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"I want to write good words!"

Good Words are the enemy, don't trust the good words, never show up. Never help a guy out. Bad words always have your back.

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There's always a point in the brainstorming/writing process where I want to talk about/read the story, and then remember I haven't written or even shared anything about it yet.

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I've come up with a character-centered approach to a fairy tale, and I'm delighted.

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For a Song: A Retelling of "The Lute Player"

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge hosted by @inklings-challenge, here is a retelling of a fairy tale known as "The Lute Player" (also drawing from similar tales within the subgenre of "The Faithful Wife", like "The Tsaritsa Harpist" and "Conrad van Tannenberg").

Alexander

The world wants me to forget my wife. In the enemy's dungeons, I am not a man—I am a prisoner and a slave, with no past and no future. At dawn, I wake and am driven to the fields, whipped and worked like a beast. After dark, I collapse onto a pile of straw in a damp stone cell, too tired to think or dream.

Yet I try to remember. My Tatyana is a queen, regal and poised. She has hair as red as autumn, eyes the deep blue of a mountain lake. Her hands are elegant, with long, slender fingers. Her lips… Her lips…she has two of them, I know, but whether they are full or thin, rounded or tapered…I must…I will remember.

Even when the details of her face fade, her voice is clear in my memory. Rich and low, as sweet and resonant as a clarinet. I can hear her making speeches, reading poems, speaking words of love. Most of all, I can hear her sing. Her voice is a priceless instrument that she can tune to sound like a nightingale, an angel, a church organ, an orchestra. Her voice was the first thing I fell in love with, and it seems to call to me across the miles, across the years, giving me hope that she still lives, that she loves me, that she is waiting…

I left my kingdom in her care when I went to war. She is a queen who can wield her power well. She is intelligent, decisive, clever, compassionate. She can keep my ministers in check, guide my people, and guard my throne. But how long can she wait? How long can they go without word from me before they presume I died in the battle at that mountain pass? Before the woman I love consigns me to memory and gives her living heart to another?

These thoughts torment me on a stormy morning when I lay trapped in my cell. The weather is too wet for even King Vulric to send his slaves into the fields, but without the crushing labor to distract me, my fears are free to run wild. What if my wife has forgotten me? What if she prefers to rule alone? An unattached woman, with beauty, talent, power—what use would she have for a wretch like me?

I fight the thoughts as fiercely as I once fought enemy soldiers. Tatyana is good and true. I love her with all my heart and soul, and she loves me in return. If I get word to her, she will come instantly, with armies, caravans, banners. She will pay any price to redeem me. I must never doubt. Never forget.

I drift into a restless slumber, tossing and turning on my straw, wincing from the pain in my sores. I am woken by a shout, and I look up into the face, not of the usual witless brute of a guard, but a sharp-eyed man in silken robes—a messenger to the king.

It seems the messenger has remembered that I am no ordinary prisoner, even if his king has forgotten. He offers me pen and paper and urges me to write a letter to my wife. I know he hopes for a rich reward, and I promise he will receive one when the letter is delivered.

I take up the pen and write desperately, urgently, eagerly, pouring out years of pent-up love and desperation, at last calling back to the voice that has called me for so long.

Remember me.

Save me.

Come.

Come.

Come.

Tatyana

The world wants me to forget my husband. Three long years have passed with no word from him. My advisors urge me to give the crown and my heart to another. Men of rank and ambition offer me rich presents, whisper words of devotion, urge me to strengthen the throne with a masculine presence. Yet I am faithful. My heart is wholly Alexander’s. If my husband is alive, I keep his throne for him. If he is dead, I honor his memory.

His face is before me always—his dark hair, his thick brows, his crooked nose, his deep blue eyes. I first fell in love with his hands—strong enough to swing a sword, soft enough to soothe a child. He is strong and gentle, just and merciful. When he heard of how King Vulric oppressed his people, he could do nothing but go to war, and he went with my blessing. I never thought I would be alone this long.

Every day, I wait for word. Every day, I pray that he lives.

The prayer is answered on a hot, still evening, when I sit alone in my council chamber. Just as I consider returning to my private rooms, a guard comes rushing in.

