#theme: agape

[inklings-challenge]

2024 Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge Archive

Godmother: A Cinderella retelling by @lydiahosek

Hank and Gracie: A Hansel and Gretel retelling by @ashknife

A Love as Red as Blood: A Little Red Riding Hood retelling by @dearlittlefandom-stalker

Marks of Loyalty: A "Maid Maleen" retelling by @fictionadventurer

Maybelle and the Beast: A Beauty and the Beast retelling by @griseldabanks

The Princess and the Pulverized Pea: A "Princess and the Pea" retelling by @popcornfairy28

The Selkie Story: A Little Mermaid retelling by @allisonreader

Tam Lin: A retelling by @physicsgoblin

Tell Your Dad You Love Him: A "Cap O'Rushes" retelling by @queenlucythevaliant

Twelve, Thirteen, One: A "Cinderella" retelling by @confetti-cat

A Wise Pair of Fools: A retelling of "The Farmer's Clever Daughter" by @fictionadventurer

[clari-writes]

The Prince

[ A Cinderella Retelling | Wordcount: 4006 Words | Estimated Reading Time: 20 minutes ]

A sovereign ruler must be, above all, a man of duty and reason. Prince Dominic knows this, and lives heart and soul by the edict. Grasps full well the consequences of what could happen if he didn’t.

So why is it that when he asks the Captain of the Guard if they found her, his voice catches with hope?

“No, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “We managed to track her as far as the Bridge of the Diwata, but after that, it was as if her carriage turned into thin air. We can only suspect it was magic.”

There is a warning laced into the word magic, both in the captain’s tone and Dominic’s own instinctive understanding. The fae folk were unruly; unpredictable; dangerous. While they had marked themselves as enemies only to nation’s former colonizers, the Spanish, Dominic knew better, as the heir to the Islands’ third-generation monarchy, to count on them as friends. He should feel relieved that the lady cloaked in their torrid enchantments vanished without a trace.

Better, he tells himself and his sinking heart, in the long run.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, Captain. Is that all?”

“Well,” Captain Bernard says, and then hesitates.

Prince Dominic barely restrains himself from pouncing on the man. “What is it?” he asks with deep patience.

“We found what we believe is something of hers, Your Majesty. A slipper.”

“A slipper?”

“Made of glass.” The captain nods at one of his men, and a guard liveried in green and gold moves forward to place a glimmering object in front of the prince. “It was at the base of the bridge. We cannot know for sure it was hers, but-“

“It’s hers,” says Prince Dominic hollowly. He remembers now, in one of the more lively dances of the ball, when the lady kicked her feet in the air he’d noticed in an instant how they sparkled.

Do you have jewels encrusted on your toes? he’d teased.

She’d replied with a dazzling smile. Something like that.

 “If you forgive me, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “May I inquire as to the urgency of finding this girl?”

“Pardon?”

“If she’d stolen something significant, perhaps, during the hours you were alone,” the captain prompts. Dominic flushes, even though there is no rebuke in the captain’s words. “If so, I’ll organize a search party straight away.”

Do it, Dominic’s heart sings. The prince bites his tongue. Takes another deep breath.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “She isn’t important.”

_ _ _

So why is he paying a visit to the royal glassmaker, shoe in hand?

“No doubt about it, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says, after taking a close look at the slipper through her famed magnificent magnifying glass. She places the pristine object in front of him with a mixture of awe and fear. “That’s the fae’s work. No human hands could have produced something as fine as this.”

“Is it cursed?” he asks. He’s half convinced himself it’s so.

“Gifted, more like,” she replies, stopping his errant wonderings in their tracks.

“What do you mean?”

“Your lady seems to have won the favor of a fairy,” the artisan replies.

“I’ve never heard of-“

“Neither have I, Your Grace, but the proof is right here in front of us.” She gestures to the slipper. “You cannot force the fae to create. You have heard of the case of Count Floribel-“

“I have,” Dominic says with the wince. It was years ago, back when the Islands’ revolution still consisted of whispers in the dark. Count Floribel, their appointed ruler, had actually managed to capture a fairy – rumor has it, with a desperate native’s help, after the noble promised to curb his family’s debt – and he had demanded of the creature to provide the secrets of the yet-unconquered mountainfolk’s intricately woven designs.

In response, the fairy blew themself up. There is still a crater where the count’s mansion had been.

“Well, there you go. We’d have to rule that out. The other option, then, is to strike a deal with the fae, and of course there are records of that, such as the royal crown. But, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says with the shake of her head, “I cannot imagine what your lady could have traded for a fairy to craft something so unique, it would only find its fit and perfection in her wearing it.”

“How could that be so?”

“The glass,” Doña Rosaline says, “Is not still. Not when you look at it closely enough. It ripples and bends at one’s touch—it is truly quite remarkable. I can only imagine what it would look like on the feet of the one it was meant for. And if rumors are to believed,” she continues, “the shoes’ beauty weren’t even the most marvelous aspect of the lady herself.”

Dominic can’t help himself. He smiles. “I can confirm that.”

“Oh?” Doña Rosaline voice takes on a teasing lilt. “And how would you describe the young lady, dear prince?”

“She was kind,” he says, almost unthinkingly. There are many things he could have said of her, but her kindness is what lingers in his mind the most, is what made her beauty more revelation than ornamentation. His first breathtaking sight of the lady was her descent down the staircase in all her gorgeous glory. His second was her approaching him with a platter of food and not a whit of guile in her eyes, saying shyly that he looked like he was hungry. She’d been right; he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day out of nervousness.

“Will you look for her?”

“What?” he says, snapping out of his reverie.

“I assumed that was why you were asking,” Doña Rosaline says. She is grinning. “I wasn’t at the ball myself, Your Grace, but I’ve heard what others are saying of you, and I’m glad, if you forgive the presumption. After everything that happened with your sister, I am truly happy that you’ve found-“

“I think you misunderstand, Doña,” he says, holding up his hand. “I was concerned about her, is all.”

“Concerned?”

“When it occurred to me that the fae might have had her in their thrall,” he says. 

There were other things, as well. Little things, like how she flinched at the chamberlain’s loud voice, how she startled when he first raised his hand to lead her through a dance, as if she expected to be struck instead. Like how she recognized his hunger because she was clearly starving just the same.

“But that’s no matter,” he says. “The lady must be fine, if she has a fairy looking after her.” That ought to quell his persistent little anxieties over whether she is eating enough.

“Perhaps,” Doña Rosaline says, but she looks doubtful.

“You disagree?”

“If the fairy isn’t tricking her,” Doña Rosaline says, “then they are gifting her something that she needs.”

“She needs little, then, if all that they gave her was access to a party all noble families are invited to,” he points out.

“Perhaps,” she says again.

“She did not ask for help,” Prince Dominic says.

“Did you offer?” she asks pointedly.

“Of course.”

The old artisan raises her eyebrows. “And she refused?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. He is fairly certain that running away counted as refusal. “Aside from that, she had every opportunity to ask for assistance and she did not. Coupled with what you’ve told me, I can only conclude that there is no imminent threat that looms over her.”

“Danger can take many forms, Your Grace.”

“I know.” Oh, how he knew. He can feel the judging eyes of the Spanish from beyond the seas, staring greedily at him and his kingdom. “Yet I cannot drop everything to save one damsel, Doña. Not if she didn’t ask for it.”

“True enough, young prince,” Doña Rosaline allows. “But aren’t there other reasons why you would wish to look for her?”

The way she made him laugh uproariously, while remaining utterly unmoved by his puns. The warmth her presence and conversation brought him. The hours they spent, the first time he could remember he felt truly carefree since his parents died and his relationship with his sister turned sour.

“None that matter, Doña,” he says finally.

_ _ _

So why is it that, three weeks after the ball, she is all that he can think about?

He refused to let it show, of course. He had councils to attend—ambassadors to welcome—marriage contracts to assess. He needed an alliance with a country large enough to keep Spain at bay – a grand task, considering the few countries who were willing to even recognize the Islands as a nation, rather than a land full of savagery and witchcraft – and his hand in marriage is the simplest way to ensure the fidelity of that alliance without putting his kingdom in danger of another invasion.

Though who is he fooling—they are always in danger of another invasion. Which is why you must redouble your efforts in finding allies, he tells himself.

Which is why he cannot shirk his responsibilities, cannot lose one of the most precious cards he has to play in the game of politics, even for the beautiful, kind, fae-favored girl.

He is trapped.

“Brother?”

He starts, sending the papers he’d been staring at scattering across the floor. If he was not Crown Prince, he thinks he would have liked to swear like a sailor.

Instead, he inhales deep through his nose and stands up, all decorum. “Sister Regine,” he says. He makes sure his tone is firmly under control. “Why were you not announced by my chamberlain?”

“I was. You were the one still gaping at your papers like an idiot,” she replies bluntly.

Not for the first time, Prince Dominic wonders how the sisters of Saint Sofia – an order that was known to prioritize gentleness, peace, and humility – deal with his sharp-tongued older sibling. He supposes there are a lot of prayers for patience involved. He sighs, rifling a hand through his long hair. “The papers…”

“I’ll help you organize them,” she says, already stooping to the ground.

“You’re not supposed to be able to read them anymore,” he says tiredly.

“Or what? You’ll clap me in a tower again?” She smirks. “I guarantee that would be more comfortable than my room at the priory.”

“Only because you could convince Captain Bernard to bring you anything you wanted.”

“He always had a sweet spot for me,” she preens.

It is more than that, both of them knew. There is no etiquette in how to deal with a queen turned prisoner turned novitiate, especially since she is still technically the queen until she takes her final vows.

But they do not talk about that.

Her long habit makes a pool of coarse blue cloth around her as she bundles papers into her arms. “Anyway, Your Majesty,” she says, all razor-sharp exaggeration at the honorific, “That is not why I am here.”

“You didn’t just want to see me?” His hurt is not entirely feigned. He grabs a receipt that has somehow lodged itself between Pinuno: From Datu to Constitutional Monarchy and 1670: La Revolución de Las Islas.

“Heavens, no. Do you understand how hard it is to get here?”

“I had taken pains to ensure you always have access to me,” he says. Despite everything.

She shoots him a look. “You are not the problem, brother. The prioress loathes having me leave the grounds—for good reason, I suppose. No matter.”

“Yes, matter,” he says. He is fighting to keep his breath even. “You’re supposed to be able to-“

“Not the reason I’m here,” she sings.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Why are you here, Regine?”

“Haven’t you heard, dear brother?” she asks. “My sisters are a-buzz with the rumors, and you must know how difficult it is to get them to gossip—which means the entire kingdom must be talking it. Apparently, our very own honorable, practical, darling Prince Dominic is in-“

“I am not in love!” he snaps.

Regine pauses, her jaw slackening. Then a truly evil grin spreads across her mouth. “I was going to say,” she says, “in search for a mystery girl. But that works, too.”

Prince Dominic’s cheeks burn. “I am not in love,” he enunciates carefully, though he knows it’s hopeless. As far as Regine is concerned, he has already dug his grave. “And I am not looking for her.”

“Why not?” she asks airily.

He splutters. “Why not?” he repeats. “Why not?”

When it comes to duty, they have always been so many worlds apart.

“You still haven’t grown out of babbling when you’re confused, hm?”

“Because I am required to marry a princess!” he yells. He stands up, papers forgotten, even breathing be damned. “Because I am the de facto ruler of this kingdom and whether I like it or not, whether I want to or not, every aspect of my life must be devoted to ensuring its security! Because I am the only one left,” he says, and his voice breaks, “and if I don’t do it, no one else will.”

Then he sobs outright, a hand covering his eyes.

_ _ _

The first and last time he’d spoken this truth that he had long buried in his heart was the night of the ball.

He hadn’t meant to unbridle his tongue. It hadn’t been his parents’ fault that they’d died, after all, and his sister—well, it was hard on her, turning from the blithe heir to the burdened head of the family overnight. It had been understandable, that she hadn’t wanted to face it. He had been the one who had chosen to act. He had taken the responsibility, and so consequently had to face it forever alone.

So why did he find himself spilling his guts to this beautiful stranger?

It was unseemly. It was embarrassing.

But she was so very easy to talk to; and when he began to apologize for his impropriety, she stoppered his flow of words with a gaze full of understanding. “I know what it’s like,” she said, “to be the one left behind and alone.” Her eyes lowered, her cheeks pink. “To be angry about it, sometimes.”

They were out on the balcony—far from the prying eyes and ears of the court, though he knew there would be whispers once they noticed his absence. For once, he hadn’t a care about that. Just as he hadn’t a care or thought about anything when he took the lady’s hand. “Not alone anymore, I hope.”

“Not right now, at least.” She twined their fingers together.

“Not ever again!” he declared recklessly, though he knew he wasn’t in any position to make promises like that. “Tell me about yourself now, lady stranger. We’ve spent so long in each other’s company and you’ve refused to tell me a thing. Though to be fair, I suppose I’ve barely asked.” He shook his head at himself. “What kind of prince am I?”

He’d expected a bump of his shoulder, a roll of her eyes. Instead, the lady’s smile faded. “Prince?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the prince?”

“Yes, of course—you didn’t know?” She had arrived late and had missed the proclamation, and they had dispensed with calling each other by any name as a game, but he hadn’t believed she didn’t know who he was that entire time. Hadn’t known she was getting to know him as Dominic, rather than the prince. He was flabbergasted.

And she looked devastated. She pulled her hand away from his. “If you were just a noble, maybe,” she murmured to herself. “But a prince…”

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She forced a smile on her face. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t give me that,” he begged her. “Something’s wrong. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-I just…I had hoped to see you again.”

“Whyever not?” He made to take her hand once more, but restrained himself at the last second. “I would very much like that as well.”

“I don’t think you would, Your Majesty. Not if you knew who I really was.”

“I know who you are.” In the weeks to come, he would doubt this; he’d put it down to his chronic sleep deprivation, the heady night air, enchantment. But in that moment, he felt as close to her as someone he’d known all the days of his life.

“You do?” She sounded afraid.

“Yes. You, my dear lady stranger,” he says, “are the funniest person I’ve ever met.” This, finally, got the fond eyeroll. “Really, you are hilarious. Yet you’re honest enough to tell me when I’m not.”

“It was only the puns,” she protested.

“You are determined,” he continued. “You said you would finish the platter of stuffed pan de sal and by God, I have never seen anyone eat so much so fast. That’s a compliment, by the way,” he said to her reddening cheeks. “It was a marvel.”

“You had it right the first time, Your Majesty. For a prince, your manners are deplorable.”

“You’re also extremely kind,” he added.

“Deplorable!” she exclaimed.

