#fairy tale setting

[pkphotoblr]

[fictionadventurer]

Of course Catherine Morland falls in love with the charming, kind Henry Tilney who's unlike any man she's ever met and who's the kind of person who she didn't think existed outside of books. But the great thing is that Henry's equally enchanted by the completely ordinary Catherine, because she's something that's totally unfamiliar to his world. They're equally mythical to each other, and in finding each other they upend their ideas of what they thought the world was, and they build a new world together, and that is peak romance.

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

The Three Bears as told by Vincent Price on the Red Skelton Hour (1964)

[saikakin]

Imagine a blonde boy who climbs on the window sill at night and invites you to play together.

So grab his hand, and he will fly you away from your troubles to the clouds to fly freely, to make friends with the stars.

[anghraine]

ngl I always find it wild to see Star Wars stuff that's like "if you think about it in terms of realistic statistics/science then..." about almost any aspect of it.

I mean, what about the Star Wars films gives the impression that this universe abides by realistic statistics, or realistic anything else? SW is broadly a fantasy epic projected onto an IMAX screen with a space background painted on it. Yeah, the planets and moons in the films almost always have improbably limited biomes and two major locations max, because narratively these locations are usually just fantasy city-states with space aesthetics.

Starships travel at the speed of plot and we simply jump past the amount of time that presumably is passing, and sort of imply the passage of that time through shifts in the character dynamics. But this passage of time cannot be analyzed with any kind of consistency because the only logic governing it is the pace of the story.

Just how long did it take the Empire to send a full contingent of forces to Dantooine, search the entire planet, find the Rebel base, and then report back to Tarkin between one scene and another? No one says and no one appears to care. How long did it take Han and Leia to reach Bespin and what exactly went on between them while Luke was, in the same time frame, going through a protracted training over multiple days at an absolute minimum? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

How do giant space worms survive inside asteroids that somehow have an Earth-approximate gravitational field and I guess an atmosphere? Shhhh don't think about it. The point of the sequence is not "how does the giant space worm subsist off this random asteroid and how does it breathe and how does gravity work in this context, seriously" but that the giant worm sequence is fucking sick.

There's probably some after the fact EU justification invented by people who had nothing to do with the original writing of the space worm (or perhaps there are several mutually incompatible explanations) and I am profoundly disinterested in them. Nothing could make this even slightly realistic and it was never intended to be. Star Wars sings space shanties at scientific/mathematical realism as it sails past on a completely different ship going in the exact opposite direction.

And I do mean "sails" because while astronomy might tell us that space is unfamiliar and wild on a level we as Earthbound lifeforms can barely comprehend, Star Wars understands that space is basically an ocean, yet with stars and cool but survivable planets in it, or sometimes it's air but combined with a super cool space background so you can have early 20th century aerial combat that would make no sense in actual space conditions and doesn't need to.

"If you consider relativity, then just running the Empire would be..." General relativity does not govern the galaxy far, far away. Space magic does. I'm not sure there are even time zones.

[adaptations-polls]

Which version of this do you prefer?

[foldingfittedsheets]

I took a creative writing class for my degree and the professor had us post all our work under pseudonyms so none of us knew who was writing what. We’d read all the pieces and discuss them together as a class. I ended up befriending a trans girl and a younger guy and as it was an online course we’d chat on a side channel together.

On the last day the professor had a game where we tried to guess who was who. In the side chat my friends were saying they had no idea who’s was who. I was like, “Well, I expect X is Younger Guy, as these stories were all highly referential to games and race cars and you said you collect hot wheels.” He laughed and said yes, I’d got him.

The trans girl says, “Any idea which one is me?”

And I was like, “Hm… oh! I think you’re probably Y because every story you turned in had a deep fascination with transformative states and what femininity and personhood mean to the protagonists, as well as a strong emphasis on self discovery.”

After a moment she was like “Damn you didn’t have to come for me that hard!”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Marks of Loyalty: A Retelling of Maid Maleen

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge

Seven years, the high king declared.

Seven years’ imprisonment because a lowly handmaiden pledged her love to the crown prince and refused to release him when his father wished him to marry a foreign princess.

Never mind that Maleen’s blood was just as noble as that of the lady she served. Never mind that Jarroth had been only a fourth prince when he and Maleen courted and pledged their love without a word of protest from the crown. Never mind that they loved each other with a fierce devotion that could outlast the world’s end. A handmaid to the sister of the grand duke of Taina could never be an acceptable bride for the crown prince of all Montrane now that Jarroth was his father’s only heir.

“Seven years to break your rebellious spirit,” the king said as he stood in the grand duke’s study. “More than enough time for my son to forget this ridiculous infatuation.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lady Rilla laughed. “Imprison a lady of Taina for falling in love? If you imprison her, you must imprison me on the same charges. I promoted their courtship and witnessed their betrothal. I object to its ending. I am Maleen’s mistress, and you can not punish her actions without punishing me for permitting such impudence.”

Rilla believed that her rank would save her. That the high king would not dare to enrage Taina by imprisoning their grand duke’s sister. She believed her brother would protest, that the high king would relent rather than risk internal war when the Oprien emperor posed such a danger from without. She believed her words would rescue Maleen from her fate.

Rilla had been wrong. The high king ordered Rilla imprisoned with her handmaiden, and the grand duke did not so much as whisper in protest.

Lady Rilla had always treated Maleen as an equal, calling her a friend rather than a servant, but Maleen had never dreamed that friendship could prompt such a display of loyalty. She begged Rilla to repent of her words to the king rather than suffer punishment for Maleen’s crimes.

Rilla only laughed. “How could I survive without my handmaid? If I am to retain your services, I must go where you go.”