“Majesty!” he cries. “A messenger! From foreign lands!”

I rise from my seat. My heart sits in my throat. My life hinges on this message. In a moment I will know if I am a wife or a widow.

A messenger enters, dusty and travel-worn—he places a letter in my palm. It is written in Alexander’s hand. Sealed with Alexander’s ring.

I laugh for joy, and soon, I find I am singing. My lost husband is found. He has risen from the dead. My heart is full to bursting.

I open the letter and drink in his writing. He lives. He loves me. He is prisoner in King Vulric's dungeons, put to work like a slave, but he is alive—and he can be redeemed.

Alexander urges me to sell all I can for the ransom. Jewels, horses, palaces, land—I am given authority to sell it all, if only it means he can come home to me.

I consider the problem through the long summer night. I would gladly give all I own to have my husband again, but who could I trust to deliver the bounty? The ministers loyal to Alexander are not shrewd enough to arrange favorable terms; those shrewd enough to trade I do not trust to serve my husband loyally. I cannot go myself—King Vulric would simply claim me as another of his wives.

But what if I were a man?

By dawn, I have my plan. I will not travel with armies, with caravans, or even companions. They will only slow me down. I will cut my hair, dress in a man's clothing, take on the disguise of a traveling minstrel. My voice is a treasure beyond all the gold in the world; it will be enough to redeem my husband.

In the morning, I leave the kingdom in the hands of my most trusted advisor. By afternoon, I have clothes, food, and money enough for a long journey. At midnight, I cut my hair, and save the red tresses in a trunk for Alexander to admire upon his return. At dawn, I leave the palace, with a pack on my back, a lute in my hands, and a song in my heart.

I’m coming

I’m coming.

I’m coming.

Alexander

Somewhere in the world beyond my dungeon, my wife is waiting. This truth keeps me strong through the long days of suffering. My heart is with the letter, following its path. Now, it is on its way to her. Now, it is in her hands. Today, perhaps, she is on the road, coming to ransom me.

I imagine her coming in full royal glory, showing the strength of the throne to this barbarian king. She will be radiant in queenly regalia, backed by a full company of soldiers. Her love for me will let her do no less.

My strength means that the overseers work harder to break me. I work for hours in the fields, forced to pull a plow through the dry earth. I am lashed for the slightest infractions. I suffer sunstroke and starvation.

One day, when I stop my work to help an injured slave, I am beaten by the overseer and left overnight in the fields, too weak to run away. Once, this might have driven me to despair, but in the freezing moonlight, I nearly laugh for joy. What does it matter if I cannot move? My Tatyana is coming.

At dawn, a hired worker finds me and leads me back to the dungeon. I am cast onto my pile of straw, shaking and burning up with fever. I see Tatyana’s face in a thousand waking dreams. She is dancing. She is crying. She is tending to my wounds. She is traveling to find me. She is entertaining suitors. She is laughing at my belief that she would leave her palace to rescue me.

At last, I fall into restless sleep. Shadows and sounds move around me. Strange hands tend my wounds, give me water, force me to swallow horrid concoctions.

After who knows how many days, I wake into cold reality. My muscles are withered. My limbs are weak. A fellow prisoner bathes my head with precious water. I am awake enough to know my danger. The delirium has passed, but my body lingers near the brink of death.

Will Tatyana come in time?

Tatyana

Somewhere in the dungeons below this palace, my husband is waiting. I have traveled for weeks, across plains, rivers, and deserts. I have slept on the hard ground. I have foraged for food, bargained for water.

Now, I stand in the palace of the cruelest, richest king on Earth. The walls are made of marble, every fixture made of gold. Precious jewels are inlaid in every tile of every floor. Golden tables sag under the weight of a feast that offers meat, bread, fruit, cakes, and vegetables from every corner of the world.

At the top of the room, King Vulric sits in a throne of pure gold, swathed in brightly colored robes. Despite the feast that surrounds him, he looks less satisfied than some of the beggars I have met in my travels.

His dark eyes glitter as I approach. My travel-worn red cloak and lute proclaim me a minstrel.