“Really.” He stretched out his hand, giving her the choice, and after a beat she laced her fingers with his again. “When you see someone requires assistance, no matter who they are, whether or not they themselves know it, you take action. Even when you clearly need help yourself.”

“I don’t-“

“You have not told me much of your family, my lady, but from what I’ve gathered you are in a rather unhappy situation. Please,” he said, “let me help you. I promise to stand by you no matter what happens, wherever you come from, whatever your name is. Just say the word.”

The lady seemed torn. In the bright, pale moonlight, away from the glitter and ornaments of the ballroom, her masterpiece of a dress seemed to be just a shade more quotidian, her elfin features less otherworldly and more tremendously human as she bit her lip and decided. It made him fall for her all the more. “I,” she said, and stopped herself. She cleared her throat. “My name is…I mean. I-I’m-“

“It’s alright,” he said gently.

She squeezed his hand, as if asking for courage. He squeezed back. “My name is-“

Then the clock struck midnight.

_ _ _

“She’s a commoner, isn’t she?” Regine asks.

For a moment, Prince Dominic did not answer, lost for a time in the way his sister stroked his hair soothingly. She had strode across the room and insisted he sit down on the plush couch, and then laid his head on her lap, just as she did when the doctors gave them the news that their parents died of the plague. When he finally found his voice, he says dully, “Yes.”

It is the logical conclusion. Why had it been such a miracle for her to go to a party? Why did she need a member of the fae to magic her improbable glass shoes, and perhaps the rest of her lovely attire?

Why was she so afraid to let him know who she was?

It would take another miracle to see her again, let alone to offer her what he wished. “So why am I still hoping?” he whispers. Then he curses himself, realizing that he spoke out loud.

But Regine does not tease. She gives a soft, almost resigned sigh. “Because, dear brother,” she says, “you are a person who loves deeply and truly. You are that, as well as a good and kind king.”

He snorts.

“It’s true,” she says, rueful. “You’re a much better ruler than I ever could have been. You knew from the start that being a leader was more burden than privilege, and I—I never completely grasped that. Not until I was called by God and realized how selfish I’d been.” She ruffles his hair again. “You were right to stage that coup against me.”

“Sister,” he says, but she shakes her head.

“But even if I was selfish,” she says, her eyes bright, “I still know enough about statecraft to comprehend the state of our kingdom, both when I ruled and even more so after the stability you brought to the Islands. And what I know is that we are not in peril.” She looks at him. “You do not need to give your hand out of desperation, brother.”

“But Spain is still watching us-“

“They will always be watching us,” she says disdainfully. “Their precious former colony that rose up against them, foolish and still in need of their oh-so-enlightened help and guidance. Whatever we do, they will always be looking for a chance to snatch us up again.”

“So what do we do?” he asks. His voice sounds small.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “And, selfishly, I am glad that burden is no longer on my shoulders.”

“Thanks, Regine,” he mutters.

She flicks his nose.

“Huy!”

“I have not abandoned you,” she says. “I will not abandon you. I am here beside you, Dominic, and from now on I promise to give you whatever advice you need.”

“And what advice is that, dear sister?”

“That you remember we cannot, as a nation or as people, live on fear alone. And that you must remember you are a leader as well as a ruler, Dom. Your kingdom is watching how you make your choice, and will be led by how you make it.”

“What choice?”

“What to do,” she says, “when love beckons you.”

_ _ _

He goes with them, of course. It would have been out of the question to get a significant portion of the guard to go through this wild goose chase without him at the helm, albeit in plain soldier’s clothes so as to obscure his identity. To begin with, they were to fit the glass slipper on every maiden within each invited household.

He felt like sinking into the floor when he made this proposal in the council room, even with his sister by his side. And indeed, they had all looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

None of them protested, though. Even when he told them of his intentions.

Some of them even looked—excited. As if they were genuinely thrilled their future queen was going to be chosen in this way.

“It’s because they trust you,” Regine said after the meeting. “And they want you to be happy.”

“If you say so,” he said, still bemused.

And so they went.

Household after household, family after family, maiden after maiden until Dominic had seen more than enough feet he had ever wanted to encounter in his lifetime.

Then they get to the capital city's outskirts.

The two young ladies residing in the last mansion before the gates try and fail. Their mother, of grand bearing and clad in even grander skirts, glares at them as if it is their fault. He and the company of guard bow, take their leave, when—

“Wait.”

Prince Dominic turns.

And there she is. Clad in dirty old rags, hair in disarray, fists clenched and bare feet looking half-ready to bolt any minute. But her voice is steady, calm and familiar, when she says, “I would like to try the slipper on.”

The lady of the house hisses, “You are nothing but a scullery maid! What right do you-“

“Every right,” Prince Dominic says, stepping forward. “The prince proclaimed every maiden in each invited household.”

When he turns his gaze at the lady, she has paled. She recognizes him, too.

She glances at the door. He swallows at the lump in his throat, knowing that if she runs, he must take the rejection for what it is.

But she does not run. Instead, she gives him a short, polite curtsy, walks forward, and seats herself delicately on the coach. She is taking long, calming breaths.

He kneels down. “It’s alright,” he tells her again, even more gently than before.

“It’s you,” she whispers. Her eyes are bright with tears.

He smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

Her mouth twists a little. “Cinderella.”

He notices the spray of ashes on her cheeks. Remembers how she never did like puns.

“My stepmother was right,” she says in a sudden rush. “I am nothing but a scullery maid—worse than that, really. I have no status in life, no claim to anything or anyone. I have nothing worthwhile to offer you.”

“Alright,” he says.

“Alright?” she repeats with an incredulous laugh. She lowers her voice. “You are known to be a wise ruler, you know. They say you never make a decision without considering it twice, thrice, and once more for good measure.”

“I don’t think I’m as hesitant as that,” Dominic protests lightly. “But yes. I do like being sure of my choices.”

“So why, my dear, famously pragmatic Prince Dominic, are you here?”

He slides the slipper onto her foot. It’s a perfect fit.

“Cinderella.” He says her name with so much soft reverence she cannot help but blush. He offers her his hand. “I think you know.”

/ / /

A/N: Written for the @inklings-challenge's Four Loves Fairytale Challenge! I'd love to know what you think of the story, if you have time to comment/tag. Either way, I hope you enjoyed, and I look forward to reading everyone's entries!

Also: Because I didn't outright say it in the story (and because it's very important to me), this story is set in an alternate history/fantasy Philippines <3

[lydiahosek]

Godmother

[My story for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge. Thank you very much for hosting!]

Once upon a time, a woman lay on her deathbed in despair. She had hope of eternal life but still was sad to leave the world. She was sad to leave her beloved and loving husband without a wife. Most of all, she was sad to leave her little daughter without a mother. With her last breaths, she whispered, “Watch over her…let her be happy.”

Little did she know a fairy was among those who heard.

Fairies commonly kept watch over human affairs in those days. Being immortal, births and deaths especially fascinated them. They were forbidden to interfere or make themselves known – doing so had led to disaster in the past. Even so, every once in a while a fairy would take an interest (either mischievous or benevolent) in a human and pursue it. They worked in little ways – leading game to a hungry hunter or hiding a favorite necklace from a vain lady. This sort of thing was generally understood and overlooked. Those who took it too far, though, were never seen again.

This fairy, whose name was Avellana, was invisible to the family gathered in the little room, but she heard the desperation in the mother’s voice and saw the tears on the daughter’s face. She had marveled at the love between parent and child more than anything over all her years of observation. She saw now an opportunity to honor it.

The little girl, whose name was Marielle, mourned alongside her father. Avellana let them be for the first weeks – the trifles she could provide would do little to lift them out of it. One afternoon, though, again concealed from sight, she returned to the house to find Marielle listlessly gathering the hazelnuts that had fallen from the tree in the backyard. She was kneeling on the ground and did not get back up even after all of the nuts had been collected. Avellana thought about other little girls she had seen and what sort of things made them happy. Glancing at the nearby wood, she had an inspiration.

In the blink of an eye she was fifty paces deep into the wood in a thick cluster of trees. In the middle of these trees was a warren. She crouched down to it and found what she sought – a family of rabbits. She beckoned and the largest one hopped out. She led it through the trees, out of the wood, straight to the edge of the yard where Marielle still knelt. Then she bid it wait there until the girl noticed her visitor.

Marielle looked up and gasped as she met the rabbit’s eyes. She was gentle by nature and had been taught to be gentle with nature, so she kept very still, much as she would have loved to rise and stroke the rabbit’s soft gray fur. And when Avellana let the rabbit do as it pleased, it actually hopped closer to the girl, sniffing at the grass and tiny wildflowers, before returning to its home.

Marielle stared after it and Avellana stared at Marielle. Perhaps she had expected too much – she had never done anything like this before – but she couldn’t tell if the encounter had made any difference at all.

Marielle’s father called her inside for supper. Avellana followed and watched the pair eat in silence for some time. Then Marielle spoke up: “I saw a rabbit outside.”

Marielle’s father smiled faintly. “Oh? There haven’t been any around in a few years. Well, except for…” He nodded his head toward the ceiling.

Marielle nodded back. She wondered aloud whether it would return and they began discussing ways to make it and its family feel welcome.

Puzzled, Avellana looked up at the ceiling, then guessed that Marielle’s father had been indicating something on the second floor of the house. In the blink of an eye she was in the room exactly above where they still sat - a bedroom. On the bed sat a rabbit made of cloth with shiny button eyes. I’ll give my left wing if Marielle’s mother didn’t make that for her, she thought. Satisfied, she returned to the fairy world.

*

Things went on in that way for a few years. Avellana continued to visit other human households with other fairies, but every few weeks she would check in on Marielle by herself. The girl and her father had decided to plant a garden, and while that same rabbit never called on her again, it attracted countless other creatures – bees and butterflies drank nectar from the flowers, mice and hedgehogs hid among (and sampled from) the berry bushes and the vegetable patch. They even dug a small pond at the far end of the yard, where human and animal travelers alike could stop to drink. Marielle stayed outside to watch the activity whenever she could.

Avellana always left a gift of some kind. She persuaded the berries to grow larger and sweeter just as Marielle made ready to pick them. She showed the birds what a lovely place for a nest the hazel tree would make. She mended a tear in Marielle’s dress before it was even noticed. She was pleased with herself – the girl was kindhearted and hardworking and it was a delight to bring such little niceties into her life now and again.

One day Avellana’s friends urged her to join them – they were on their way to see a human wedding. Avellana was surprised to see that it happened to be in Marielle’s village. She was even more surprised to see that it was Marielle’s father getting married! Marielle stood at his side at the front of the church. Next to his new bride stood two girls about Marielle’s age. Well, Avellana thought, Marielle will have a new mother, and two sisters besides! Now she understood – her role had been to watch over the girl until someone else arrived to take her place. It would be bittersweet – she had enjoyed her visits to the house – but such was the difference between the fairy and human worlds, the one constant and the other ever-changing. She supposed that was one reason it was discouraged for the two to cross paths.

But while she no longer considered herself needed by her, eventually Avellana simply missed Marielle. She had never followed one human’s life so closely for so long, and others, despite their novelty, didn’t seem as interesting. She wanted to know how Marielle fared. She wanted to know how the garden fared. Most of all, she wanted to know how her father’s new wife fared as Marielle’s stepmother. She decided that it wouldn’t hurt to drop by one evening and take a look.

When she arrived, the house was quiet and the family was eating supper – well, most of them were. Marielle’s stepmother sat at the head of the table, with one of her daughters on either side of her. Marielle sat at the other end, and Avellana couldn’t be sure, but it looked like her portion of food was smaller than the others’. But where was her father? In the blink of an eye Avellana was in the next room, then the next, until she reached the master bedroom. There she saw him lying in bed, asleep but trembling, a thin sheen of sweat upon his brow. A horrible foreboding settled in Avellana’s heart. She pulled the blankets tighter around him. It seemed to help, but, she reflected, what did she really know about this sort of thing? Worried, she returned to the fairy world.

*

All too soon, her premonition was realized. She stood invisible in the back of the room as Marielle’s father breathed his last. Great as the girl’s sorrow had been for the death of her mother, the Marielle of that night would have looked cold compared to this one. She sobbed, clutching her father’s hands and begging him not to go long after he had. Above them both stood her stepmother, who would have looked cold compared to a block of ice. She told Marielle to shut her trap before she woke her stepsisters, who were asleep in their own bedroom down the hall.

So Marielle mourned her father alone. This time, Avellana could barely stand to wait a week before returning to the house, and once there she felt it had not been soon enough. She found Marielle stirring a large pot of porridge while her stepfamily sat at the table, waiting. She watched the girl fill three bowls and set them down on the table, then stand to the side anxiously. She heard one stepsister complain that there was not enough sugar, the other that there were too many lumps. The stepmother had only to give Marielle a look and she was scrambling back to the kitchen to start the recipe over.

Avellana began visiting the house more and more often, for the stepfamily’s cruelty to Marielle grew greater and greater. She had been made into a servant in her own home. Her stepmother bid her cook every meal, clean every room, mend every piece of clothing. Her own daughters did no work and paid no attention to Marielle except to occasionally amuse themselves by teasing her or blaming her for minor calamities like a crack in a teacup. Her stepmother believed every word they said and then some, and not a day passed but she scolded Marielle for something or other. If Marielle washed the windows quickly, she was told she was being sloppy. If she took her time to work carefully, she was called lazy. Such offenses always carried harsh punishments, too. Denial of food was a favorite. Another was the immediate undoing of whatever chore Marielle had just completed, so that it had to be redone – a bowl of soup emptied onto a freshly-polished floor, for example.

One particularly awful night, in response to some perceived slight, her stepmother snatched her cloth rabbit from her bed, brought it downstairs, and threw it into the fire. Marielle tried to rescue the keepsake, but it was too late. She stayed curled at the fireside weeping until she fell asleep. Restoring the rabbit or even bringing the sleeping girl upstairs would have raised too much suspicion, but Avellana at least coaxed the fire to stay lit and keep the girl warm until sunrise. When she woke, however, she found that one of her stepsisters had claimed her bedroom for herself. “You were obviously perfectly comfortable by the fire,” her stepmother said. “There’s no sense in my daughters continuing to share a room when another one is available. Is there?”

Rather than be denied breakfast for being senseless, Marielle answered quietly, “No, ma’am.”

The fireplace, then, became Marielle’s place in the same way a cupboard is a broom’s. She slept there every night and sat there every day to eat her meager meals. When there was nothing else to be done around the house, her stepmother bid her clean it, a job that was never truly finished and the residue of which never fully left Marielle’s skin or hair or clothes. “Look at her,” the stepsisters said, “Soon she’ll be nothing but one big cinder.” The three left off even using her name, referring to her instead as “Cinder-girl”.