On the final morning of their freedom, they stood before the tower that was to serve as their prison and home, a building as as dark, solid, and impenetrable as the towering mountains that surrounded it. In the purple sunrise that was to be the last they would see for seven years, Maleen tearfully begged her mistress to save herself. Maleen was small, dark, quiet, hardy—she could endure seven years in a dark and lonely tower. Lively, laughing Rilla, with her red hair and bright eyes, was made for sunshine, not shadows. She loved company and revels and the finer things of life—seven years of imprisonment would crush her vibrant spirit, and Maleen could not bear to be the cause of it.

“Could you abandon Jarroth?” Rilla asked.

In the customs of the Taina people, tattoos around the neck symbolized one’s history and family bonds, marked near the veins that coursed with one’s lifeblood. Maleen had marked her betrothal to Jarroth by adding the pink blossoms of the mountain campion to the traditional black spots and swirls. Color indicated a chosen life-bond, and the flowers symbolized the mountain landscape where they had fallen in love and pledged their lives to each other.

“Jarroth has become part of my self,” Maleen said. “I could as soon abandon him as cut out my own heart.”

With uncharacteristic solemnity, Rilla said, “Neither could I abandon you.” She rolled up her sleeves far to reveal the tattoos that marked friendship, traditionally marked on the wrist—veins just as vital, and capable of reaching out to the world. The ring of blue and black circles matched the one on Maleen’s wrist, symbolizing a bond, not between mistress and servant, but between lifelong friends. “I do not leave my friends to suffer alone.”

When the king’s soldiers came, Maleen and Rilla entered the tower without fear.

*

Seven years, they stayed in the tower.

There was darkness and despair, but also laughter and joy.

Maleen was glad to have a friend.

*

The seven years were over, and still no one came. Their tower was isolated, but the high king could not have forgotten about them.

The food was running low.

It was Rilla’s idea to break through weak spots in the mortar, but Maleen had the patience to sit, day after day, chipping at it with their dull flatware until at last they saw their first ray of sun.

They bathed in the light, smiling as they’d not smiled in years, awash in peace and joy and hope. Then they worked with a will, attacking every brick and mortared edge until at last they made a hole just large enough to crawl through.

Maleen gazed upon the world and felt like a babe newborn. She and Rilla helped each other to name what they saw—sky, mountain, grass, clouds, tree. There was wind and sun, birds and bugs and flowers and life, life, life—unthinkable riches after seven years of darkness. They rolled in the grass like children, laughing and crying and thanking God for their release.

Then they saw the smoke. Across a dozen mountains, fields and forests had been burnt to ashes. Whole villages had disappeared. Far off to the south, where they should have been able to make out the flags and towers of the grand duke’s palace, there was nothing.

“What happened?” Maleen whispered.

“War,” Rilla replied.

Before the tower, Maleen had known the Opriens were a threat. Their emperor was a warmonger, greedy for land, disdainful of those who followed traditions other than Oprien ways. But war had always been a distant fear, something years in the distance, if it ever came at all.

Years had passed. War had come.

What of the world had survived?

*

Left to herself, Maleen might have stayed in the safe darkness of the tower, but Maleen was not alone. She had Rilla, who hungered for knowledge and conversation and food that was not their hard travel bread. She had Jarroth, somewhere out there—was he even alive?

Had he fallen in battle against the Oprien forces? Perished as their prisoner? Burned to death in one of their awful blazes? Had he wed another?

Rilla—who had developed a practical strain during their time in the tower—oversaw the selection of their supplies. They needed dresses—warm and cool. They needed cloaks and stockings and underclothes. They needed all the food they could salvage from their storeroom, and all the edible greens Maleen could find on the mountain. They needed kindling, flint, candles, blankets, bedrolls.

On their last night before leaving the tower, Maleen and Rilla slept in their usual beds, but could not sleep. The tower had seemed a place of torment seven years ago. Who would have thought it would become the safest place in the world?

“What do you think we’ll find out there?” Maleen asked Rilla.

“I don’t know,” Rilla said. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

*

It was worse than Maleen could have imagined.

Not only was Taina devastated by war and living under Oprien rule.

Taina was being wiped out.

The Taina were an independent people, proud of their traditions, which they had clung to fiercely as they were conquered and annexed into other kingdoms a dozen times across the centuries. Relations between the Taina and the high king of Montane had been strained, but friendly. Some might rebel, but most were content to live under the high king so long as he tolerated their culture.

The Oprien emperor did not believe in tolerance.

Taina knew that under Oprien rule, Taina life would die, so they had fought fiercely, cruelly, mercilessly, against the invasion, until at last they were conquered. The emperor, enraged by their resistance, ordered that the Taina be wiped from the face of the earth. Any Taina found living were to be killed like dogs.

Maleen and Rilla quickly learned that the tattoos on their necks and arms—the proud symbols of their heritage—now marked them for death. They wore long sleeves and high collars and thick cloaks. They avoided speaking lest their voices give them away. They dared not even think in the Taina tongue.

One night as they camped in a ruined church, Maleen trusted in their isolation enough to ask, “If I had given up Jarroth—let him marry his foreign princess—do you think Taina would have been saved?”

Rilla, ever wise about politics, only laughed. “If only it had been so easy. I would have told you to give him up myself. No, Oprien wanted war, and no alliance could have stopped them. No alliance did. For all we know, Jarroth did marry a foreign princess, and this was the result.”

Maleen got no sleep that night.

*

Jarroth had not married.

Jarroth was the king of Montane.

*

The wind had the first chill of autumn when Maleen and Rilla entered Montane City—a city of soaring gray spires and beautiful bridges, with precious stones in its pavements and mountain views that rivaled any in Taina.