“Name yourself,” King Vulric demands. “From where do you hail?”

I have always been an able mimic. I answer in the tenor of a young man. “I call myself Karol, and I have no home save the one the music brings me to.”

“They tell me that you play the lute.”

“I have played for kings,” I say. I played for my husband nearly every night of our marriage.

One corner of King Vulric's mouth lifts in a cruel smile. “You have not played for me. I am a lover of music, yet there is little anymore that can please me. If your song satisfies me, I shall count you greater than any of the treasures in my palace. If it does not, you shall be whipped and left for the vultures.”

In answer, I smile softly, and take the lute off my back.

I sing in a voice that matches the tones of Karol’s. The notes flow sweet as honey on my tongue, ring around the room as though carried by angels. The guests at the feast, who had paid little heed to the ragged minstrel, fall silent after the first notes. By the end of the song, tears stream down King Vulric's face.

When the last notes fade, I bow solemnly. “If my music pleases you, majesty, I will take a bit of food and be on my way.”

“No!” King Vulric cries, but it is not a refusal. It is desperation—a child begging for the treasure of its heart. “No, you must not go!" He rises from his throne. "Stay and play for me, and when you leave, I will give you anything you ask, even unto half my kingdom.”

For the next three days, I am King Vulric’s honored guest. When food and wine and luxury fail to satisfy, music helps him to forget the sins that weigh upon his soul. I play whenever the king desires, which means I sing nearly without ceasing. Each song pleases him more than the last, until I begin to believe he would gladly give his entire kingdom for the gift of one more song.

At last, I take my chance. As the king reclines in his chambers, I sing a song of the open road, of a voice that calls the traveler to find the true desire of his heart. The king gazes out his crystalline windows, as if he would leave behind this palace to follow the road I sing of.

“Your majesty,” I say, when I finish the song. “I have been happy to serve you, but the road is calling to my wanderer’s soul.”

The king begins to protest, but I stand firm, and he—helped by the song—seems to understand.

I say, “You vowed that, when I left, you would give me my heart’s desire.”

“I did," he says, "and I will keep my word."

“I want a companion as I travel through these lands. Let me have one of your prisoners. Someone who speaks my native tongue."

King Vulric says, “It shall be done.”

*

Where is my husband? I have circled these dungeons three times, but I do not see Alexander. In this dark, damp hell, every man is a near-identical portrait of misery. How will I find my husband while maintaining my own disguise?

At last, I decide to stop at every cell and ask a question in my native tongue. Most of the men stare blankly, or reply in unfamiliar languages.

At last, in the dampest, darkest corner of the dungeon, I stop at a door and ask, “Are there any here who speak the Northern tongue?”

Two men turn and look at me, their eyes bright, but wary. In a mound of straw, a pile of rags stirs. A head rises, showing shaggy dark hair. Torchlight flashes in a pair of deep blue eyes.

“You have word from the North?” he asks, his voice weak and husky.

I gasp. My stomach drops. I barely recognize my husband. His strong limbs have wasted away until they are no thicker than my arm. His face is sunken—almost skeletal. His face and limbs are wounded and scarred so I can barely see any unblemished skin. How has King Vulric reduced my husband, the warrior king, to this?

I want to weep, to collapse, to gather Alexander in my arms, but in this moment, I am supposed to be a man who has no home or family. I let my face show only the concern that any good-hearted human would show for a suffering stranger.

In Alexander’s tenor, I say, “I desire a companion who speaks the language of my people. King Vulric tells me I may take any prisoner I choose. You speak like an intelligent man.”

Alexander raises himself up on his arms. “I am no common prisoner.”

I nod quickly and tell the guard, “I will take this one.”

As the guard moves to open the door of the cell, Alexander says, “Wait!”

The guard stops. Alexander meets my eye. “You travel to the North?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

He gestures to the other men in the cell. “Take us all. These men are all my s—” I don’t know if he tries to say “subjects” or “soldiers”, but he amends, “They are my countrymen. I will not leave without them.”

This is not part of my plan. I came only for Alexander. I do not have food, clothing, money to care for them all. If we travel with strangers, I will not dare to reveal my true identity. I will not disgrace the crown by letting these men know their queen has dressed like a man.