Things went on in that way for several years. Avellana visited practically every day, but now she had to be doubly careful – not to give herself away, and not to accidentally make things even worse for Marielle. She sent cool breezes through the house when Marielle was bent over steaming tubs of laundry. She caused the floorboards to creak so that Marielle would look down just before she would have stepped on a stray pin. She told the birds to fly to the window nearest the fireplace and sing – and this she had to do only once, for Marielle smiled and laid crumbs from her own plate on the sill to say thank you. They were regular visitors from then on. Inspired, Marielle then took to leaving tiny scraps at the doorway and so made friends with the mice from the garden as well.

Marielle was Avellana’s new greatest marvel of humanity. She had seen others give ill treatment back for far less than what Marielle had endured, or for nothing at all. Marielle shrank in her stepmother’s presence and scurried at the sound of her voice, but otherwise took any opportunity to smile, to share, to receive of or contribute to the beauty of the world. Avellana would give her any opportunity she could.

One day, though, back in the fairy world, a friend of Avellana’s pulled her aside. “This must not continue,” she said. “Do not fool yourself into believing nobody has noticed.”

Avellana saw no harm in playing innocent. “Noticed what?”

“Your fixation on the little cinder-girl that lives on the edge of the wood.”

“Don’t call her th-"

“You see?”

Avellana was silent.

“They live such short lives. One way or another her suffering will end,” she said in a way that chilled Avellana’s heart. “In the meantime, you are endangering yourself. You are endangering all of us. Sooner or later she will realize she is being favored and wonder why and by whom. When they learn of our power, they want it for themselves. When they cannot have it, they seek to control us or destroy us, and in their efforts they destroy themselves. You see? You are endangering even her.”

Avellana’s wings bristled with indignation, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “That is not her way. And I have kept the both of us safe for more than half her life.”

“Look at how you started and see how it has grown. Do you believe things will never worsen for her again? They will. And when they do you will not be satisfied with berries and breezes. You will do something irreversible, something she cannot attribute to a caprice of nature or her own forgetfulness. And when you do, rather than risk their discovery of us, you will be forced to pay the price.” She placed her hands on Avellana’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You see? I fear for you.”

Avellana saw, and she saw this was not a fear of the unknown. “What – "

“You will be cast out of our world. You will lose your power. You will live as a human, grow old, and one day, you will die.”

Every word was a blow, but the last was a dagger. Death – foreign to fairies and feared above all else by humans. What misery it caused them, as Avellana and her friends had witnessed time and again. What misery it had wrought in Marielle’s life, and she was not even the one who had died. And what of those who did? No more to work in and move through and partake of the world, no more to be with the ones they loved. Avellana’s entire body trembled.

“You see? Better to end it now, before you are lost completely.” And with that, she left.

*

It was weeks before Avellana made another trip to the human world, and then only to other villages. Her friends were glad that she had apparently seen reason, but she herself knew no peace, plagued by the thought of Marielle abandoned. Eventually, she could bear it no longer and returned to the house. She told herself that she would do nothing but look in on her, for both of their sakes. After all, she would be no good at all to Marielle if she died, would she? And surely she didn’t have to give her up entirely. She told herself that from now on she would only visit as often as she had when Marielle was a little girl, and only leave gifts in extreme circumstances (ignoring the extreme circumstances that made up Marielle’s everyday life). She was a young woman now, and a strong one at that. She would persevere.

In that case, though, why was she returning at all?

She arrived at early evening - the same time as, of all things, a royal carriage. A herald in a blue uniform and holding a scroll leapt out, marched to the front door, and knocked. Marielle, of course, was the one to answer and accept the message. She brought it to the parlor, where her stepmother was sitting with a cup of tea.

She turned to Marielle. “Well?’ she said sharply, but her eyes widened when she saw the royal seal on the scroll. She snatched it from Marielle’s hands and tore it open. Skimming its contents, she called her daughters to the room to hear the news: The king, queen, and prince were to host a ball at the royal palace. Every member of the kingdom was invited, and every maiden of marriageable age was especially encouraged to attend. The stepsisters began squealing and chattering in excitement. Their mother quieted them just long enough to announce, “Tomorrow we go to town.” Turning to Marielle, with a thin smile, she added, “I will be ordering three new dresses from the tailor’s shop.” Marielle’s smile put the setting sun to shame.

Oh, what could be more perfect! Avellana thought. A ball! Even Marielle’s stepmother, it appeared, could not ignore a royal proclamation and would not deprive her of her right to go. A night of festivity for her, at last! A new dress for her, at last! (Marielle had had no new clothes since her father died – she simply added more and more patches to her childhood things as she grew or wore them out.) And once there, she could meet new people – perhaps a business owner to whom she could apprentice herself? Perhaps a young man to whom she could endear herself? Bah – she could even hide in some corridor until morning and then pass herself off as a palace servant. It would still be a better life than this. Yes, the ball would be not only her respite but her rescue. She would be happy, Avellana could rest easy, and all would be well.

Avellana did not visit again until the night of the ball. There was no doubt in her mind that she would see Marielle off into her new life, whatever form it took. She even considered granting her one last gift, a sort of farewell, and giddily wondered what it would be. When the time came, she would know what was right.

A hired coach sat in the road and the bustle of last-minute preparations filled the house. The front door opened and the two stepsisters sauntered to the coach in their new finery. But then Avellana heard the stepmother’s voice coldly say “Goodnight” before she followed them out. Of course – the third new gown had been for her! She had never intended to bring Marielle to the ball at all but pretended to simply to mock her! Avellana could have ripped both her wings off for not realizing it before. She wondered how long Marielle had known.

Not very, it appeared, or perhaps their departure simply reopened the wound, for as soon as the coach was out of sight, the back door burst open and Marielle ran from the house to the hazel tree, where she collapsed in tears. In the blink of an eye Avellana was standing over her, and it was all she could do not to wrap her arms around the shuddering figure.

This…this was too much. Or rather, it had been too much from the beginning, and Avellana only now understood. The stepmother would never change. This must not continue...Her friend’s words of warning rang in her head, but Marielle’s cries were louder.

Avellana took a step back and thought. If she had her way she would transform the house into a palace of Marielle’s own, with full wardrobes and feather beds and gardens and menageries and banquets every night, and with the stepfamily forbidden to enter. If the fairy world had its way she would do nothing at all. There had to be something in between.

Marielle was still huddled against the tree, sniffling, by the time Avellana decided. So as not to frighten her, she stood about ten paces away. She summoned a rabbit from the wood to the base of the tree and waited for Marielle to notice it.

“Hello there,” she said, wiping her eyes and trying to smile. “A little late for you to be out, isn’t it?’ Avellana called the rabbit back in her direction and Marielle’s eyes followed it. Just before they reached her, Avellana removed her layer of invisibility.

What she hadn’t expected about allowing herself to be seen was how differently she would see. The moon and stars were covered by clouds this night, but even so - it was as if she had always looked at the human world through a veil, and now the veil was lifted. Perhaps in making herself visible she had already sealed her fate, but perhaps not. She was here not to do anything permanent, only to restore things to how they should have been in the first place. And Marielle deserved to know that it was due not to luck or chance, but because there was someone who chose it. Avellana’s heart leapt as Marielle’s eyes met hers for the first time.

“Oh, my dear girl.” The words were out before Avellana could stop them.

Marielle remained frozen in place, her eyes wide and jaw slack. “Who are you?”

Avellana had wondered about how to explain herself, but then she remembered a human word she had heard often over the years. She now only hoped she was not completely unworthy of it. “I’m your godmother.”

*

“I…have a fairy for a godmother?”

Avellana could see the questions multiplying in her head and knew she had to stave them off. “We haven’t much time.” She moved toward her slowly. “Do you still wish to go to the ball?”

This broke her out of her awe. She looked down, almost embarrassed, then up, close to crying again. “More than anything.”

“Well, then that is what you shall do!”

Marielle rose to her feet with caution, not taking her eyes from Avellana. “I have nothing to bargain w-“

“No bargain. A gift.” She couldn’t help but grin as Marielle blinked in confusion. “But I cannot create out of nothing. Now...” She surveyed the yard. The largest thing in it was a pumpkin from the vegetable patch. “Roll that into the road for me, will you please?”

Marielle instantly obeyed, and Avellana chided herself for giving her yet another task. But the less she did herself the better, and she still had plenty to do. In the blink of an eye she was in the branches of the hazel tree. She woke one of the birds and sent it to sit on top of the pumpkin. Then she was in the garden and sent four mice and two hedgehogs to the road as well.

She joined Marielle and the odd assembly in the road and advised her to stand back. Then she commanded the pumpkin to grow and change. Its rind became gold, its vines curled into wheels, and it was soon a carriage grander than the one Marielle’s stepfamily had ridden away in. In the same way she turned the mice into horses to draw it, the bird into a human to drive it, and the hedgehogs into humans to serve as footmen.

Marielle was still gaping at this when Avellana said “Now you.” With a strong gust of wind she whisked every last bit of ash and grime from Marielle’s body and arranged her hair in a flattering style. Then she spoke to the threadbare clothing and bid it become a gold and silver gown that would be the finest at any fairy ball, let alone a human one. And the shoes – the shoes were her masterpiece. Marielle’s had deteriorated to thin straps of leather held in place by frayed strings. Avellana turned them into slippers made of glass and trimmed with gold, sparkling with every movement.

“It’s just a shame they’ll be hidden beneath the skirts,” Marielle said with admiration. She twirled about, poked one foot out from under the hem, twirled about again.

“A far greater beauty has been kept hidden and unappreciated…Marielle,” Avellana added, for when was the last time she had heard herself called by her name? She stopped mid-twirl and blushed, smiling shyly.

Avellana began shepherding her toward the carriage. One of the former-hedgehog footmen opened the door with a pleasant if vacant expression. “Now, there is one more thing, very important. As the day begins anew so must everything else. At the twelfth stroke of midnight, all will return to its former state.” This was a common trick among fairies who liked toying with humans. The recipient of such a gift would go to sleep drunk on his good fortune and wake to find his pocketful of jewels (re)turned to pebbles. “You must be out of sight when this happens.” This would still give Marielle hours at the ball, which she would surely put to good use. The evidence of Avellana’s involvement would be destroyed, and there would be no witnesses (besides Marielle) of its destruction. Avellana started to feel hopeful. What grounds would there be to punish her?

Marielle nodded as the other foothog helped her into the carriage. “I promise…and thank you…but…why?” And Avellana knew she was not asking about the direction she had just been given.

Oh, of all the questions to slip out, this was the most difficult to answer! Avellana hesitated, then simply leaned through the carriage window and kissed her on the forehead. The two beamed at each other for a long moment, then Avellana whispered “Go.”

The bird-turned-driver heard her and the carriage glided off into the night. Avellana hid herself from sight once more – her own vision slightly clouded once more – and followed it all the way to the palace, every now and again looking in to see Marielle watch the village rush past her or soothe her happy nerves by smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress. By the time they arrived everyone else was inside and had been for some time. Marielle stayed in the carriage to take a few deep breaths, then burst out and strode up the palace steps with joyful determination.

The grand ballroom was full to the brim, with only just enough empty space in the center for dancing. Avellana noticed several fairies along the back walls and in corners and tried to carry herself as blithely as any of them. Marielle moved through the crowd, leaving a trail of turned heads and whispers in her wake. Nobody recognized the beautiful latecomer in the stunning dress, but she greeted everyone who met her eyes – “Hello!” “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” “What a lovely cravat!” – as she made her way to the buffet.

She stood at the table sampling every dish, swaying to the music and taking in the grandeur of the room and its occupants. As she reached for the last pastry on one of the trays, her hand collided with another. She looked up to see a young man on the other side of the table, looking at her. For a moment they both completely forgot about the food.

“…Oh! –"

“Pardon me, I –"

Each insisted the other have the pastry until Marielle took it and tore it down the middle, a thread of chocolate cream stretching between the two halves. She offered one to him and he took it, laughing. When both halves were eaten, he asked if she would care to dance.

They were inseparable the rest of the night. They were partners for the next dozen dances, until he noticed more than a few envious pairs of eyes on them. Then he offered to show her the palace gardens. On the way he asked a servant to notify his mother and father that he had stepped out for air. The servant answered “Yes, Your Highness”, which was how Marielle learned that she had caught the eye of the prince.

Avellana was exultant. Marielle deserved nothing less, and she looked happier than Avellana had ever seen her. She kept watch over the pair as they strolled past lush flowerbeds and navigated the hedge maze. They remained hand-in-hand even after sitting to rest beneath a statue of one or another of his ancestors.

None of them realized how much time was passing until the palace clock tower began the first of twelve chimes signaling midnight.

Marielle sprang up, stammered out a few apologetic words, and took off running for the main entrance. The prince sat stunned and confused for a few seconds, then tried to follow, but Marielle had a head start and the gap between them only widened.

Tears of panic and regret were already glinting in her eyes. The clock tower was the oldest structure in the kingdom and it would be almost a minute before its bells sounded twelve times, which helped, but not by much. Her dress, her carriage – everything was going to dissolve into nothing and leave her a stranded cinder-girl once more. She could only hope the kindest, most charming man she had ever met didn’t see it happen. As she sped down the palace steps she felt herself lose one of her shoes but simply continued, now lopsided, until she reached the golden carriage. It was rolling away before the prince even reached the top of the steps.

Oh! – bless her obedient little heart!! Avellana thought in anxious frustration. Marielle was going right back to that house, right back to that life, and it would weigh on her all the more now that she had tasted something different. The prince didn’t know where to find her, and even if he did, the night was so dim and she was so changed – would he even recognize her? And yet it was all Avellana’s fault anyway - what else would she have had Marielle do? The clock was already on its tenth chime, and there was no telling what would have come from the dress returning to rags in front of the prince and the entire assembly. As it was, she would have to make sure he didn’t notice the lost shoe on the stairs transforming back into scraps of leather.

Unless…

The clock struck eleven.

Unless it didn’t.

Yes. The slipper was the answer. No one else in the kingdom had its like. No one else had left the ball so early. He would see it and know it had been lost by the lady he had lost. He would organize a search. Once the shoe found its partner, so would the wearer.

The stroke of midnight rang out. With all her might the fairy ordered both slippers to never return to leather, to never become lost or stolen from Marielle or the prince, and to never, never break.

*

In the blink of an eye and a flash of light, Avellana felt her connection to the fairy world severed forever, the veil not only lifted again but torn to shreds.

Well.