Though its territories had been conquered, Montane itself had retained its independence—on precarious terms. Montane was surrounded by Oprien land, and even its mountains could not protect it if the emperor’s anger was sufficiently roused. Maleen and Rilla could not be sure of safety even here—the emperor had thousands of eyes upon his unconquered prize—but they could not survive a winter in the countryside, and Montane City was safer than any other.

“We must find work,” Maleen said, “if anyone will have us.” She now trusted in their disguises to keep their markings covered and their voices free of any taint of Taina.

“The king is looking for workers,” Rilla said with a smile.

Even now, Rilla championed their romance, but Maleen had grown wiser in seven years. Jarroth’s father was no longer alive to object, but a king—especially one surrounded by enemies—had even less freedom to marry than a crown prince did. Any hopes Maleen had were distant, wild hopes, less real than their pressing needs for food and shelter and new shoes.

But those wild hopes brought her and Rilla at last to the king’s gate, and then to his housekeeper, who was willing to hire even these ragged strangers to work in the king’s kitchen. The kitchen was so crowded with workers that Maleen and Rilla found they barely had room to breathe.

“It’s not usually like this,” a fellow scullery maid told them. “Most of these new hands will be gone after the wedding.”

Maleen felt a foreboding that she hadn’t felt since the moment the high king had pronounced her fate. Only this time, the words the scullery maid spoke crushed her last, wild hope.

In two weeks’ time, Jarroth would marry another.

*

As Maleen gathered herbs in the kitchen garden—the cook had noticed her knowledge of plants—she caught sight of Jarroth, walking briskly from the castle to a waiting carriage. He had aged more than seven years—his dark hair, thick as ever, had premature patches of gray. His shoulders were broader, and his jaw had a thick white scar. There was majesty in his bearing, but sorrow in his face that was only matched by the sorrow in Maleen’s heart—time had been unkind to both of them.

She longed to race to him and throw her arms around him, reassure him that she yet lived and loved him. A glimpse of one of her markings peeking out from beneath a sleeve reminded Maleen of the truth—she was a woman the king’s enemy wanted dead. She could not ask him to endanger all Montane by acknowledging her love.

Sensible as such thoughts were, Maleen might still have run to him, had Jarroth not reached the carriage first. When he opened the door, Maleen saw the arms of a foreign crown—the fish and crossed swords of Eshor. The woman who emerged was swathed in purple veils, customary in that nation for soon-to-be brides.

Jarroth bowed to his betrothed, then disappeared back into the palace with his soon-to-be wife on his arm.

Maleen sank into a patch of parsley and wept.

*

Rilla was helping Maleen to water the herb gardens when the purple-veiled princess of Eshor wandered into view.

“Is that the vixen?” Rilla asked.

Maleen shushed and scolded her.

“Don’t shush me,” Rilla said. “Now that I’m a servant, I’m allowed the joy of despising my betters.”

“You don’t need to despise her.” She was a princess doing her duty, as Jarroth was doing his. Jarroth thought Maleen dead with the rest of her nation.

“I will despise who I like,” Rilla said. “If I correctly recall, the king of Eshor has only one daughter, and she’s a sharp-tongued, spiteful thing.” She tore up a handful of weeds. “May she plague his unfaithful heart.”

Since Maleen could not bear to hear Jarroth disparaged, she did not argue, and she and Rilla fell into silence.

The princess remained in the background, watching.

When their heads were bent together over a patch of thyme, Rilla murmured, “Will she never leave?”

“She often comes to the gardens,” Maleen said. “She has a right to go where she pleases.”

“But not to stare as if we each have two heads.”

Out of habit, they glanced at each others’ collars, cuffs, and skirts. No sign of their markings showed.

“We have nothing to fear from her,” Maleen said. “In two days, the worst will be over.”

*

A maid came to the kitchen with a message from the princess, asking that the “pretty dark-haired maid in the herb garden” bring her breakfast tray. Cook grumbled, but could not object.

Maleen tried not to stare as she laid out the tray. The princess sprawled across the bed, her feet up on pillows, her face unveiled. Her height and build were similar to Maleen’s, but her hair was a sandy brown, and her face had been pockmarked by plague. Even then, her eyes—a striking blue, deep as a mountain lake—might have been pretty had there not been a cunning cruelty to the way they glared at her.

“You are uncommonly handsome for a kitchen maid,” the princess said. “You have not always been a servant, I think.”

Maleen tried not to quake. There was something terrifying in her all-knowing tone. “I do not wish to contradict your highness,” Maleen said, “but you are mistaken. I have been in service since my twelfth year.”

“Then you have been a servant of a higher class. Your hands are nearly as soft as mine, and you carry yourself like a princess.”

“Your highness is kind.” Maleen nodded her head in a quick, subservient bow, then scurried toward the door.

“I did not dismiss you!” the princess snapped.

Maleen stood at attention, her eyes upon her demurely clasped hands. “Forgive me, your highness. What else do you require?”

“I require assistance that no one else can give—a service that would be invaluable to our two kingdoms. I sprained my ankle on the stairs this morning and will be unable to walk. Since I cannot bear the thought of delaying the wedding that will bind our two nations in this hour of need, I need a woman to take my place.”

A voice that sounded much like Rilla’s whispered suspicions through Maleen’s mind. The princess was proud and her illness was recent. She would not like to show her ravaged face to foreign crowds, and by Montane tradition, she could not go veiled to and from the church.

Knowing—or suspecting—the truth behind the request didn’t ease any of Maleen’s terror. “No!” she gasped. “No, no, no! I could never…!”