“I only came for one. I don’t know if the king—”

Some passionate emotion sparks in Alexander’s eye—beneath his wasted form, my husband’s soul is still alive. “Ask. Either you take us all, or I will not go.”

My plan is falling to pieces, but I know that Alexander is right. I can not leave these men behind.

I send word to the king that the slave I want will only come with two other men; to get my heart’s desire, I will need to take all three. An hour later, I get my answer—my request is granted.

*

At daybreak, I lead my husband and his fellows out of prison. Alexander can barely walk, but he rebuffs me when I offer him my shoulder to lean upon.

Even in daylight, he does not recognize me. He has not seen me in three years. I have cut my hair so short its color can barely be seen. I dress and walk and speak like a man. He has no reason to expect that I would come to him in such a guise. Yet to have my husband so close to me, and looking at me with a stranger’s eyes, pierces me to the heart.

I dare not reveal the truth to him. In these lands, women never travel far from home, and no merchant will bargain with one. I must remain a man if I am to keep our group safe and fed. Alexander is never far from the other prisoners, and I will not risk my secret being overheard. Alexander will not be able to protect me should any of his fellow soldiers prove untrustworthy.

The other soldiers are stronger than Alexander. Sometimes I wonder if they will run away in the night. Yet I have food, I am taking them closer to home, and there is safety in numbers. More than that, they are loyal to Alexander. They care for him as they would a beloved father—helping him to walk, allowing him to rest, helping him to eat and bathe. I understand why Alexander wished them to bring them out of of that dungeon.

Eventually, we join a larger caravan traveling toward the frontier of our kingdom, and it becomes even more important to guard my secret. Alexander grows stronger, but he still refuses to look at me; I never see a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Alexander

Where is my wife? I received no reply to my letter. Though time enough had passed for an emissary to reach King Vulric’s palace, I saw no sign of her. I hoped perhaps we would pass her on the road, but I have seen no royal caravans.

Has she forgotten me?

I fight against the suspicion, but it seems more sensible as time goes on. There are many women who would prefer to rule a kingdom rather than ransom a husband they have not seen for three years. I do not believe Tatyana is one of them.

Yet...she did not come.

Because of her delay, I have been sold as a common slave.

My new master puzzles me. For a man who claims he wanted companions to talk to, Karol speaks very little. He has the red hair common in my kingdom, eyes nearly as blue as my wife’s. He is built like a minstrel, not a warrior. In full health, I could have overpowered him with one arm and escaped to freedom. In my wasted state, I can only meekly follow and wait for my next meal.

Yet Karol seems to be a kind youth. He is generous with meals, respectful with words. He is mindful of our weakness, walking slowly and giving us ample rest. He tends our wound with his own hands.

At night, sometimes, he sings for us. His voice makes me forget there ever was such a thing as war. He sings of peace, of safety, of home. Sometimes, as I drift on the edge of sleep, I can almost believe I am safe at home with Tatyana, that all my suffering has been only a dream.

Karol travels always closer to the border of my kingdom, traveling on whichever road and with whichever caravan will take us there more quickly. Sometimes, I dare to hope that his purchase of us was only an excuse to get us out of King Vulric’s clutches, and that once we return to my kingdom, he will set us free.

Yet day after day, week after week, he makes no mention of it.

One late summer night, we cross the border into my domain. I remember this road from when we first traveled to war. It looks different now—empty, isolated, quiet. Not a road to glory, but a road to a wife who ignored me in my imprisonment.

As much as it pains me, I can no longer deny the truth. We traveled for weeks through the countryside between my palace and King Vulric’s, and we've heard not a word of my wife. We have spoken to hundreds of travelers; no one knows anything about a foreign queen come to redeem her husband. If Tatyana had come, if she had sent an emissary, someone would know. Such news does not stay secret in this land.

I can not stay near my companions when I am suffering such pain. I wander away from the fire and find myself, for the first time, alone with my master.

Karol stands on a hilltop, looking over a vast plain. He is as mysterious and silent as always. Who is this lonely, wandering youth who buys slaves with a song?