…She could attend to that later. But had she done it for nothing? Or had the prince found the slipper? She waited for the light to fade so she could look.

When it didn’t, she realized with mounting horror that it was the sun, which meant it was noon, which meant she was on the other side of the world. As her (human!) eyes adjusted, she saw that she was at a bustling marketplace, filled with people wearing clothes she had never seen before and speaking in a language she didn’t understand. She had been dropped at its edge, where busy shoppers and vendors didn’t notice her sudden appearance.

She half-sat, half-collapsed onto the ground. She could see the logic of it. Remove her from the place where she had already done so much meddling. Give the humans no sign, no explanation, no reward if they tried to investigate. Let them give up and forget. Remain safely undetected. Let her serve as a warning to other fairies be more careful than she had.

The marketplace was near a river. She crawled to its bank, already feeling faint beneath the sun. As she drank she caught her reflection. She was surprised to see that she still looked like herself, and yet her self looked ridiculous in this place. Her robes were already staining with dirt and sweat and the flowers in her hair were already wilting. And her wings, her beautiful wings were gone completely! She drew back to the scant shade of the nearest tree and stayed there until dusk, until nightfall, until the next morning.

Not knowing where else to go, Avellana stayed at the marketplace for weeks. Occasionally a passerby would give her a bit of food or a few coins. Eventually she had picked up enough of the language to earn more by performing small chores for the various vendors – making deliveries and such. Some were kind, others were harsh, but none were even close to Marielle’s stepmother. A merchant who was the stepmother’s opposite in practically every way brought Avellana to his house to join a team of servants. Slowly she learned to cook and wash and mend. She thought of Marielle every day, wondering if she was doing these same tasks or if she escaped her stepfamily. If she was happy.

Avellana preferred the time she spent minding the children. She even assisted with the birth of the youngest, an experience which made every birth she had witnessed as a fairy feel like a barely-remembered dream. The other women told stories to the children and each other as they worked, stories of hapless heroes and cruel tyrants and supernatural creatures, invented on the spot and repeated if they were well-liked. In this way, Avellana felt it safe to share tales from her former life. Everyone’s favorite, though, was the one about the kind and beautiful young woman forced to work as a cinder-girl, who was ultimately rescued and married a prince. Though Avellana knew her words no longer held that kind of power, she would lie down at night, waiting to fall asleep, begging the story to be true.

Things went on in that way for many years. The merchant’s children grew and founded households of their own. Just as Avellana thought she was accustomed to life as a human, she found herself becoming weary more easily and ill more often. She had a store of coins she had saved over the years, in hope of what she now decided she would finally have to try. She ventured to the town library and pored over its collection of maps. She bid farewell to the merchant’s family. She followed the river for months, her coins dwindling as she stopped for food and lodging. At last she reached a port. She asked carefully for every ship’s destination, found what she sought, and secured a place in the galley on a vessel bound for Marielle’s kingdom.

The voyage was long and the work was rough. When she stumbled onto land at its end she nearly wept for joy at the sight of the palace far in the distance. It was still the work of some days to walk there, but something deep within her urged her forward. On a fair, mild day she arrived just as the clock tower was striking noon, which turned out to be not a moment too soon or too late. There, among the dozens of people moving through the grounds, was Marielle, with the man who she met as the prince but who now wore the crest and the crown of a king. They walked hand-in-hand, just as they had done in the gardens all those years ago. Surrounding them were children, many nearly grown. This…this was enough.

Avellana turned to go, she knew or cared not where, but she was only a few steps from the palace gates when she felt her strength spent and fell to the ground.

She heard commotion behind her but could not even turn her head to look. She heard a man’s voice commanding that the gates be opened, she heard two sets of footsteps rapidly approaching, she heard another man say something about “just a beggar” and she heard her Marielle’s voice bidding him be silent. A pair of hands turned Avellana onto her back and there she was, staring down in concern. Changed as they both were by the years and so much else, the concern in her eyes turned to astonishment and recognition. “You!”

She told her husband to bring the children inside. She also told a guard to fetch the physician, but as she looked back down at Avellana she seemed to lose confidence in the idea. Gently as she could, Marielle helped Avellana to sit slightly up, her head resting in her lap.

“Thank you,” Avellana said, her voice crackling like a dwindling fire.

Marielle shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “Thank you…I –“

“Shhh.” Avellana gave a smile. She caught sight of Marielle returning it just as her eyes were starting to flutter closed.

Marielle kissed the old woman on the forehead, looked up to the heavens, and whispered, “Watch over her…let her be happy.”

I have hope that she was heard.

[fictionadventurer]

For February's Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge, I've thrown together some bookmarks featuring illustrations of fairy tales that each feature one of the four loves.

Storge: "The Six Swans" (illustration by Elenore Abbott), for the heroine's efforts to save her brothers

Eros: "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" (illustration by Kay Nielsen), since it features a wife questing to save her husband

Philia: "Tattercoats" (illustration by Arthur Rackham) for the friendship between Tattercoats and the gooseherd

Agape: "The Star Money" (illustration by Victor Paul), since it's about a poor girl who gives away everything to others before receiving her reward.

[dearlittlefandom-stalker]

A Love as Red as Blood

Storge Blanchette’s point of view, age eight

Grandmother is sick. To clarify, Grandmother has been sick for a long while. Ever since…

“Wear this Cloak, my little Blanchette. Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Good girl.”

Grandmother needs food, and Mother is very busy.  So I must wear my Cloak. I must not leave the path. I must not talk to anyone. Grandmother is sick, and I must deliver her food.

The woods are dangerous. Wolves and Wolf-Men prowl within its darkness and await whatever prey is foolish enough to enter into their domain. 

But Grandmother is sick. 

I take up my basket, fasten my Cloak, and set my feet on the road. 

~*~

The Cloak of Gold and Fire. It is a heavy thing, both in physical weight and its burden upon the wearer.  Passed down with great ceremony from one bearer (always a Daughter) to the next.  It is said to have protective abilities for whoever wears it, to bring good luck to the land its wearer sets foot upon. 

Stories have been told of it rejecting some who would have worn it. Stories of it turning into fire that burned the hands of those who attempted to steal it.  So many stories surround the Cloak; some true, some terrible, some good. 

Blanchette prefers the good ones. The ones her Mother and Grandmother told her at bedtime.  The ones that make her feel safe when she cuddles into her Cloak. The ones that remind her that she is loved.  

Regardless of what story you hear, one fact remains certain: the Cloak has a value not conceivable by mortal eyes, and should be valued above measure. 

Wars have been fought for the right to obtain the Cloak.  

Such wars brought ruin to many lands. For those who unduly go to war for such a great thing often find themselves cursed by it: the Cloak is not a thing to be hoarded away. 

And thus the Cloak was “lost”.  The Daughters of the Cloak went into hiding for a time.   

Many witches and other such sorts would craft their own cloak and pretend they were a Daughter of the Cloak.  Some were deceived by these women, but always they were found out and met their gruesome ends. The Cloak is not a thing to be faked. 

And so the Cloak lived on, passed down as it always had been. 

Blanchette’s Grandmother called for her on her fourth birthday and showed her the Cloak.  Blanchette knew at once it was the Cloak, having heard the stories all her life,  and wondered that anyone could mistake any other for it. 

The Cloak is ornately designed, and double-sided.  One side is red as fire; red as blood.  The other side is golden as the sun.  The wearer can choose which side they wish to show to the world, the gold or the red. 

When Blanchette’s Mother fastened the Cloak around her small shoulders for the first time (Grandmother being too weak to properly fasten it) the red side faced outwards. And there Blanchette had stood, about waist-height to all the adults in the room, utterly enveloped by a blood-red Cloak so big on her that she could have used it for a tent. 

And she was safe. 

But safety is not always guaranteed, and adventures must always start somewhere. 

~*~

Philia

On Blanchette’s first journey through the forest separating her village from her grandmothers, she met a boy.  

Not just any boy, but a Wolf-Son.  Wolf-Men are men (criminals, it is often whispered) who make their living in the wild forest.  They are not to be trusted. 

But this Wolf-Son was just a young boy, and she was just a young girl.  He walked alongside her on the path and they were made friends.  When they had to part ways as Blanchette exited the forest, he offered her a handful of red carnations. 

“Rhory. That’s my name.” the Wolf-Son says abruptly after handing her the flowers. He doesn’t quite meet Blanchette’s eyes as he speaks. “I wish you well on your journey. And I hope-” he stops, as if mustering courage, then continues. “I hope you like the flowers!”

I hope I shall see him again, Blanchette thinks to herself, absently smelling the red carnations he had given her. He was quite fun to talk to.

After that day, whenever Blanchette ventured on the path through the forest, Rhory walked with her. 

~*~

Blanchette’s point of view, age twelve

“Halt!” A voice commands, and a tall figure steps out from behind a tree ahead of us. We stop.  The figure is that of a man and he bears no markings as a Wolf-Mam. His stance is imposing and searching, as if he is daring us to take a step closer and find out what he can do to us with his bare hands. “Why are two children traveling alone in the forest?” Before we have a chance to answer, he looks us both up and down and his eyes narrow as if he does not like what he sees. “Who are you?” He demands again. 

I step forward. “He is Rhory, a Wolf-Son. My friend. I am Blanchette, a Daughter of the Cloak.”

“I know a Wolf-Son when I see one, lass.” He says gruffly, suspicion lurking in the downturned corner of his mouth. Beside me, Rhory ducks his head in shame and I feel fire stir within me. “But a Daughter of the Cloak is not so easily determined by sight.” The man continues, eyeing my Cloak distrustfully, perhaps to determine if he thinks it fake or stolen. I swallow my anger -it would do me no good to appear as a child throwing a tantrum to this strange man- and straighten ever so slightly to perhaps seem taller and more mature. To make it seem as though the Cloak I wear is not almost too large for my childish frame and dragging along the forest floor. But what of it, if my Cloak is slightly too big? Does it not cover me all the better for it?

“I inherited the Cloak from my Grandmother.” I say, careful to keep my tone both respectful and confident.  

The man’s eyebrows raise. “Your Grandmother.” he says, doubt coloring his words. “And where is she?”

“She is at home. I am going to see her now.”  She has been at home for a long time, sick. That is why she passed down the Cloak to me so early. 

The man hums doubtfully. “And how do I know you’re not just a thief?” 

“Has the Cloak ever submitted to being worn by someone not of it?” I ask, only slightly petulantly. 

The man shifts back, seemingly satisfied if no less grumpy for it. “I concede you that, miss. But better it’d be for you to keep yourself and the Cloak away from those who might have a want to snatch it.”  He looks pointedly at Rhory, and my face flushes in anger.  

I take Rhory’s hand in my own and practically stomp away from the stupid man and his stupid words, muttering unkind things under my breath. 

“Don’t listen to stupid men like him, Rhory.” I say once I’ve quite recovered myself.  The man must be miles behind us now.  

Rhory tilts his head at me, a small smile gracing his lips. “How could I listen to him when all I can hear is you mocking him?” He laughs, and I have to remind myself that he is laughing at me and that his laugh is not cute why would I think that.

“Well!” I sputter, red returning to my face as it did earlier for a far different reason.  “He was being rude!  And mean!”

Rhory shakes his head. “Overall he wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard worse.”

The silence lingers for a moment.  “You shouldn’t have to, you know.” I say quietly. 

Rhory shrugs. “Eh, well.  You shouldn’t have to walk through the forest alone, yet here we are.” 

I blink. I think of my Grandmother, ill these last eight years of my life, yet always so grateful when I go visit her.  I think of my Mother, always so harried and busy with a neverending list of things to do, yet always pausing her work to give me a smile or press a kiss to my head. 

Yes, I may walk the path alone, but their love walks with me. And besides…  I lift my and Rhory’s still-clasped hands. 

“But I’m not alone, see!” I say, “You’re here with me, aren’t you?”

He smiles at me again, and my heart flutters the teensiest amount. “That I am!”

I nod fiercely. “And that’s the way it should be.”  Suddenly possessed by a spirit of mischief, I let go of his hand and take off at a run. “Race you to the forest’s edge!”

“Blanchette!” he exclaims, and I laugh at his dismayed cries from behind me. He quickly catches up, however, and soon overtakes me, every now and then slowing down just enough to tease me. Both of us are laughing and out of breath when we part ways.  

~*~

In some stories, Little Red Riding Hood walks the path alone. 

She does not meet a friend. 

And the Wolf invades Grandmother’s home

But for this Daughter of the Cloak, I like to think she has a better end. 

Knowing that she carries the love of her family with her

And holding the hand of a friend. 

@inklings-challenge

Hey! It’s a bit of a mess and kinda unfinished but here it is!

[confetti-cat]

Each, All, Everything

Words: 6.5k

Rating: PG

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love, Romantic Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A retelling of Nix, Nought, Nothing.)

The giant’s daughter weeps, and remembers.

—

She remembers the day her father first brought him home.

It was a bit like the times he’d brought home creatures to amuse her while he was on his journeys, away on something he called “business” but she knew was “gathering whatever good of the land he wanted”. Her father had brought back a beautiful pony, once—a small one he could nearly carry in one huge hand. One for her, and not another for his collection of horses he kept in the long stables. She wasn’t as tall as the hills and broad as the cliffs like he was, so she couldn’t carry it easily, but she heaved it up in both arms and tried nonetheless. (And—she thought this was important—stopped trying when it showed fear.) She was gentle to it, and in time, she would only need speak to it and it would come eat from her hand like a tame bird. She’d never been happier.

(The pony had grown fearful of her father. Her father grew angry with anything that wasted his time by cowering or trying to flee him. There was a terrible commotion in the stables one day, and when she sought her pony afterward, she couldn’t find him. Her father told her it was gone, back to the forest, and he’d hear no more of it if she didn’t want beaten.)

(There was a sinking little pit in her stomach that knew. But when she didn’t look for the best in her father, it angered him and saddened her, so she made herself believe him.)

The final little creature he brought one day was so peculiar. It was a human boy, small as the bushes she would sometime uproot for paintbrushes, dressed in fine green like the trees and gold like her mother’s vine-ring she wore. He seemed young, like her. His tuft of brown hair was mussed by the wind, and his dark eyes watched everything around him, wide and unsure and curious.

When he first looked at her from his perch on her father’s shoulder, he stared for a long moment—then lifted a tiny hand in a wave. Suddenly overwhelmed with hope and possibilities (a friend! Surely her father had blessed her with a small friend they could keep and not just a pet!), she lifted her own hand in a little wave and tried to smile welcomingly.

The boy stared for another long moment, then seemed to try a hesitant smile back.