“You will!” the princess snapped, sounding as imperious and immovable as the high king on that long ago day. “You are the right build—you will fit my gowns. You have a face that will not shame Eshor. You are quiet and demure—you will be discreet.”

“I will not do it! It is not right!” To marry the man she loved in the name of another woman, to show her face to the man who thought her long dead, to endanger his kingdom and her life by showing him a Taina had survived and entered his domain, it was—all of it—impossible.

“It is perfectly legal. Marriage by proxy is a long-standing tradition. I will reward you handsomely for your trouble.”

As she had defied the high king, so Maleen defied this princess. With her proudest bearing, Maleen looked the princess in the eye. “I will not do it. You have no right to command me. You will find another.”

“If I do,” the princess said, “there is an agent of the Oprien empire in the marketplace who will be glad to know the king of Montane harbors a fugitive from Taina.”

Maleen’s blood ran cold.

The princess smirked—a cat with a mouse in its claws. “If you serve me in this, no one ever need know of your heritage. I will even spare your red-haired friend. Do we have a bargain?”

Maleen bowed her head and rasped, “I am your servant, your highness.”

*

That night in their shared quarters, Rilla kept Maleen from bolting.

“We must flee!” Maleen said. “She knows the truth! If we are gone before dawn—“

“She will alert the emperor’s agent and give our descriptions,” Rilla said. “Nowhere will be safe.”

“If Jarroth sees me!”

“Either he will recognize you, and you’ll have your long-awaited reunion, or he won’t, and you’ll be well rid of him.”

“He could hand me over to the emperor himself. He is king and has a duty—“

If you think him capable of that, you’re a fool for ever loving him.”

Maleen sank onto her cot, breathing heavily. Tears sprang from her eyes. “I can’t do it. I’m too afraid.”

“You’ve lived in fear for seven years. I should think you well-practiced in it by now.”

“Will you be quiet, Rilla?” Maleen snapped.

Rilla grinned.

But she sank down on the cot next to Maleen and took Maleen’s hands in hers. With surprising sincerity, she said, “We can’t control what will happen. That’s when we trust. Trust me. Trust heaven. Trust yourself. Trust Jarroth. All will be well, and if it’s not, we’ll face it as we’ve faced our other troubles. You survived seven years in a tower. You can face a single day.”

What choice did she have? What choice had she ever had? She loved Jarroth and would be there on his wedding day, dressed as his bride. What came next was up to him.

Maleen embraced Rilla. “What would I do without you?”

“Nothing very sensible, I’m sure.”

*

The bride’s gown was all white, silk and lace, with a high collar, full sleeves, and skirts that hid even her shoes. Eshoran fashions were well-suited for a Taina bride.

When she met Jarroth on the road to the church, he gasped at the sight of her. “My…”

“Yes?” Maleen asked, heart racing.

He shook his head. “Impossible.” Meeting her eyes, he said, “You remind me of a girl I once knew. Long dead, now.”

The resemblance was not great. Seven years had changed Maleen. She was thinner, paler, ravaged by near-starvation and hard living. She had matured so much she sometimes wondered if her soul was the same as the girl’s he’d known. Yet the way her heart raced at the sight of him suggested some deep part of her hadn’t changed at all.

Jarroth took her hand and they began the long walk to the church, flanked on both sides by crowds of his subjects. So many eyes. Maleen longed to hide.

She glanced at her sleeve, which moved every time Jarroth’s hand swung with hers. “Don’t show my markings,” she murmured desperately.

Jarroth glanced over in surprise. “Pardon?”

Maleen looked away. “Nothing.”

At the bridge before the cathedral—the city’s grandest, flanked by statues of mythical heroes—the winds over the river swirled Maleen’s skirts as she stepped onto the arched walkway.

“Please, oh please,” she prayed in a whisper, “don’t let the markings on my ankles show.”

At the door to the church, she and Jarroth ducked their heads beneath a bower of flowers. She felt the fabric of her collar move, and placed a hand desperately to her throat. “Please,” she prayed, “don’t let the flowers show.”

“Did you say something?” Jarroth asked.

Maleen rushed into the church.

She sat beside him through the wedding service—the day she’d dreamed of since she’d met him nearly ten years ago—crying, not for joy, but in terror and dismay. He had seen her face and did not know her. He believed her long dead. She was so changed he did not suspect the truth, and she didn’t dare to tell him. Now she wed him as a stranger, in another woman’s name.

When the priest declared them man and wife, Maleen dissolved into tears. He took her to the waiting carriage and brought her to the palace as his bride. Maleen could not bear it. She claimed fatigue and dashed in the princess’ chambers as quickly as she could.

She threw the gown, the jewels, the petticoats on the floor beside the bed of the smiling princess. “It is done,” she said. “I owe you no more.”

“You have done well,” the princess said. “But don’t go far. I may have need of you tonight.”

*

That evening, Rilla wanted every detail of the wedding—the service, the flowers, the gown, and most of all, Jarroth’s reaction.

“You mean you didn’t tell him?” she scolded. “After he suspected?”

“How could I? In front of those crowds?”

“You’ll just leave him to that woman?”

“He chose that woman, Rilla.”

“But he married you.”

He had. It should have been the happiest moment of her life. But it was the end of all her hopes.

After dark, a maid summoned Maleen to a dressing room in the princess’ suite. The princess—queen now, Maleen realized—sat before a mirror, adjusting her customary purple veils. “You will remain here, in case I have need of you.”

The hatred Maleen felt in that moment rivaled anything Rilla had ever expressed. Not only did this woman force her to marry her beloved in her place—now she had to play witness to their wedding night.