I do not ask for his story. I have not told him mine.

Perhaps I should. Though I’ve no true home to go to, we are standing in my realm.

“Minstrel,” I say, “I am king of this land. Set me and my soldiers free, and I will see that you are well-rewarded.”

I do not think that Karol truly wants slaves. A minstrel has no work for us to do.

The full moon rises, huge, above him. He does not speak.

For a moment, I wonder if I have misjudged him. Perhaps he only seemed kind compared to my previous master. Perhaps he intends to sell us.

Karol turns, and his face softens. “Do not speak of reward. Go with God.”

With those simple words, I am free. No chain, no law, no obligation binds me to any man. My name and life have been restored to me.

I owe it all to this wandering stranger.

Suddenly, I find myself unable to abandon him on this hillside. I take his hand in mine—surprisingly slender, smooth save for the calluses of his craft. “Come with me,” I say. “You have been good to me. I will have you as a guest and see that you are honored as you deserve.”

A new light dances in his eyes. A smile tugs one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he does not believe me.

“I must take my own road,” Karol says. “When the time comes, I will be at your palace.”

He bows, takes his pack, slings his lute across his back, and disappears into the night.

I wonder when I will see him again.

Tatyana

I travel quickly. I take short routes, sleep little, move with great speed. Alexander is much stronger than he was. He will be safe with his fellow soldiers. I must return before him and make sure his palace is ready to welcome him home.

I could not tell him the truth in that final moment. We traveled together so long as strangers that it seemed cruel to reveal he had been mistaken all this time. Better to let him see me first as the wife he has longed for.

After only three days, I begin to recognize the countryside. Joy bubbles in my heart as I see the river, the city, the palace. Before I approach the gate, I buy myself a gown from a dressmaker, cover my shorn hair with a veil. I do not look like a queen, but I look like a woman. For the first time in months, I move and speak as myself.

I am welcomed back with joy and with confusion. I am asked where I have been, what I have done. I only say, “The king is coming. We must be ready.”

I check with my ministers and learn the kingdom is running well. I order the palace cleaned, fine foods prepared. When the guards inform us the king has been seen at the city gates, I run to my room and dress myself in my finest gown. I dress my hair with diamonds, wear gold necklaces, earrings, rings. I want Alexander to see me first as a queen and his bride.

Though I saw him only days ago, it feels as though I have been waiting years. I have traveled with a stranger who did not know me. Only when Alexander comes through the palace gates will I be reunited with my husband.

I wonder when I will see him again.

Alexander

I travel quickly. My men and I have regained much of our health, and we are in familiar country. I must hurry home. I have been away for nearly four years. Even if my queen has not been waiting for me, my country has.

The people rejoice as I enter the city. I accept their praise, but do not linger. I hurry toward the palace, a new thought giving me hope. Perhaps Tatyana is not there. Perhaps she is still on the road, still searching for me.

When I step inside my gates, a woman runs down the steps of the palace. She wears a gleaming green gown, an elaborate beaded headdress. She is laden with gold and jewels.

Tatyana.

She never stirred from the palace. She lived in luxury while I rotted in a foreign prison.

Tatyana throws her arms around my neck and weeps for joy. The lie disgusts me.

Coldly, I lift her arms off of my shoulders. I hold her away from me and look her in the face. Her expression is a frozen mask—sorrow, heartbreak, fear.

She was always an excellent actress.

I turn her around so she faces the assembled crowd. “Behold a faithless wife!” I cry. “She throws her arms around me now, but when I wrote a letter begging for her help, she did not lift a finger!”

I release her, and she falls to the ground. I stride toward the palace, fury giving me strength to stand as tall as I ever did.

“Alexander!” she cries.

I do not look at her.

Tatyana

My husband does not look at me. I rush after him, calling his name, but he never turns his head. He disappears into his chambers and closes the door in my face—further from me now than he ever was in a foreign prison.

After so many months of deception, I was overjoyed to face him as myself. All the tears—all the sorrow, terror, fear and joy—of the past years poured out in a tidal wave of honest emotion. I was so glad to—at long last—have his shoulder to cry on.