“This,” boomed her father, stooping down in the mist of the morning as he waved away a low cloud with one hand, “is what I rightly bargained for. A prince, very valuable. The King of the South—curse his deceitful aims!—promised him to me.”

“He looks very fancy,” she’d said, eyes wide in wonder. “How did the king come to give him to you, Father?”

“How indeed!” the giant growled, so loud it sent leaves rattling and birds rushing to fly from their trees. He slowly lowered himself to be seated on the weathered cliff behind him and picked up his spark-stone, tossing a few felled trees into their fire-basin and beginning to work at lighting them. “Through lies and deceit from him. When he asked me to carry him across the waters I asked him for Nix, Nought, Nothing in return.”

The little boy shifted, clearly uncomfortable but afraid to move much. Her father scowled, though he meant it as a smile, and bared his yellowed teeth as he laughed.

“Imagine his countenance when he returned to find the son he’d not known he’d had was called Nix, Nought, Nothing! He tried to send servant boys, but I am too keen for such trickery. Their blood is on the hands of the liar who sent them to me.”

Such talk from her father had always unsettled her, even if he said it so forcefully she couldn’t imagine just how it wasn’t right. Judging from the way the boy curled in on himself a little, clinging meekly to her father’s tattered shirt-shoulder, he thought similarly.

“Nix, Nought, Nothing?” She observed the small prince, unsure why disappointment arose in her at the way he seemed hesitant to look at her now. “That is a strange name.”

Her father struck the rocks, the sound of it so loud it echoed down the valley in an odd, uneven manner. He shook his head as he worked, a stained tooth poking out of his lips as he struck it again and again until large sparks began alighting on the wood.

“His mother tarried christening him until the father returned, calling him such instead.” He huffed a chuckle that sounded more like a sneer, seeming to opt to ignore the creature on his shoulder for the time being. “You know the feeling, eh, Bonny girl?”

The boy tentatively looked up at her again.

The fire crackled and began to eat away at the bark and dry pine needles. A soft orange glow began to creep over it, leaving black char as it went. With a sudden, sharp breath by her father, a large flame leapt into the air.

“It is good that she did so. He is Nix, Nought, Nothing—and that he will remain.”

—

Nix Nought Nothing grew to be a fine boy. Her father treated him as well as he did the prized horses he’d taken from knights and heroes—which was to say that the boy was given decent food and a dry place to sleep and the richest-looking clothes a tailor could be terrified into giving them, which was as well as her father treated anything.

Never a day went by that she was not thankful and with joy in her heart at having a friend so near.

They spent many days while her father was away exploring the forest—Nix would collect small rocks and unusual leaves and robin’s-eggs and butterflies, and she would lift him into high trees to look for nests, and sometimes stand in the rivers and splash the waterfalls at him just to laugh brightly at his gawking and laughing and sputtering.

Some days she wished she was more of a proper giant. She wasn’t large enough for it to be very comfortable giving him rides on her shoulder once he’d grown. She was hesitant to look any less strong, however, so she braided her golden curls to keep them from brushing him off and simply kept her head tilted away from him as they walked through the forests together.

He could sit quite easily and talk by her ear as they adventured. Perhaps she would never admit it, but she liked that. Most of the time.

“I’m getting your shoulder wet,” he protested, still sopping wet from the waterfall. He kept shifting around, trying to sit differently and avoid blotching her blue dress with more water than he already had. “I hope you’re noticing this inconveniences you too?”

“Yes,” Bonny laughed. “You’re right. I hope there’s still enough sun to dry us along the way back. Father won’t be pleased otherwise.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you should have thought that through before drenching me!” he huffed, but she could hear the grin in his tone even if she couldn’t quite turn her head to see it. He flicked his arm toward her and sent little droplets of water scattering across the side of her face.

Her shoulders jerked up involuntarily as the eye closest to him shut and she tried to crane her neck even further away, chuckling. Nix made a noise like he’d swallowed whatever words were on his tongue, clutching to her shoulder and hair to steady himself.

“You’d probably be best not trying to get me while I’m giving you a ride?” Bonny suggested, unable to help a wry smile.

“Yes. Agreed. Apologies.” His words came so stilted and readily that she had to purse her lips to keep in a laugh. As soon as he relaxed, his voice grew a tad incredulous. “Though—wait, I can’t exactly do anything once I’m down. Are you trying to escape my well-earned retaliation?”

“I would never,” she assured him, no longer trying to hide her smile. “I’ll put you in a tree when we get back and you can splash me all you like.”

Somehow, his voice was amused and skeptical and unimpressed by the notion all at once.

“Really? You’d do that?” he asked, sounding as if he were stifling a smirk.

She shrugged—gently, of course, but with a little inward sense of mischievousness—and he yelped again at the movement.

“Well, it would take a lot of water to get a giant wet,” she reasoned. “I doubt you’ll do much. But yes, for you, I would brave it.”

He chuckled, and she ventured a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Bonny and brave,” he said, looking up at her with a little smile and those dark eyes glimmering with light. “You are a marvel.”

It would probably be very noticeable to him if she swallowed awkwardly and glanced away a bit in embarrassment. She tried not to do that, and instead gave him a crooked little smile in return.

“Hm,” was all she could say. “And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m Nothing.” The jest was terrible, and would still be terrible even if she hadn’t heard it numerous times. “But you are truly a gem among girls.”

If by gem he meant a giantess who still had to enlist his help disentangling birds from her hair, then perhaps. She snorted.

“I don’t know how you would know. You don’t know any other girls.”

“Why would I need to?” His face was innocent, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth and mischief. “You’re the size of forty of them.”

The noise that erupted from her was so abrupt and embarrassingly like a snort it sent the branches trembling. She plucked him off her shoulder and set him gently on the ground so she could swat at him as gently as she could—careful not to strike him with the leaf-motifs on her ring—though it still knocked him off his feet and into the grass. He was laughing too hard to seem to mind, and she couldn’t stifle her laughs either.

“Well, you are really something,” she teased, unable to help her wide smile as she tried futilely to cast him a disapproving look.

That quieted him. He pushed himself to sit upright in the grass, and looked out at the woods ahead for a long moment.

“You think?” Nix asked quietly.

She smiled down at him.

“Yes,” she laughed softly. “Of course.” When he looked up at her, brown eyes curious, she held his gaze and hoped he could see just how glad she was to know him. “Everything, even.”

A small smile grew on his own face, lopsided and warm. He ducked his head a bit and looked away from her again, and embarrassment started to fill her—but it was worth it.

It often weighed on her heart to say that more than she did. She supposed she was the type of person who liked to show such things rather than say them.

She had a cramp in one of her shoulders from trying to carry him smoothly, but the weight on the other one—and on his—seemed far lighter.

—

She remembered the day her father came home livid.

She couldn’t figure out what had happened. Had he been wounded? Insulted? Tricked? He wouldn’t say.

He just raged. The trees bent under his wrath as he stamped them down, carving a new path through the forest. He picked up boulders and flung them at cliffsides, the noise of the impacts like thunder as showers of shattered stone flew in all directions.

She was tending to the garden a ways off—huge vines and stalks entwined their ways up poles and hill-high arbors made from towering pines, where she liked to work and admire how the sunset made the leaves glow gold—and suddenly had a sharp, sinking feeling.

Nix was still at his little shelter-house at their encampment. Her father was there.

Dread washed over her.

“Riddle me this, boy,” her father boomed, in the voice he only used when he wanted an excuse to strike something. “What is thick like glass and thin as air, cold but warm, ugly but fair? Fills the air yet never fills it, never exists but that all things will it?”

There was silence for a long moment.

...Silence. The answer was silence. Her father was trying to trick him into speaking.

Her hands curled around the bucket handle so weakly it was a surprise she didn’t drop it. Her father could crush him if he felt he had the slightest excuse.

Hush, hush, hush, her mind pleaded. Her hands shook. For your life and mine, hush—

There continued to be silence for a moment—and then, Nix must have answered. (Perhaps in jest. He tended to joke when uncertain. That would have been a mistake.)

There came the indescribable sound of a tree being ripped from its roots, and the deafening thunder of it being thrown and smashing down trees and structures.

Her whole body tensed horribly, and all she could see in her mind’s eye was nightmares.

No, she thought weakly.

Her father kept shouting. But not just shouting, addressing. Asking scathing rhetorical questions. She felt faint with relief, because her father had never wasted words on the dead.

I should have brought him with me. The thought flooded her body and left room for nothing else but dread and regret. I could have prevented this.

The stables were long and broad and old. Once, they had housed armies’ steeds and chariots. Now, they were run-down and reinforced so nothing could escape out the doors. The roof was broken off like a lid on hinges at intervals so her father could reach in to arrange and feed his horses.

Her father had seen no reason to keep the stalls clean. When one was so packed with bedding it had decomposed to soil at the floor level, the horse was moved to the next unused stall. There were so many stalls that she barely remembered, sometimes, that there were other ways of addressing the problem.

“The stable has not been cleaned in seven years,” her father boomed. “You will clean it tomorrow, or I will eat you in my stew.”

She couldn’t hear Nix’s response, but she could feel his dread.

Her father stormed away, more violently than any storm, and slowly, after the echoes of his steps faded, silence again began to hang in the air.

That night, it was hard to sleep. The next morning, it was hard to think.

She did the only thing she could think to do in such a nervous state. She brought her friend breakfast. His favorite breakfast—a roast leg of venison and a little knife he could use to cut off what he wanted of it, and fried turkey-eggs, and a modest chunk of soft brown bread.

When she arrived with it, he was still mucking out the first stall. There were hundreds ahead of him. He was only halfway to the floor of the first.

“I can’t eat,” Nix murmured, almost too quietly to hear and with too much misery to bear. “I can’t stop. But thank you.”

The pile outside the door he’d opened up was already growing too large. Of every pitchfork-full he threw out, some began to tumble back in. He was growing frustrated, and out of breath.

Why would her father raise a boy, a prince, only to eat him now? Her father was cunning; surely he’d had other plans for him. Or perhaps he really was kept like the horses, as a trophy or prize taken from the human kingdoms that giants so hated.

Was this his fate? Worked beyond reason, only to be killed?

Pity—or something stronger, perhaps, that she couldn’t name—stirred in her heart. A heat filled her veins, burning with sadness and a desire to set right. Would the world be worthwhile without this one small person in it?

No.

This wouldn’t end this way.

She called to the birds of the air and all the creatures of the forest. Her heart-song was sad and pure—so when she pleaded with them, to please hear, please come and carry away straw and earth and care for what has been neglected, they listened.

The stable was clean by the time the first stars appeared. When she set Nix gently on her shoulder afterward, he hugged the side of her head and laughed in weary relief for a long while.

—

She remembered the lake, and the tree.

“Shame on the wit who helped you,” her father had boomed. He’d inspected the stable by the light of his torch—a ship’s mast he’d wrapped the sails around the top of and drenched in oil—and found every last piece of dirt and straw gone. Had he known it was her, that she could do such a thing? She couldn’t tell. “But I have a worse task for you tomorrow.”

The lake nearest them was miles long, and miles wide, and so deep that even her father could not ford it.

“You will drain it dry by nightfall, or I will have you in my stew.”

The next morning, soon as her father had gone away past the hills, she came to the edge of the lake. She could hear the splashing before she saw it.

Nix stood knee-deep in the water, a large wooden bucket in his hands, struggling to heave the water out and into a trench he’d dug beside the shore.

When she neared him and knelt down in the sand, scanning the water and the trench and the distant, distant shoreline opposite them, Nix fell still for a moment. She looked at him, hoping he could see the apology in her eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked.

He shook his head miserably.

“Thank you. But even if we both worked all day, we couldn’t get it dry before nightfall.” He gave her a wry, sad smile, full of pain. “The birds and the creatures can’t carry buckets, I’m afraid.”

It was true. They could not take away the water.

But perhaps other things could.

She stood and drew a deep breath, and called to the fish of the rivers and lake, and to the deep places of the earth to please hear, please open your mouths and drain the lake dry.

With a tumult that shook the earth beneath them all, they did. The chasm it left in the land was great and terrible, but it was dry.

Her father was livid to see it.

“I’ve a worse job for you tomorrow,” he’d thundered at Nix as the twilight began to darken. “There is a tree that has grown from before your kind walked this land. It is many miles high, with no branches until you reach the top. Fetch me the seven eggs from the bird’s nest in its boughs, and break none, or I will eat you before the day is out.”

She found Nix at dawn the next day at the foot of the tree, staring up it with an expression more wearied than she’d ever seen before. She looked up the tree as well. It seemed to stretch up nearly to the clouds, its trunk wide and strong with not a foothold in sight. At the top, its leaves shone a faint gold in the sunlight.

“He is wrong to ask you these things,” Bonny said softly. Her words hung in the air like the sunbeams seemed to hang about the tree. There was something special about this place, some old power with roots that ran deep. “I’m very sorry for it.”

“You needn’t be,” Nix assured her. His countenance was grey, but he tried to smile. “But thank you. You’re very kind.”

She looked up the tree again. Uncertainty filled her, because this was an old tree—a strong one. Even if it could hear her, it had no obligation to listen. “Will you try?”

He laughed humorlessly. “What choice do I have?”

None. He had none.

He could not escape for long on his own—he could not be gone fast enough or hide safely enough for her father not to sniff him out. The destruction that would follow him would be far more than he would wish on the forests and villages and cities about them.

She, however, bit her lip.

She slipped the gold vine-ring off her hand, and rolled it so that it spiraled between her fingers. It was finely crafted, made to look like it was a young vine wrapping its way partly up her finger.

“This is all I have of my mother,” she said quietly. “But it will serve you better.”

Before he could speak—she knew him well enough to know that he would bid her to stop, to not lose something precious on his account (as if he weren’t?)—she whispered a birdlike song, and pleaded with the gold and the tree and the old good in the world to help them.

When she tossed the ring at the base of the tree (was it shameful that she had to quell a sadness that tried to creep into her heart?), it writhed. One end of it rooted into the ground, and suddenly it was no longer gold, but yellow-green—and the vine grew, and grew, curling around the tree as it stretched upward until it was nearly out of sight.

Nix stared at her with wide eyes and an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it made her ears warm.

She smiled slightly and stepped back, tilting her head at the vine.

“Well?” she said. He was still staring at her with that look—some mix of awestruck and like he was trying to draw together words—and it made her fold her arms lightly and smile as she looked away. She quickly looked back to him, hoping faintly that her embarrassment wasn’t obvious. “You’d best hurry. That’s still a long way up.”

He seemed to give up finding words for the moment. Nix glanced up the tree, now decked with a spiral of thick, knobby vine that looked nearby like uneven stairs.

“Give me a boost?” he asked with a bright grin. “To speed it up.”