The princess stepped into the dim bedchamber—her ankle as strong as anyone’s—leaving Maleen alone in the dark. It felt like the tower all over again—only without Rilla for support.

What a fool the princess was! She couldn’t wear the veil forever—Jarroth would see her face eventually.

There were murmurs in the outer room—Maleen recognized Jarroth’s deep tones.

A moment later, the princess scurried back into the dressing room. She hissed in Maleen’s ear, “What did you say on the path to the church?”

On the path?

Her stomach sank at the memory. She could say only the truth—but the princess wouldn’t like it. “My sleeve was moving. I prayed my markings wouldn’t show.”

Another moment alone in the dark. Another murmur from without, then another question from the princess. “What did you say at the bridge?”

“I prayed the markings on my ankle wouldn’t show.”

The princess cursed and returned to the bedchamber.

When she came back a moment later, Maleen swore the woman’s eyes sparked angrily in the dark. “What did you say at the church door?”

“I prayed the flowers on my neck wouldn’t show.”

The princess promised a million retributions, then returned to the bedroom.

The next time the door opened, Jarroth loomed in the threshold, a lantern in his hand. His eyes were wild—with anger or terror or wild hope, Maleen couldn’t begin to guess.

He held the lantern before her face. “Show me your wrists.”

Maleen rolled up her sleeves and showed the dots and dashes that marked the friendships of her life.

“Show me your ankles.”

She lifted her skirts to reveal the swirling patterns that marked her coming-of-age.

“Show me,” he said, his eyes blazing with undeniable hope, “the markings around your neck.”

She unbuttoned the collar to show the pink flowers of their betrothal.

The lantern clattered to the floor. Jarroth gathered her in his arms and pressed kisses on her brow. “My Maleen! I thought you dead!”

“I live,” Maleen said, laughing and crying with joy.

“And Rilla?” he asked.

“Downstairs.”

He put his head out the door and called for a maid to bring Rilla to the chambers. Then he called for guards to make sure his furious foreign bride did not leave the room.

Then he and Maleen began to share their stories of seven lost years.

*

The pockmarked princess glared at Jarroth and Maleen in the sunlit bedchamber. “You are sending me back to Eshor?”

“I have already wed a bride,” Jarroth said. “I have no need of another.”

The princess spat, “The emperor will be furious when he knows the king of Montane has wed a Taina bride.”

“Let him hear of it,” Jarroth said. “Let him go to war if he dares it. The people of Taina are always welcome in my realm.”

Jarroth played politics better than Rilla could. A threat had no power over one who did not fear it, and Eshor risked losing valuable trade if Montane fell to war with Oprien. The princess never spoke a word.

*

Maleen wandered the kitchen gardens with Rilla and Jarroth, luxuriating in the fragrance of the herbs and the safety of their love and friendship.

“Is this wise?” Maleen asked. “To put all the people at risk over me?”

“Over all the people of Taina,” Jarroth said. “My father was monstrous to tolerate it.”

“We will have to tread carefully,” Rilla said. “No need to provoke the emperor. No need to reveal his bride's heritage too soon."

"We can be discreet," Jarroth said. "But what shall we do with you, Lady Rilla?”

Rilla bowed her head in the subservient stance she’d learned as a kitchen maid—but there was a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. “If it pleases your majesties, I will remain near the queen, who I am bound by friendship to serve.”

Maleen took her friend’s hand and said, “I would have you nowhere else.”

[lovely-english-rose]

"But the prince can't find his way back here again!"

"Then I'll have to find him."

[maddie-grove]

I’ve been thinking about embroidery as catchall for “stifling useless upper-class feminine activity”* because of Catherine, Called Birdy. So I thought it was kind of funny when I got to the end of The Long Winter and Laura—who generally likes to romp and be outside, who seems bummed out that she’s not allowed to do all the farm work that a boy would do, who doesn’t want to wear a corset—gets a bunch of embroidery silks for late Christmas and is totally jazzed about it. Like obviously that is a totally unremarkable set of preferences for a person to have, and the gender politics of these books are complicated to say the least, but it’s such a Trope that I had to laugh a little.

*Not a bad trope, IMO, but you can tell when an author has put some thought into it and when they’re just cribbing from other authors.

[4lph4kidz]

i was thinking about your dirk and hal poll and i want to mention that i think your concept for ink and iron where dirk creates hal from his reflection by enchanting a mirror is so cool 😌

thank you! hal's predicament and purpose within the canon narrative is so fascinating and i felt it was really important to find a way to explore what i find most interesting with him. i can't take full credit for the concept though i took inspiration from a few placees (one of my friends pitched the idea of the mirror accidentally dumping him onto jake's doorstop for example) but overall i think the idea is very fun and i'm really excited to write more hal stuff!!! also i'm going to take the opportunity to share this oldish doodle i found:

the mispelling of angel as angle was NOT intentional (<- dyslexia haver) but it probably explains a lot. he's pointy

[pkphotoblr]

[thebumblecee]

Tarlos seeing their universe for the first time

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller my beloved...

[griseldabanks]

Maybelle and the Beast

My contribution to the @inklings-challenge Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge. This was my back-up idea for last year, so I was excited to have an excuse to finally write it out! Beauty and the Beast is my favorite fairy tale, and I have a feeling I may revisit this particular version again in the future, because I could definitely turn this into a novel ;) I'll admit to taking a lot of inspiration from Robin McKinley's retellings of this fairy tale.

Maybelle stared at the tall, imposing mahogany door. She felt just as reluctant to open it as if it had been the barred portal to a dungeon—like the cold stone chamber she'd explored early on in her stay here, which she expected had been a dungeon once but was now a wine cellar.