I had built up this moment into a beautiful story, the glorious end of all our troubles. Now I know it is a fantasy—my castle in the air has fallen and shattered into nothing.

Because Alexander has built his own story. He is a man of action, honest and forthright in all his dealings. He expected to be openly redeemed, to be brought into his kingdom in glory. He does not understand trickery. His expectations have blinded him to reality—even when he stared me in the face, he did not see the truth.

I have a share in the blame. I told myself I kept my secret for my safety, for the sake of the crown, but there is part of me that only wanted to save my pride. I feared the shame I would face if it was known that I'd spent these months dressed as a man. I had hoped to delay the moment when Alexander knew of what I had done.

I have delayed far too long.

I rush to my own chambers. I throw off my gown, my jewels, my veil. I put on my traveling cloak and once more pick up my lute.

It is time to put an end to all deception.

Alexander

I never knew that any man could suffer such sorrow. After war, captivity, slavery, starvation, illness and near-death, I had hoped that homecoming would be the joyful end of all my trials. Instead, I have learned that betrayal—the lost love of a beloved wife—is the worst suffering a man can endure.

I had imagined her waiting for me. Weeping for me. Selling all we had to bring me home. Instead, I found her in silks and jewels, as comfortable as if she has never left the palace, as if I had never been away. There is no sign that she spent a single coin for my sake.

I could have come home as a king, dressed in royal robes with a queen at my side. Instead, I returned alone, on foot, no better than a common beggar. The shame of it overwhelmed me the moment I saw my wife in royal finery. She did not even mourn for me. All these months, I drew strength from the thought of the love waiting for me. It crushes me to know how wholly I was deceived.

I bathe and wash away the grime of travel. I shave my face, cut my hair, dress in royal robes. Then, for the first time in nearly four years, I see my reflection in a mirror. The man looking back at me is a stranger. No longer the warrior king and beloved husband, he is weak, wasted, heartbroken.

In my council room, I gather my ministers. I learn that they, at least, have been faithful. The kingdom has been well-stewarded in my absence.

I wish I could bring myself to care.

“Sire,” my steward says. “The servants say you have not spoken to your wife.”

I scowl. “I will not see that woman.”

“But sire, you judge too harshly—”

I laugh in cynical disbelief. “I am too harsh? How ought I judge a woman who left me to rot in a foreign prison?”

My steward says, “The day she received your letter, she left the palace. She only returned yesterday. No one knows where she went.”

My anger erupts. “She did not come in search of me! I was freed by a minstrel! A stranger showed me more compassion than my own wife! He I will remember with gratitude all my days, but my wife, I will not speak of.”

My ministers murmur, troubled by my outburst.

I storm out of the council chamber. I have no heart for politics today.

In the hall, I hear music. The sound of a lute, playing a very familiar tune. Suddenly, I am not standing in my palace, mourning a faithless wife. I am sitting by a campfire in foreign lands, safe among friends.

Despite everything, I smile. The minstrel kept his word.

Karol emerges from around the corner, looking just as he did on the road. His cloak is brightly-colored and travel-worn. His lute is now tucked under his arm. Under his breath, he hums the song he often sang as we traveled on sunny days.

I take his hand heartily. "Karol! You came!"

He gives a characteristically enigmatic smile. "I told you I would come to your palace at the proper time."

Here, at least, is one who I can honor. I take his hand and lead him into the council chambers.

“This,” I tell my ministers, “is truly a faithful friend. He released me and my men from prison and helped us all get safely home.”

While my minsters make polite greeting, I turn to Karol.

“My friend,” I say. “I said that I would reward you, and I will keep my word. Ask me for anything, even unto half my kingdom, and I will grant it to you.”

Karol bows his head. “Your majesty,” he says, “I want only the reward that I asked of King Vulric.”

I frown. “I keep no slaves,” I say.

Karol shakes his head and smiles. He places his lute on the floor, unlatches his cloak, and lets it fall to the floor.

I witness a transformation. The minstrel’s stance, face, voice, all shift. His aloof eyes light up with emotion. The stiff lines of his face soften into curves. The cloak reveals a woman’s gown, and the voice, when he speaks, is the well-remembered voice of my wife.