She laughed and gently scooped him up in both hands. “A boost, or just a boost?”

He beamed at her. “As high as you can get me,” he declared, waving an arm dramatically.

She laughed and shook her head. ”Absolutely not. Ready?”

Nix nodded, and she smiled thinly and poured all her focus into a spot a good distance up the tree. With a very gentle but swift motion, she tossed him upward a bit—and he landed on his feet on the vine, one shoulder against the bark, clutching to the tree for support as he laughed.

“A marvel!” he shouted down to her as he climbed. “Never forget that!”

The sun was nearly setting when he descended with the eggs bundled in his handkerchief. He was glowing.

He triumphantly hopped down the last few feet to the ground.

A moment after he landed, a soft crack sounded. He froze.

Slowly, he drew the bundle more securely into his arms against him and looked down. There, by his foot, was a little speckled egg, half-broken in the grass.

She put a hand over her mouth. Nix clutched the rest and stared.

A grievous pain and numbness slowly filled her heart, and she knew it was filling his too.

His shoulders began to shake, and his eyes were glassy.

“Well,” he laughed weakly. ”...That’s it. That’s... that was my chance.” The distress that overtook him was like a dark wave, and it threatened to cover her too. He only shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for—for helping me.”

For everything, she didn’t give him a chance to add. He was looking at her with the eyes of one who might say that. She couldn’t afford to be overcome with the notion of saying goodbye now.

“No,” she said. Her voice was quiet, at first, but it grew more resolute. “It won’t end this way.”

He blinked up at her, still clutching the other eggs to his chest. She looked down at him, then across the stretch of forest to their home.

Without a word, she gently picked him up and set him on her shoulder. Her jaw tensed as she strode quickly through well-worn paths of the forest, walking as fast as a horse could run.

Once home, she set him down. He was still looking at her questioningly. Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she hoped he couldn’t see the anxiousness rising in her and battling with the excitement.

“I will not let him have you,” she announced firmly. The trees and hills all around were witness to her promise. “Grab what you need. We’ll leave together in the hour.”

—

She‘d barely had time to fix her hair, grab her water flask, and decide it would be best this time of year to go south.

Her father’s footsteps boomed closer across the land.

—

They fled.

They ran, and ran, and struggled and strove, and she called for the help of anything she could think of that would have mercy on them.

Her comb grew into thorns, her hairpin into a hedge of jagged spires. Neither stopped him. Her dress’s hem was in tatters and sweat poured from her brow when they were finally safe.

Her flask lay behind them, cast down and broken, its magic used up.

Her father—her father—lay stretched out motionless in the flooded plain behind them, never to rise again.

—

There was a tiny spark of hope they had that they clung to. A hope of a future, of restoration, of amending the past and pursuing peace—of a life worth living, perhaps far, far away from things worth leaving behind.

(“I’ll go to the castle,” he’d said, his voice brimming with nerves and hope and uncertainty and sadness and an eager warmth. It made her heart try to mirror all those emotions alongside him. “I can tell my mother and father who I am. I’d still recognize them, even if they don’t know me. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”)

He set out into the maze of village streets, assuring her he’d ask for directions and be back promptly. She stayed back by the well at the edge of the town so not to alarm anyone, too exhausted to go another step, but full of hope for him. She would wait until he returned.

(And wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and dread—)

The castle gardener came to draw water, and—as if she weren’t as tall as the small trees under the huge one she sat against—struck up a conversation with her about the mysterious boy who’d fallen unconscious across the threshold of the castle, asleep as if cursed to never wake up.

(The spark didn’t last long.)

—

She remembered when he could move.

“Please,” she whispered, as soft as her voice would go. “Please, if you can hear me. Wake up.”

(“Oh, dearest,” the gardener’s frail wife had murmured to her when the kind gardener brought her home to partake of a bit of supper. “I’m afraid they won’t let you in as you are. Would you let me sing you a catch as you eat?”)

The gardener’s wife was frailer by the end of it, but her heart-song could change things, like her own. Instead of towering at the heights of the houses, she was now six feet tall by human reckoning, and still thankful the castle had high halls and tall doors.

(Their daughter, a fair maiden with a shadow about her, had watched from the doorway.)

Nix Nought Nothing lay nearly motionless in the cushioned chair the castle servants had placed him in. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was in a deep sleep.

He was still smaller than she was, but not by much. He seemed so large, or close. She could see details she’d never noticed before—his freckles, the definition of his eyelashes, the scuffs and loose threads in his tunic.

The way his head hung as if he could no longer support it.

She held him gently—oddly, now, with both her hands so small on his arms and an uncertainty of what to do now—and wept over him. She sung through her tears, her heart pleading with his very soul, but to no avail. He did not wake up.

He didn’t hear her—likely couldn’t hear her. All around him, the air was sharp and still and dead. Cursed.

Still, her heart pleaded with her, now. Try, try. Don’t stop speaking to him. Remember? He never stopped trying.

“You joke that you are nothing," she said, with every drop of earnestness in her being. "But I tell you, you are all I had, and all I had ever wished for.”

There was power in names. She knew that. But was his even a proper name? It really wasn’t—though it was all he had.

It was all she had as well. She had exhausted everything else close to her. There was nothing left to call on, to plead with, but him.

“Nix Nought Nothing,” she said softly. “Awaken, please.”

Her voice, no longer so resonant and deep with giant’s-breath, sounded foreign in her ears. It was mournful and soft like the doves of the rocks, and grieved like the groan of the earth when it split.

“I cleaned the stable, I lave the lake, and clomb the tree, all for the love of thee,” she said, her voice thickening with tears. A drop of saltwater fell and landed on his tunic, creating another of many small blotches. “And will you not awaken and speak to me?”

Nothing.

—

She didn’t remember being shown out of the room. Her vision was too blurred, and her mind was too distraught and overwhelmed. The next thing she could focus on enough to recall was that she was now seated on a stiff chair in the hall. Someone had been kind enough to set a cup of water on the little table beside her.

The towering doors creaked softly behind her, and at last, someone new entered. She looked over her shoulder, barely able to see through the dry burning left behind by her tears.

A man and a woman stood in the door. They were dressed in fine robes, and looked like nobles.

"What is the matter, dear?" the woman asked, looking over her appearance with eyes soft with pity. She came close, and her presence was like cool balm, gentle and comforting. "Why do you weep?"

The gold roses woven in the green of the woman's dress swam in her vision as she dropped her gaze, unsure what to say. These people seemed kind. But were they? Would they send her out from here, unable to return to him?

They would be right to do so. She was a stranger here, and Nix could not vouch for her like he'd planned.

"No matter what I do," she finally said softly, "I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to awaken and speak to me."

In one moment, only the woman stood there—in the next, the man was beside her. The air was suddenly still and heavy like glass, and it felt as though there was a thread drawn taut between them all for a moment.

"Nix Nought Nothing?" they asked in unison, their voices full of something tense and heavy and sharp. When she looked up, nearly fearful at the sudden change in their tone, their faces were slack and pale.

Something stirred in her heart. Look. What do you see?

Green and gold. Their wide eyes were a familiar warm brown.

—

Now, things are changing.

According to the servant who'd been keeping an eye on him, all from the kingdom had been offered reward if they could wake the sleeping stranger, and the the gardener's daughter had succeeded. It was a mystery how it had happened—by whom had he been cursed? Her father? Then why could she not wake him, but a maiden from the castle-town here could?—but now, with the King and Queen hovering beside her and unable to stay still for anticipation, no one cared.

The gardener's daughter was fetched, and bid to sing the unspelling catch for the prince. (Prince. He was a prince, while she was a ruffian's daughter. She kept forgetting, when she was with him.) It was a haunting one that grated on her ears, as selfishly-written magics often did—and as if bitterness still crept at the girl's heart at the sight of all who were here, she left as soon as it was finished.

Nix Nought Nothing awoke—he awoke! He opened his eyes and sat up and looked at her as if seeing the sunrise after a year of darkness, and how her heart leaps high into her throat at the sight—and true to form, only blinks a few times at her as he seems to take her in before coming to terms with it.

"You look a bit different," he remarks, tilting his head slightly. "Or did I grow?"

She chokes on a snort.

"Hush," is all she can say. What had been an attempt at an unimpressed expression melts into a wavering smile. "Are you done napping now?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but a grin creeps onto his face before he can. He snickers. "Have I slept that long?"

"Nigh a week," the Queen says—and when Nix turns his head and sees her, his eyes grow wide. The Queen's smile grows broad and wavers with emotion, and the King's eyes are crinkled at the edges, and shining. "It has been a long time."

Her own father had never shown love like this—like the way Nix tries to leap from his chair at the same moment his parents rush to hold him, all of them laughing and sobbing and shouting exclamations of love and excitement and I-thought-I-would-never-see-you-agains. So much joy rolls off of them that she thinks she could have stood there watching forever and been content.

The first thing he does, after the first surge of this, is turn and introduce her to his parents, who had barely finished hugging him and kissing him and calling him their own dear son.

"This is the one who helped me," Nix says, already gesturing to her in excitement as he looks from her to his parents. "She sacrificed much to save me from the giant. Her kindness is brilliant and she blesses all who know her."

She tries not to look embarrassed at the glowing praise as Nix comes and stands beside her as he recounts their blur of a tale to his parents.

"Ah! She is bonny and brave," says the King. By the end of Nix's stories of their escapes, they're smiling warmly at her with such pride that she dips her head and smiles.

Nix Nought Nothing glances sideways up at her and raises a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"I've tried to tell her that," he agrees. "I don't think she's ever believed me."

She purses her lips and glances down at him. "I'll believe it the day you believe you are not nothing."

"Alright." Simple as that, he folds his arms and raises a brow at her. "I believe it. Fair trade?"

"Fair enough," she decides, with a crooked little smile. He beams, as if she's done something worth being proud of, and looks to his parents, who indeed look proud of them both.

"We would welcome you as our daughter," the King declares heartily, and both the Queen and Nix brighten, which makes her too embarrassedly fixated on the thought of family? Starting anew? to register what comes next. "Surely, you should be married!"

Nix looks at her, arms still folded, his eyes twinkling. There's something hopeful in his eyes that makes her certain this diminutive new heart of hers has skipped a few beats.

"Should we? Surely?" he asks, as if this is a normal thing to be discussing.

She works her jaw and swallows a few times, unable to help how obviously awkward she still likely looks. A flush tickles her face, and the queen seems to put a hand over her mouth to smile behind it.

"I... don't... suppose... I would mind," she manages, and—with those bright eyes so affectionate, and on her—Nix starts snickering at her expression. It's rude, but so, so warm she can't mind. She only discovers how broadly she's smiling when she tries to purse her lips and glare at him but is unable to. "Oh, go back to sleep!" she chides, too gleeful inside to truly mind, even as she makes a motion as if throwing one of the chair-cushions at him.

"Never!" he declares, pretending to dodge the invisible pillow. He makes broad gestures that she presumes are meant to emphasize how serious he is about this. When he stands straight and tall and sets his shoulders, she thinks that the boy she's explored the forest with really does look like a prince. "I have my family and my love all together in safety at last. We have much to speak of, and much time yet to spend with each other." He's a prince, but of course, he's also still himself. He immediately gets a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and puts a hand to his chest nobly as he does what he's done for as long as she's known him—jokes, when his emotions rise. "I shall never adhere to a bedtime as long as I live!"

My love, her heart still repeats every time it beats—as payback, likely, for her calling it diminutive. My love, my love, my love.

She doesn't let it out, for she doesn't know what it will do. But the words weave a song within her, so vibrant and effervescent and strong, brighter and clearer than any she's had before.

"I am glad to see you are certainly still my dear son," the Queen says, her own eyes twinkling. "I'm certain you both need fed well after such a journey. Come, perhaps you both can tell us more of it as supper is prepared."

They fall into an easy tumble of conversation and rejoicing and genial planning, and her heart is so light she thinks it must be plotting to escape her chest.

On the week's end from when she brought him here, Nix Nought Nothing and his family welcomes her into their home. It feels natural. It feels warm, and homey, and so pleasant and right that she often has to stop tears of weary joy from welling up as she considers it all.

Once upon a time, she thought she'd known happiness well enough without him. She had known what it was like to be without a friend, and without love.

Now, it’s hard to remember it.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Her True Name

A Retelling of "That Dear Name," a Russian folk tale. Written for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves Fairytale event.

Note: I’m retelling this story based on the version by Pavel Bazhov in his beautiful book The Malachite Casket, which I happened to pick up at a used bookstore a few years ago. Unfortunately, I can’t find that or any other version anywhere online (it’s apparently way more obscure than I realized??), but the Wikipedia page for the original tale is here. 

 -

This is a fairy-tale, but it did not happen once upon a time. This fairy-tale happened in 1586.

It happened four years after Yermak Timofeyevich and his five-hundred-forty Cossacks rode against Kuchum Khan and the Six Tatar Princes in 1582 and turned their bones to water on the banks of the Irtysh River. 

It happened two years after Yermak drowned in a different river, pulled down by the silver shirt of chain-mail that Tsar Ivan had given him as a gift. The Tatar Princes divided his armor up, it is said, but his body they buried with due honor. That was in 1584. 

Two years after the Cossacks were left without their great leader, this fairy-tale happened. It began in Siberia in 1586. It is still happening today.

In those days, in a high and lonesome place in the Ural Mountains, there was a village whose streets were paved with gold. To the heroine of this tale, whom we will call Lidik, this never seemed extraordinary in the slightest

Lidik’s people were neither Russian nor Tatar nor Vogul nor Ostyak nor any other group that you may have heard of; they were an Old People who had lived in isolation for a thousand years, so that they neither knew nor cared about the world beyond their village. 

Yet this land on which this Old People lived was the kind of place in which people often find gold. Flecks of gold were scattered through the sand of the streets. Larger nuggets laid about like ordinary stones: the men hunted with lumps of gold in their slingshots and the women pounded the washing against gold-veined rocks by the river. Children played with golden baubles and no one thought anything of it. Try to imagine what Lidik’s world was like: to her, gold seemed as common as steel is to you and me.  

High in the Urals, these people lived and worked not in wooden buildings but in caves that their ancestors must have dug out of the rock. The largest of these was beneath Azov Hill: so large it was that even when lit with a hundred torches, a man standing at the entrance could not see full to the back. In the old days, the village would gather there for meetings and dances, weddings and funerals.

Now, the cave beneath Azov Hill is full of secret things. These secrets, and Lidik’s role in them, are the subject of this fairy-tale.  