More to stall for time than anything else, Maybelle brushed off her rust red skirt and straightened her collar. It was a nervous habit, but in a way it also served to remind her of why she was here, because of who had given her these clothes. Days, weeks, months in this huge, empty mansion, alone except for one companion. The companion who had slammed this very door not half an hour ago.

Taking a deep breath, Maybelle knocked firmly on the door.

“Go 'way,” a muffled voice growled out to her.

Letting out her breath again in an impatient huff, Maybelle crossed her arms. “Are you still sulking, Agnes?”

“I am not sulking,” the voice insisted sulkily.

“Right. You're lying in bed at three in the afternoon, glaring a hole in the ceiling, for your health.”

After a heavy silence, a loud click told her the key had turned in the hole. Taking that as an invitation, Maybelle opened the door and stepped inside.

The heavy drapes had been pulled closed, leaving the bedroom in a stuffy half-light. The only illumination came from the embers of the fire dying in the fireplace. She could barely even make out the silhouette of a large bulk lying in the huge four-poster. It was like stepping into a sickroom.

Rolling her eyes at the drama of it all, Maybelle closed the door with a snap and made a beeline for the window closest to the fireplace. She pulled the curtains aside, letting a band of lazy afternoon sunlight stretch across the carpet, revealing the twisting patterns of vines and roses. After a moment's consideration, Maybelle decided not to open the curtains of the other window nearest the bed. Best not to annoy Agnes any further with a sunbeam in her eyes. She would probably just wave her hand and make the curtains close, then stick together so Maybelle couldn't open them again. Instead, Maybelle contented herself with throwing the window open and letting in the delicious scents of flowers and the buzzing of bees from the gardens.

“There,” she said, drawing in a deep breath of the fresh smell of spring. “Much better.”

With a grunt, the huge lump on the bed rolled over.

Maybelle walked up to the foot of the bed and stood there with her hands on her hips, just waiting. How strange, to remember how frightened she had been the first time she'd ventured into this room. Or how her knees had nearly given out the first time she'd dared to meet the gaze of the terrible Beast who was to be her captor.

It had been months since she'd ceased to be the Beast, and became instead...simply Agnes.

“Well?” Maybelle said, when it became clear Agnes wasn't about to break the silence. “Aren't we going to at least talk about this?”

The long tail lying on top of the blue bedspread flicked irritably, like a huge cat's. “What's to talk about?” Agnes retorted, her voice grumbling like a motorcar in her massive chest. “Clearly, you don't care what happens to me, as long as you get to go have fun without me.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Maybelle sent up a silent prayer for patience. “Well, for starters,” she said, her voice coming out more sharply than she'd intended, “you called me an awful lot of horrid names, and I thought perhaps you might want to apologize.”

A long, pregnant pause. Finally, with a long-suffering groan from the bed, Agnes rolled over onto her back, her arms tucked up against her chest almost like a dog waiting for a belly rub. The long, black skirt did little to hide her bowed legs ending in sharp claws, and from this angle, her long saber teeth and curled goat-like horns were no longer hidden in her mountain of pillows.

Agnes sighed in resignation. “Sorry for calling you a selfish, bird-brained floozy.”

Maybelle nodded. “Apology accepted. And...I'm sorry too. For calling you a heartless, hairy pig.”

Their eyes met across the room. Agnes let out a snort, followed by a loud guffaw, and suddenly Maybelle found herself laughing as well. The tight coil of anger and bitterness loosened in her chest as she tipped her head back and let her higher-pitched laughter harmonize with Agnes' deep, hefty chuckles.

Still giggling, Maybelle crossed over and flopped onto the huge bed beside Agnes. She felt so tiny in this bed, like a doll. And yet, even though she was sure Agnes could snap her like a twig if she so desired, Maybelle didn't feel a shred of fear to lie a mere foot away from her.

For a couple minutes, they merely lay there, staring up into the canopy over the four-poster. Maybelle had just realized the stars embroidered there formed constellations and was looking for Orion when Agnes broke the silence.

“You were right, you know.” Her voice was a low, sad rumble like a locomotive rushing past in the night. “I am a pig.”

“Oh, no!” Maybelle raised herself on one elbow, looking over in alarm. “Please, forget those awful things I said. It was very wrong of me to call you that.”

Agnes turned her head aside, but Maybelle thought she caught the sight of a tear glistening in one eye. “You were only speaking the truth. Like you always do. I am heartless. Because I care more about not being alone than I do about you getting a chance to see your family. Even when all you ask is to go to your sister's wedding...I'm too selfish to let you go.”

Slowly, Maybelle lowered herself to her pillow again. She wasn't quite sure what to say, so she spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. “I wasn't thinking of you either. I'm sorry, Agnes. I know...I mean, I can imagine how lonely it must get here, in this huge mansion all alone. But it would only be for the weekend. Just enough to meet Edward and see Adeline off. I'd be back before you could miss me too much.”

“You...would come back?”

Agnes' voice sounded so hesitant and tremulous, Maybelle looked over in surprise, but she couldn't make out her friend's expression past the horn and the unruly mane of hair. “Of course I'll come back. That's part of the deal.”

The silence seemed to congeal between them. Neither of them had mentioned the deal Agnes and Maybelle's father had worked out, not since...Maybelle couldn't even remember. During the past several months, it had become easy to forget how all of this began. When Maybelle had first arrived at the mansion, she'd shut thoughts of home out of her mind as much as possible, to make her dreadful fate a little more bearable. If she weren't constantly thinking of the little cottage or trying to imagine what her father and sisters were up to, perhaps she could carve a small measure of contentment out of her exile. It was a small price to pay for her father's life, after all.

