received it. He now whispered a repeit of that as he turned to put the sword away.

"Swords are often named for imortals because of how dangerious imortals are. I will call mine Centor for another reason though. A sword can be used for good or evil at the whim of the user...and a Centor has no fixed side in the war between good and evil. They can be ither at the whim of their own minds."

And with that, Sir Author put his sword back up on the racks, went back up the stairs, and climbed out into the closet, shutting the trapdoor behind him. As he stepped out of the closet, he hurried over to the car that waited for his special gift.

He'd always been comfortable with who he was, and as he lifted the hood he could feel the silver glow of his gift leave his hands and enter the veichle. Although he was known as the Fonz...deep inside, where no one saw, Sir Author still lived.