Lidik was the second child and the first daughter of the chief elder. Brave she was, and resolute; yet she was also kind and vivacious. She sang like a bird, and she laughed and wept with equal vigor. In the year in which our story takes place, Lidik played with the village children and sang round the cookfire with the other women. At festivals, she was the first to leap to her feet for a dance, and then all the young men of the village would line up to be her partner, and the old women would shake their heads and say, “Ah, to be young again.” 

The Old People loved Lidik very much. 

In those days, the world was growing smaller and people began coming to this remote village in the Urals from distant lands. First, the Tatars rode by on new trade routes, but they took little note of the village and did not linger. No, it was not until the Cossacks came that the trouble really began. Without knowing it, Lidik’s village had been annexed by Russia and now the Cossacks had come to tell them.

These Cossacks were not evil men; I want that understood. There are no evil sorcerers or black knights in this fairy-tale. No, these were men who had once lived free in a land of their own, the same as our villagers. Yet they had sold themselves into the service of the Tsar and were under his orders to tame the Siberian wastes. Once Yermak Timofeyevich was drowned in his silver shirt, his soldiers did as they liked for themselves.  

As I have said, the Old People hunted with slingshots, but the Cossacks had muskets. When a scout returned to camp with reports of a village whose streets were paved with gold, greed bloomed in the Cossacks’ hearts and at once they decided that they would ride against the Old People, put them to death, and carry away all their gold.

Yet the Cossacks were not all of like mind. As plans were being drawn up for the attack on the village, one man – a lad called Stepan Vasilyevich —heard what they were planning and his heart recoiled against it. Stepan hated what had become of the Cossacks in Siberia since Yermack’s death (in the river, weighed down by the Tsar’s gift). What's more, Stepan Vasileyevich loved the Old People, though he had never met them. Thus, he made up his mind to go to his commanders in protest, though he feared they would not heed him.

“Have you no shame?” Stepan asked with a heavy heart. “Before, we attacked other soldiers who had weapons and fortifications. Then, we stripped merchants of their wares unprovoked.  Now you mean to rob these folks of their last and put them to death for it? I say again, we are soldiers, not bandits. These people have not harmed us and may not even know of us; let us leave them in peace.”

Yet Stepan’s fears proved true: the other men heeded him not. Instead, one of them stabbed him in the belly with his saber and they left him in the forest to die.

But the wound they gave him was a seeping wound, not a bleeding wound, and so Stepan did not die quickly. Instead, he staggered deeper into the wood in the hope of reaching the village of the gold streets. He knew the way the Cossacks meant to take and he followed it. “For,” he reasoned, “if I can find these people before I die, perhaps I can warn them of the attack.”

Here, at last, the maid Lidik enters our tale.

She was fond of walking the tree line as evening fell, you see. Even in winter when all was dark, she would stroll along the place where forest met stone after supper, singing softly to herself and nodding to any friend she happened to pass. One night, she was doing just this when she heard a noise in the distance. It was like the cry of a man’s voice, and in Lidik’s heart it stirred curiosity and compassion in equal measure. She ventured into the forest to find the source of the sound.

There, tangled in the underbrush, she saw the form of a strange man (who we know to be Stepan) lying where he had fallen when he at last could go no further. He was half-conscious and bloodied, but he cried out again and again though his eyes were closed. He was dressed in clothing that seemed to come out of another world and he bore weapons that Lidik did not recognize. Instinctively, she drew back in fright.  

But Lidik was brave and her compassion won out. Moments later, she bent and inspected the man till she found his wound. She bound it with cloth from her garment, carried him to her father’s cave, and there began to tend him.

All the while, the strange man went on crying out, but because she could not speak his language, Lidik did not know what he was saying. She thought his words must be exclamations of pain.

In fact, Stepan was warning her of the coming attack with his every breath. Yet after a time, his breaths ran out and he lapsed into sleep.

When he woke, Stepan found himself surrounded by strange people, and the woman who had found him the evening before was among them. A man – who seemed to be the woman’s father– spoke an unfamiliar language, and Stepan could not understand him.

Yet as it happened, Stepan knew Tatar and some of the Old People, who remembered when the traders had ridden past, knew a small bit as well. Thus, in snatches of Tatar and with gestures to fill in the gaps, Stepan issued his warning.

The chief elder thought for a long time before replying. “The mountains – too treacherous – winter,” he said. “Men survive—children perish. We remain.”

“My people do not know I am here. You attack from your caves when they come–turn them back for a while,” Stepan managed to say. “Soon it will grow colder.”

As her father and brother went to confer with the elders, Lidik remained by the strange man’s side as though bound to him. For three days, she sat at his bedside and fed him meat, honey, and vegetables. As she tended to his wound, she often sang softly in her own tongue. In broken Tatar, she whispered “thank you” again and again. “Thank you. Thank you for coming here. Thank you.” Lidik loved her people very much, you see.

Meanwhile, the Old People set a rotating lookout atop Azov Hill. Day and night, they watched the woods with vigilance, prepared to light a beacon fire if any disturbance came from the forest. 

As they spent their days together, Lidik and her stranger slowly began to speak. Their talk was some Russian, some Tatar, some the tongue of the Old People, a little Balachka, and much laughter. They bandied words back and forth in four languages and made up the deficit with gestures and looks and more than a little patience.

"I come from a place by the sea— a great body of water, yes?” Stepan said Russian. “A long journey south and west of here. My people are called Cossacks. Free men.” He gestured to himself, then west towards the setting sun. 

Lidik repeated his words in Russian. "You are Stepan. You come from the sea. You are Cossack. From south and west.” Then, in the Old Tongue, she added, "It must be very far south, I think. You look like a man who sees a great deal of sun."

In the Old Tongue, Stepan replied, "Home is many weeks away by horse. It is very beautiful." 

Then, because she still had not told him, he asked, “What is your name, lady?”

After a long pause, she replied in the Old Tongue. “You may call me Lidik, though it is not my name.”

Puzzled, Stepan repeated the question in Tatar. “Do you know what I mean, ‘name’?” 

“It is how you are truly known, yes? Lidik is what I am called, but it is not my name.”

Are you surprised, Dear Reader?

Among the Old People, names were sacred things. Only Lidik’s father and mother knew her true name. When she married, she would give it to her husband: she would whisper it in his ear after their hands were fastened, or perhaps later she would gasp it to him when they came together. All of this, she explained to Stepan with no small amount of stammering and blushing.

“Only those who gave me life and the one to whom I am joined in the flesh can ever know me truly,” she concluded. “Is it not so with you?”

“No,” said Stepan. "My people shorten the names of those we love. My family called me Stiva. Yet for us, names are not a matter for blushing." 

This only made Lidik blush all the more fiercely. "You are a stranger. Ordinarily, I would not need to explain such things."

The attack came at dawn on the fifth day, but the Old People were ready; they ambushed the Cossacks from their caves as the soldiers emerged from the wood. Since it was a dense wood, the Cossacks were not mounted, and the caves proved to be good fortresses. Thus, the Old People managed to turn the Cossacks away with nuggets of gold from their slingshots. Yet they knew that this was only a temporary reprieve.

When the Old People returned victorious from their battle with the Cossacks, they came again to confer with Stepan. Then, with Lidik’s aid, he told them why the Cossacks had come and why they would return.

“All the gold you have—the yellow metal, yellow stone–that is the cause of all this,” said Stepan in Russian, pointing to a gold trinket that sat nearby on his bedside table.  

“What of it?” asked Lidik, with an exaggerated shrug for emphasis.

“My people come for it. They will kill you to possess it. They will never let you be.”

Lidik conferred with her father in brief, then mimed giving something to Stepan. “They can have it.”

“No. You must hide it from them. When the winter ends, word will have reached the Tsar that there is gold here and then you will have no life worth living.”

The elders again conferred. “What would you have us do?” Lidik asked in Russian.

“You must take these stones, all these yellow ones, yes and every golden trinket and bauble that you have, and put them out of sight. Cover the flecks in the sand with earth. Then depart for another place. Perhaps, if you do this, your children may someday return to live here.”

And Lidik told her father all that Stepan had said.

So it was that the Old People spent the rest of the winter moving all the gold they could into the cave beneath Azov Hill so that it was all out of sight. They covered their golden streets with black earth from which grass might grow. Then, they made preparations to abandon the village for another place when spring arrived.

All this time, Lidik continued to care for Stepan, but she was not alone in doing so. One of the guards often took it upon himself to carry Stepan to Azov Hill where he could sit with the lookout in the fresh air. "Good for the blood," he would say in faltering Tatar. 

A neighbor woman made Stepan a gift of her thickest bearskin blanket. "My son is lame," she told him. "He cannot run. If we had been attacked without warning, my dear boy surely would have died." 

The village’s healer looked in every day. She brought herbs and salves and even rich foods from her own larder. Yet for all her ministrations, Stepan’s wound continued to seep.

When at last, the day came for the Old People to leave their village (whose streets were no longer paved with gold), Lidik’s father issued instructions for Stepan to be counted a member of his own household. Stepan only shook his head.

“Death is close to me,” he said in Russian, looking to Lidik to translate. “I will not survive the journey. You must leave me here.”

Lidik turned back to her father. “He says that he is dying and will not leave this place.”

"But for you we may all have died. I will not allow you to be left behind alone. As chief elder, I forbid it." 

Yet when she heard this, Lidik did not speak again for a long moment. She knew that Stepan spoke true when he said that he would not survive the journey; she had changed his bandages for more than three months and knew that he had healed very little. 

Yet equally, Lidik knew that her father spoke true when he said the Old People would not abandon Stepan to die alone. They loved him too well, and for that they would joyfully waste precious time and resources on a man they could not save. This, she must not allow them to do. 

“He will not be alone," Lidik said in the Old Tongue. In Tatar: "I will stay with him." Then finally, she turned back to Stepan and in Balachka, she repeated, "I will stay."

Didn't I tell you that Lidik loved her people? Didn't I say she was brave?

"What do you mean?" demanded her brother. "This man is not your husband. What is he to you that you should leave your people to be with him?"

"He is the man who staggered injured through the forest for love of our people, though he knew us not. I will not forsake him,” Lidik answered. 

So it was that when the Old People left their village behind, neither the Cossack Stepan Vasilyevich nor the maid called Lidik was among them.

“Well then,” Stepan finally said once all the Old People were gone. “I still say you ought to have left with your kin—but all the same, I am grateful not to be alone.” Then, in Tatar, he whispered, “thank you.”

Together, Lidik and the dying man retreated into the cave beneath Azov Hill and she laid him among the piles of gold. They were terrible to behold: golden stones and nuggets and all manner of trinkets heaped like coal all throughout the enormous cavern. When the early spring light pierced the darkness, they shone like a thousand little suns.

They waited. Stepan slept a great deal, and when he woke Lidik gave him meals of dried meats and honey. She sang softly, both to comfort her companion and to occupy her own mind. But when at last she heard the sound of horses in the distance, Lidik got up and sealed the door.

Then, as the darkness settled over them, Stepan knew that his hour had come; but he wished to leave Lidik some hope. He did not have the words in any language she would understand to express what he really meant, so this is what he told her:

“Hear me, Lidik. A day will come in this land when there are no more Tsars or soldiers and even their names shall be forgotten. People will come here from all over and they shall not kill or steal, and one of them will call out your name—your true name—from beyond the cavern door. On that day—not before and not after, you understand?—you must go out to him with a brave, merry heart and take him as your husband. And when that day comes, let any man who wishes it take the gold, if they have use for it.”

In the Old Tongue, Lidik answered: “How will this man know my name if I have not given it to him?”

“You and I have loved each other a little, have we not? I warned you of the attack, though it costs me my life; you have stayed with me, though it costs you yours. Yet the man who is your true husband has loved us a hundred times more. He knows your name and mine, dear one. I promise.”

"Then I will do as you ask."

"Good," he said in Balachka. "I pray the wait will not be too long." 

With those words, Stepan fell asleep, there in the cave beneath Azov Hill surrounded by piles of gold. 

His body cooled, and yet it did not decay. And what’s more, by some magic the woman called Lidik did not die or even age as the years wore on. She remained forever young and vivacious, alive in her cavern of treasure with Stepan's body beside her. 

See? I told you this was a fairy-tale.

From that time, no one could enter the cavern beneath Azov Hill, though they tried in every way. Gold is a powerful incentive. Soldiers came with cannons, but the door did not yield to them. They bore into it with shafts and hammers. They tried dynamite and buried charges of black powder. In the ‘60s they fired at it with missiles, but even that was no good. The door holds; no one can gain entrance by force. 

Yet there is an even greater hope for laying hold of all that gold, piled like coal in the keeping of a maid who does not age.  

Over the centuries, crowds of people have come to stand by Azov Hill. They shout all manner of words. “Azovka!” some cry, “Lapochka!” Others call out every female name they can think of, "Natasha!" "Anna!" “Soo Lin!” "Jenny!" Still others shout gibberish until they lose their minds with it; until they forget what words are and babble only nonsense till they die. Each man hopes to happen upon the lady Lidik’s true name so that she will open the door to him. To this day, none have ever succeeded.

Yet I can assure you that the lady called Lidik lives still. You can hear her singing if ever you come to Azov Hill. When the serfs were freed, some said she sang for joy, and likewise some claim that her songs turned melancholy when the Iron Curtain descended. Others will tell you that her song never changes: grief and hope are blended in her songs, and so it has always been.

That was how it seemed to me on the day I stood before Azov Hill and listened to the sweet voice that seemed to come from the very heart of the mountain itself. I did not try to guess Lidik’s true name; there is only one who can know it. Instead, I simply called to her in my own language. I told her this: “I’m waiting too.”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I know I've already done enough of these, but after I created bookmarks for my three romance-focused retellings, I couldn't resist trying to make one for "Those Who Sleep", my agape-focused retelling of "Sleeping Beauty".

[daisiesandgiggles]

When a song resonates…

#my car gets me

Thanks for hosting..♥️🥃🎶

Perfect presentation and perfect song too @ladyluck29 Thank you for sharing this with @thedangeldorpher and I today for Tuesday Tunesday. 😘❤️🎶🌼

#Tuesday Tunesday #Daisiesandgiggles

[socialprawn]

Sorry for the randomposting but... She's so beautiful (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) Little Angel defeating the Archdemon

[kaoharu]

Wah😞😞😞

i want to explode them so bad

[ashknife]

Dear Lucy

This is my entry into the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge for @inklings-challenge. I have chosen to retell The Little Mermaid since it was the first fairy tale to leave an impact when I was a kid. It was one of the first Disney movies I got to watch in the theaters. It is a rough retelling, and I'm not really sure how I managed to eke this out with a particularly grueling semester, but here it be for better or for worse. Criticism is, of course, welcome.