But it had been months since Maybelle had seriously believed that Agnes would have eaten her father. Not after she'd seen the delicate way Agnes handled the gardening tools when she tended to her enchanted rose bushes. Not after the way she'd cradled that finch's body in her enormous hands, huge tears rolling down her hairy face as she muttered spell after spell that fizzled out, unable to bring the tiny animal back to life.

Not after scores upon scores of cozy evenings by the fire, laughing together as Maybelle tried to teach Agnes how to knit with two iron pokers, or taking turns reading from one of the books in the huge library.

For the first time, Maybelle tried to imagine what life must have been like for Agnes in all the years before her father had shown up on the doorstep. Sitting alone in front of a guttering fire. Pacing the dark, dusty hallways, with nothing to hear but the echoes of her own footsteps. Wandering the grounds, able to turn the seasons at a word and the weather at a glance, but with nothing but the birds and bees to listen to her words. A library that magically seemed to provide exactly the book she wanted to read, but all the stories of friendship and adventure only serving to mock her solitude.

“I promise I'll come back,” Maybelle said firmly. “Deal or no deal. I won't leave you alone forever.”

A strange, strangled sound escaped Agnes, quickly disguised in a clearing of her throat. “Well,” she said gruffly, “good. But if you don't come back in three days, I'll die.”

Maybelle rolled her eyes. Always so dramatic.

-----

It was raining when Maybelle returned to the mansion. Since it was midsummer out in the rest of the world, she hadn't thought to pack a coat, so she just ducked her head and hurried up the gravel walk to the great front doors. This wasn't a summer rain, either; the chilly breeze cut right through the thin sleeves of the flower-patterned dress Violette had made for her.

The front doors seemed heavier than usual. Normally, they swung open at the first touch of her hand, but this time Maybelle had to throw her shoulder against one to open it. Perhaps Agnes had left a window open somewhere and there was a draft. Though that seemed strange; surely Agnes would have either closed the window or shifted the weather instead of letting all this cold rain blow in.

Maybelle turned back to glance out the door. It looked like Agnes had fully committed to a dreary late November today. The bare branches of the trees clacked together while the wind howled through them, cold raindrops splashing in puddles that turned the walkways to mud. It made her wonder if the rain had kept up the whole time she'd been away.

Shivering, Maybelle heaved the front door closed again, picked up her bag, and started towards the stairs. “Agnes!” she called, her voice echoing around the huge entryway. “I'm home!”

She was halfway up the stairs, struggling with her free hand to unpin her hair and wring out some of the water, when she realized the lamps were dark. Her feet slowed to a stop in the lush carpeting, and she frowned up at the huge chandelier that hung over the open space. Every time she'd set foot in this hall—or anywhere else in the house, for that matter—candles lit themselves and lamps burst to life. At first, she'd found it frightening, especially when she would walk down a long, straight corridor with the candles flaring up in front of her and winking out behind her, leaving her in a bubble of illumination.

But after all these months, she'd grown used to such things. Doors opening at a touch, lamps lighting on their own, plates of food and cups of tea appearing on tables right when she wanted them, a bath drawn and waiting for her without even the hint of a servant in sight. It was all part of the magic of this place. Agnes' magic.

In the cold darkness and silence, Maybelle suddenly remembered what Agnes had said before her trip. If you don't come back in three days, I'll die.

A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with her soaked dress. Surely Agnes had just been exaggerating, the way she so often did. Like that time she'd said she felt like she'd been alone in this mansion for a hundred years. Or when she said she lived under a curse.

But still...where was she? After all the fuss she'd made when Maybelle had first asked to leave, why wasn't she waiting for her? Was she sulking in her room again?

“Agnes!” Maybelle called again, slowly climbing the rest of the stairs. “I'm back! Where are you?”

Nothing but silence to welcome her.

Her footsteps slowed as she reached the top of the stairs and turned to the right, heading for her room. The corridor was wide enough that there wasn't much danger of bumping into things, but it was all so eerie without candles lighting her way. She paused at the corner, where a tall window offered a bit of cold illumination.

Shivering, Maybelle looked out at the darkening grounds, still lashed by the driving rain. The rosebushes looked like they were taking a beating, magic or no magic. Even as she watched, the wind stripped leaves off the branches, and most of the brightly-colored petals were already gone. What on earth was Agnes thinking? Even in her most fickle moods, she would usually relent if she realized it would endanger her precious roses....

Maybelle frowned. What was that dark lump in the middle of the path? She hadn't noticed it as she rushed up the front drive, but from this higher vantage point, she could see it clearly. Was it a tarp caught under a wheelbarrow, knocked onto its side in all this wind?

No. Those weren't the handles of a wheelbarrow. They were horns. Two horns, curled like a goat's, rising from a big hairy head lying in the mud....

Dropping everything, Maybelle grabbed her dripping skirts and raced back down the corridor. She hopped up onto the banister as she'd done so many times before and slid expertly to the bottom. Laughing as Agnes tried to imitate her and toppled over the side in a heap.

She ran to the front door and heaved it open, letting go as the howling wind gusted in and slammed it back against the wall. “Last one inside's a rotten egg!”

The rain almost seemed to be falling horizontally, the wind was so strong. Holding up an arm to shield her face, Maybelle splashed along the muddy path as fast as she could. Walking along the path, crunching through the snow, leaving behind a neat row of shoe prints and paw prints side-by-side.

“Agnes!” Maybelle screamed, the wind stealing her voice, as she turned down an aisle between the rosebushes. “You were wrong when you said there was nothing beautiful about you, Agnes. Just look at your roses!”

There she lay, like a mound of dirt, one arm flung around a rosebush as if to protect it, the other curled tight against her chest. She wasn't moving.

“Agnes?” Maybelle dropped to her knees in a puddle by Agnes' side. Throwing her weight against Agnes' huge shoulder, she managed to roll her onto her back. But how would she ever drag her up into the house?

A weak groan escaped Agnes' lips, and her eyelids fluttered, then slid open. “May...belle?”

Hot tears stung Maybelle's eyes. “Thank goodness!” she cried, grasping Agnes' hand in both of hers. “I thought you were....”

Agnes slowly opened her hand, and Maybelle saw that it was cupped around a small, bedraggled red rose. Most of the petals were gone, and those that remained looked wilted.

“Last one,” Agnes grunted. “Not much...time now.”

“It's all right,” Maybelle said, trying to give her an encouraging smile. “We can replant. Once you're feeling a little stronger, maybe you can turn the weather back to spring and—“

“No.” A shudder ran through Agnes' whole body, and her face twisted in a horrible grimace of pain. “No starting over. No...No use.”

“What are you talking about?” Maybelle patted her friend's hand. “Of course we can start over. We can always start over.”

“But...we sh-shouldn't.” Agnes' voice grew fainter by the minute, and Maybelle had to lean closer to hear. “Just...go back home...Maybelle.”

Icy fingers of dread closed around Maybelle's heart. “What? No! I made a promise, remember? I'm to stay here in my father's place—“

“I release you.” Her big amber eyes rolled to meet Maybelle's, bloodshot and exhausted, but crystal clear. “It was...wrong. I...was wrong. To make you stay...against your will. So...I...re...lease...you....”

With that final whisper, her eyes slid closed, and her head lolled back onto the ground. A shiver, like a tiny electric pulse, ran through Maybelle's whole body, and she knew that some sort of spell had just ended.

“No, Agnes!” Frantically, Maybelle chafed Agnes' hands, patted her cheeks, loosened her collar. “Agnes, you don't understand! I'm not here against my will! We're friends, Agnes! I want to be here!”

The huge beast didn't move. This wasn't like the times Agnes sulked and refused to talk to Maybelle. She couldn't even tell if Agnes was breathing anymore.

Desperate to do something, Maybelle tried to heave Agnes into her arms, but the most she could manage was to cradle Agnes' head in her lap. Tears mingled with rainwater on her furry cheeks.

What if she were dead already? What would Maybelle do then? Go back to her family? But there would be no more strolling through the gardens in the evening, no more reading by firelight, no more long conversations or teaching each other games or trying to braid each other's hair or teaching Agnes how to dance or listening to her wonderful singing voice or laughing at each other's silly jokes or....

“Don't be stupid, Agnes!” Maybelle sobbed. “You're my best friend. The best friend I've ever had. No one knows me like you do. No one cares like you do. If I knew this would happen to you, I never would have gone away.”

Maybelle rested her cheek against Agnes' forehead, in between the horns, and rocked back and forth, holding her best friend close. “I'm sorry, Agnes...I'm sorry.... I never wanted to lose you. I just...I just wanted to keep being your friend. Always. Forever.” A painful sob ripped out of her chest as her best friend's body lay cold and still in her arms. “I love you, Agnes.”

Faintly, Maybelle was aware that the wind had died down, and raindrops no longer pounded down on her head and shoulders. The realization of what that meant only made her cry harder. Her fingers tangled in Agnes' mane of hair as she mumbled over and over again, “I love you, Agnes...I love you....”

“Love you too.”

Maybelle looked up at those gruff words, then gave a great start as she realized she held a complete stranger in her arms.

The woman she held was large, with broad shoulders and a squarish jaw. She was no great beauty, especially not with disheveled brown hair straggling all over the place or her body swimming in Agnes' oversized dress, but there was something comfortable and familiar about....

Wait. “Ag...nes?”

Moving stiffly, the woman held her own hands up in front of her face and turned them around, as if she'd never seen them before. Slowly, a wondering smile crossed her face, and Maybelle noticed this woman's front teeth protruded slightly.

Not too unlike the huge fangs that had curved from Agnes' lips.

Then she raised her eyes to meet Maybelle's, and there was no doubt. Those were the amber-brown eyes of her best friend.

“Agnes!”

They threw their arms around each other, and they were crying, but they were also laughing, and Agnes was trying to tell her something about a fairy and a flower and a curse, but Maybelle was too distracted by how small Agnes was in her arms. How high Agnes' voice was.

“How?” she gulped, pulling back and holding Agnes at arms' length. “How did this happen?”

“It's all you, silly!” Agnes laughed, swiping her sleeve over Maybelle's cheeks to dry her tears. She still moved carefully, as if afraid of accidentally swiping Maybelle with nonexistent claws. “True love breaks any curse, don't you know that?”

“True love?” Maybelle sniffled.

Tears spilled out of Agnes' beautiful amber eyes and rolled down her round, rosy cheeks. “What love could be truer than this?” she said with a shaky laugh. “That you'd still want to be friends with someone as beastly as me?”

“Oh, you're not as bad as all that.”

Agnes raised her eyebrows. “Really? Even after all those nasty things I said to scare you on your first night here? Or when I threw a chair at you and screamed when you went exploring in the west wing?”

“Well....” Maybelle didn't know how to deny it without completely lying, so she hastily changed the subject. “I don't regret anything, though. I don't regret coming here. I don't regret deciding to be your friend.”

With a watery chuckle, Agnes rested their foreheads together. “I don't regret it either.”

[empty-blog-for-lurking]

if i can get even one person to listen to The Mechanisms i would have fulfilled my purpose