Dear Lucy,

I never thought I would see you again, much less play a part in your upcoming wedding. Becoming a florist has provided me with such interesting encounters, and it's far less dangerous than what I was before.

I'll never forget how I met you. The wreck at 8th and Main was one of the worst I had ever seen. It was a miracle that the wreck missed me by inches. It was a miracle that you survived. It was a miracle that I could see and drag you out before the entire mess was engulfed in flames. It was a miracle that the others in the wreck could crawl their way out. Only two people died in that. It was a shame they couldn't all be saved, but it was a miracle that anybody was.

I've roughed up a lot of people in my day, broken some bones, and stabbed some people, but I've never seen injuries like that. I had never been scared for someone like that before. I had to follow you to the hospital. I had to be sure you were okay, and that someone was there to watch over you. It was a silly thing in hindsight: you had so many friends and family who arrived and waited. I heard so many stories about you. I wondered if I had in fact rescued an angelic being. I had never heard of anyone so kind, loving, and pure. I think it was then that I fell in love.

The boss gave me hell for it. I skipped out on several jobs to help you. The boys had to cover my slack, and they wanted some payback. The beatings were hard. I lost a finger and an eye from it. The extra work was awful. I was ready to die by the end of that month. Even then, I made time to check up on you, trying to play off the injuries like I was trying to cosplay as a pirate. I was happy to hear about the progress you were making. My efforts didn't go unnoticed. The same boss who ordered my punishment threw me a bone.

"Jack, you're one of our best, but we can't have you going soft on us for some broad you just met. Tell you what, though. You made it through your penance, so here's an address I want you to go to. It's a flower shop called The Rose's Thorn. The lady who runs it is called The Witch. She'll help you out."

So I went. I found The Rose's Thorn. I went in and found a shriveled old woman who proudly wore the gaudiest black outfit and puffed on a cigarette like it was her right and privilege and nobody else's. She commanded such a presence that I almost bent the knee to talk to her.

"You're the one Curly sent, yes?" she said with an amused smile.

"Yes, my lady," I let slip. She laughed.

"Come, now, I'm not that intimidating, am I? Call me Rose."

"Like the shop?"

"Sometimes the truth is less imaginative than we'd like. Now, let's get to business, Mr. Jack." She took a long drag and blew the smoke in my face. It was...entrancing.

"Lucy. Lucy Miller."

"Ah, yes," she said, pulling out a newspaper. The cover story was that wreck, and the accompanying photo was of me pulling you out.

"Not the most daring rescue, but one no doubt many are grateful for. If not for you, she probably would have suffered severe burns from the fire, or even..." She took another drag. "The Ricci Family owes me some favors. I can cash in a few, but I won't spend them all for you. It's better that the families owe me rather than me owe them. To keep that balance, I paid Curly to borrow you for a few."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I have some clients who are past due. I'd appreciate it if you would collect on my behalf. Without the normal violence. These people aren't your usual clientele."

"So, I just ask nicely for money?"

"Do whatever it takes within legal limits. That's not a lot, but a young man like you should be able to come up with something. In the meantime, I will provide you with a better connection to Ms. Miller."

"I'll do it."

"I thought you might. Here is a list of those clients. You have a week."

The first guy was a pastor of a small church. He was involved in a string of funerals. He apologized over and over as he wrote the check. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably forget, too. The second lady was very old and had no idea what was going on. Her daughter paid. The next person was a mother of small children. The man of the house left them, and she struggled to keep food on the table. She cried and apologized as she gave me what little she had. I shoved it back and paid for it myself.

Most people were just forgetful, but nowhere did I find anyone like my family’s usual clients. Just a bunch of normal folk who, for one reason or another, couldn’t pay some chump change. Real reasons. Good reasons. Reasons that were hard to make examples against. I suspected that Rose curated this list, but I had nothing to base an accusation, and really, did I need to?

“You’re early,” she told me when I returned with her payments. She counted everything silently, looked over the roster, and smiled. “And effective. No wonder Curly recommended you. Tell me, how much of this is yours?”

“Uh…$128.86…” I said absently.

“Does the Ricci Family normally treat their clients this way?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve roughed up more than a few.”

“Ah, no matter,” she said with an all-knowing smile. “Fortunately for you, my part is also early. Here, take this, and be back next week.”

She handed me a business card for a cafe called Le Petit Fleur. Written on it was the date for that Saturday at 1:00 pm.

So I went. I got a mushroom crepe at the insistence of the weird waitress and a cup of joe while I waited for whoever would meet me there. And then they arrived: your parents. Much of the conversation was a blur, I admit. I mean, not only has it been only a month since that wreck, I had gone from being perfectly whole to sporting an eyepatch and some bandages covering a missing digit. They had questions. They had concerns. I had to…fib a bit. I was a collections agent of sorts, and I was injured on the job, but I neglected to mention the part where I was in the mafia. I didn’t think it would sit well with them. But they didn’t spend long on me. They were so proud of you and the strength you displayed each day of your recovery. They had so many stories to tell. Further, they invited me to your room. You wanted to meet your rescuer. Of course, I accepted.

Our first (or would that be the second?) meeting was so awkward. I mean, what do a middle-aged man of the streets and a young woman fresh out of college talk about? But then you talked about flowers, and I talked about the florist I started working under, and somehow we found common ground.

From that point on, I came by each day to talk and see how your healing progressed. Your ideas were so bright and idealistic. Mine…less so, but you listened anyway and punched your holes. I hid a lot from you, too, because, again, the mafia. I doubt you would have approved of that. I mean, who lives this kind of life if they don’t have to?

During the day, I collected money for Rose. It seemed there were numerous ways people were stepped on, but then again, I was among those doing the stepping. Living in the darker corners of the world turns a blind eye to suffering because everybody is. I swore she handpicked those jobs to remind me of what I tried to forget. I talked with her about some of your questions and thoughts about flowers. She patiently taught me a lot about raising her plants. I think she enjoyed having someone interested in her trade, even if it was for some ulterior motives.

For six months you were in the hospital. Your journey back to health was hard but well-fought. Many of your bones were crushed. Some of your skin was badly burned. Well, you know that and more, obviously. You were there for all of that, and you healed. You recovered, and it was time for you to go home. My daily visits had to end, for you needed to return to your life, and I still had mine to live. I was saddened by the change, but I never regretted the time we spent together. They were some of the brighter days of my life then. I hope they brought you some measure of comfort, too.

Not two weeks had passed from your discharge that you sent an invitation to visit you at your home. Rose was amused that she played the middlewoman in that transaction, but she was not surprised. She even handed me one of her most expensive roses and a tailored suit.

“This would be a good time to express to her how you feel, Jack,” she said.

“I…is that…really?” I said.

“You regularly take on jobs from Curly that threaten your life, yet you hesitate to tell a woman how you feel?”

“Oh…guess I never gave it any thought.”

“Nevermind. Go put that on and be on your way.”

So, I took the suit home, cleaned up the best I could, put it on, and strolled down the street with the rose in hand. My reflection off of business windows and windshields and mirrors was of a handsome man I had never seen before. The suit felt out of place. It smelled of a newness I couldn’t afford. The rose felt heavy. I stopped in front of a 7-Eleven and stared. I beat people up for money. I cheat people. I steal from people. I might have even slept with a few women, and who knows who they were or where they were now. Now I was on my way to your house to confess my feelings to make you mine. I’ve been forcing people to do things all my life. Wasn’t I just trying to impose something on you? What if you had rejected me? What could I have done? What would I have done? The reflection in the window was handsome, except for the eyes. The eyes were haunted, jaded, cold. They knew what was underneath the hood. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. I couldn’t go. I shed a tear.

Nearby, bells rang. A clock showed that it was the top of the hour. I followed the sound, and then the echo, to a church. I tried the front doors. They opened easily. I stepped into a lobby. There was an older lady sitting at a desk in the next-door office. She looked and pointed at me. A man stepped out, barely older than me, and shook my hand.

“Welcome, brother. Can I help you?”

I opened my mouth and struggled to form the right words. I wanted to step back and leave. I wanted to throw the rose down and trample it. I wanted to scream. And then the words came.

“I’m a bad man,” I said.

I spent hours with that pastor spilling out everything I hid.

I returned to the flower shop. In all of that, I never broke or discarded that rose. Rose sat behind the register, cigarette in hand, waiting for me.

“I knew you’d be back,” she said.

“I didn’t…” I started.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

I offered the rose back.

“Keep it. I’ll teach you how to preserve it. You’ll want the reminder,” she said. “Come, sit.”

She poured me a drink and one for herself.

“When we first met, I introduced myself to you as Rose.”

“Was that wrong?”

“No. That is my name, but I imagine that wasn’t what Curly told you.”

“The Witch,” I recalled.

“Yes. It is a name I have earned over many years serving the families of this city’s underbelly.”

She pointed behind her.

“There’s a room back there that I never let anyone in. In there, I grow all sorts of things that would land me in jail. It’s my currency with the families. I grow high-quality produce. For many, that is why I am called The Witch. For others, I provide another service. I can turn people into what they aren’t. People like you.”

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Surely you’ve figured something out,” she said.

“The clients you had me collect from. They’re all legitimately down and out,” I answered.

“Good boy,” she said. “Curly always liked you and saw what talent you possessed, but he knew you had a soft spot. That came through with that awful, terrible car wreck, how you took that girl out without so much as a thought and saw to her well-being beyond what many would consider necessary. Curly was unnecessarily rough with you because he didn’t want to do what he normally would.”

“He didn’t off me,” I said. For some reason, I never thought of that, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

“Right. You went down a digit and an eye, but you could still function. He sent you to me to get rid of you in a…more humane manner.”

I looked down at my drink, suddenly afraid of what was in it. She laughed.

“Your drink is fine, honey,” she said, slipping a piece of paper to me.

It was a notice from the boss that I was expelled from the Ricci family, with a little note on the side where he scrawled, “Good luck, kiddo!” I sat, dumbfounded. That was my life, my everything. What was I going to do? I looked at Rose. Her confident demeanor was gone. She was exhausted.

“You’re dying,” I said.

“Cancer. I don’t have much time left. You’ll be taking over the shop. Minus that,” she said while pointing behind. “I orchestrated many transitions from life in the families to normal life. I never thought I would ever train my own replacement. I guess nobody really lives forever.”

“I…” I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s okay, honey. It was lucky for both of us that Lucy liked flowers. I’ve been training you this whole time. Tomorrow, we start putting it into practice. Soon, you will be the owner of The Rose’s Thorn, a normal man, with a new lease on life. Perhaps you can make a better name for yourself and become worthy of that girl.”

“I’m not a good man,” I said.

“No, you aren’t. But you aren’t a bad man either. Take this chance to become a good one.” She held up her glass. I held up mine, and we clinked them together. The deal was made.

In the months that followed, I trained under Rose until the cancer took her. She dismantled her little secret garden before she left, and I used the space to expand what I could grow. I worked with her clientele, established the business as my own, and grew it into what it is today. I loved working with flowers. I loved seeing happy customers. I started going to that church. The Rose’s Thorn had flourished for the last ten years. It has been my labor of love.

It was a wonderful reunion we had, you and I. We had much to catch up on. The nurse who helped you get on your feet again, I’m sure he will be a fine husband to you. I took a very long time to become someone worthy of you, but it took too long. I’m not entirely sad, though. My life has gotten better. I see beauty in life. There’s a deep sense of fulfillment in my new work. Not everything works out. It doesn’t have to.

If by some crazy random happenstance you ever come across this note that I’ve tucked away into a bottle I’ve chucked into the harbor, know that I’ve loved you all these years, even if it’s deep down and far away. Seeing you again was a gift, but I cannot be burdened by the past. I still have my life to live, and you yours.

Farewell,

Jack Smith

[dany36]

WHAT THE FUCK THIS SCENE WAS SO COOL AND BADASS OMFGGG I CANT BELIEVE THEY ENDED IT LIKE THIS??? I HAD NEVER SEEN LARA SO FULL OF RAGE DAMN!!! TIME TO PLAY UNDERWORLD THEN!!! 😱😱😱😱

[loveinlilies]

Obsessed w Tatsumi harboring the exact form of love Himeru ‘despises’ in Romantic Date man. Him being a perfect idol because of ‘Agape’ or pure adoration with no consequences which Himeru doesn’t understand because of the. Y‘Know

[hotniatheron]

not the moonlight and if beale street could talk composer being the one working on the cassian series............

[kathaynesart]

REPLICA PLAYLIST

MUSIC UNDER CUT

I have been receiving requests for any songs that inspired Replica, so here, have my personal playlist. Sorry it’s not Spotify/Soundcloud but they don’t have some of these songs available so uh… guess you’re stuck with YouTube vids. For fun I'll include my personal titles for them (which might give a few hints of what to expect in the future/end).

Replica Main Theme - “Die for You” by Grabbitz Like Father Like Son Like Brother (Omega and Shelldon) - "As Above So Below" by Alistair Lindsay Mikey's Theme / The 1st Vision - "Suzume no Tojimari" by Nanoka Hara Military (Mad) Dogs / Central Park Colony - "Imperium" by Madeon Shanghai - "Icarus" by Madeon Boom Goes the Donnie-mite (Mikey/Donnie vs the Sweeper) - "The Red Zone" by Mitsuoto Suzuki The Day the Sky Bled Red - "7 Seconds Till the End" by Nobuo Uematsu Going Out Like a Boss (Raph and Leo) - "Agape" by Nicholas Britell Remembering the Right Way (Mikey and Leo) - "The Souls of Many" - by Alistair Lindsay Mystic Hands / The 2nd Vision - "Am I Dreaming" by Metro Boomin x A$AP Book 2 Trailer - "Sea Dragon" by Covet 7 Years Later - "Iron" by Woodkid Leo's Theme / Attack on the Labor Camp - "Ego Death" by Polyphia Omega's Theme - "Touch" by Daft Punk Flat Lines (Omega Alone) - "Die Toteninsel Emptiness" by 1000 Eyes Spear - "Monsters" by Tommee Profitt Final Protocol - "The Kraken" by Katie Dey Rise / Epilogue - "Close in the Distance" by Masayoshi Soken & Tom Mills

I will admit, it's a little embarrassing since you can easily see the patterns of what I've been listening to for the past year or two. I swear I listen to more than just videogame OSTs, these songs just jive well with the story and I often find lyrics distracting when brainstorming scenes. Regardless, the music I listen to is such an important part of my creative process and some of these songs really defined the scenes I now have locked in my head. So I figured it was only fair to give them the credit they're due.

I will continue to add to this playlist, and will note in comic updates when one of these songs is applicable!