“I want only you,” Tatyana says.

Her words are like light breaking through clouds. The sorrow, terror, heartbreak of the last years fades away, thrown off like her minstrel’s cloak. All the time I thought myself abandoned, Tatyana was at my side. Not a faithless wife—the most faithful wife who ever lived.

Never, never, never have I been so glad to find that I have been a fool.

I laugh as I have not laughed in years. The sound of it rings through the chambers like a song. I throw my arms around my wife and press her to my heart.

“You shall have me,” I say, sealing the promise with a kiss. “For as long as we both shall live.”

Tatyana

I never knew that any woman could know so much joy. Alexander is radiant, singing my praises to all the world. For seven days we feast, celebrating his return and my heroism in saving him. Alexander begs my forgiveness over and over—for how he shamed me, for how he rushed to judgment, for ever doubting my faithfulness. I take joy in forgiving him, and, when we are alone in my chambers, I ask him to pardon me for keeping him ignorant of my true identity.

“You did what you must,” he says. “Do not apologize for being wiser than I am. I would have had you sell our kingdom to redeem me, and instead you bought me for a song.”

I laugh, then kiss him tenderly. “You are worth much more than that.”

He caresses my faces, strokes my shorn hair. The kiss he gives me tells me I am the greatest treasure he could have. I return the kiss to say the same about him.

Our love is priceless.

Never again will I let him doubt it.

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It feels like a good day to tell you that on pre-human-contact Arateph, there was a festival that occurred roughly at the same point in winter as our Valentine's Day. Most tephan festivals celebrate a certain virtue, and this one celebrated creativity and the creation of beauty.

I only know this because this festival was an important moment in Marastel and Jemrauth's courtship. Rilya hosted elaborate celebrations for this festival--it's supposed to allow people to present creative works or skills they've spent the winter practicing. Of course the crown prince attended when he was in Kepha. He was an excellent vocalist, who possessed the rare skill of being able to sing with all the layers of his voice, and his unexpectedly gorgeous singing voice was a factor in Marastel falling in love with him.

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What If? is the question that drives most retellings. This works best with the well-known fairy tales. Everyone knows the original story, so readers will be interested in how you twist it.

You can change

Plot: What if Cinderella didn't go to the ball?

Character: What if Snow White was evil?

Setting/Genre: What if Sleeping Beauty was set on a spaceship?

Theme: What if Beauty and the Beast was about family love instead of romance?

There's a variation of the plot What If? that asks:

What's Next?: What happens after Cinderella marries the prince?

In this case, you're writing a sequel. The fairy tale is backstory, and your story is something new.

There's also a mash-up What If? that asks:

What if these two stories were combined?: What if the prince in Cinderella was also the Beast in Beauty and the Beast?

Here, the readers are pulled through the story because they want to see how the plot and characters of these stories fit together into something new.

In all these cases, What If? is the question that motivates your readers. They want to see how your changes make for a different story.

With traditional retellings, you have to ask different questions. You want to tell a story with the same plot, characters, and setting as the original--maybe because you love the original story so much, maybe because you're retelling an obscure tale. But then what's the point of your story? What question are you going to answer in a way that can't be satisfied by reading the original tale?

The questions that work best here are:

Why?: In fairy tales, things usually happen "just because". There's very little explanation of why events happen a certain way or why characters act the way they do. Asking Why? allows your story to give an answer that explains confusing or ambiguous points in the original story.

Who?: Fairy tales don't dig very deeply into the psychology of their characters. A retelling allows you to enter into the perspective of one of the characters and explore what it would be like to live through the events of the story. What kind of person acts the way this character does? What fears and hopes motivate them? What do they think about the events of the story?

There's a variation of Who? that asks:

Who is telling the story?: This is your classic POV switch. Your story can have the same plot, setting, and characters as the original, but if you focus on the viewpoint of someone other than the traditional main character--the love interest, the villain, a side character, a confused bystander--you can wind up with a very different, sometimes almost entirely original story.

Almost every retelling needs to answer at least one Why? question. Even if it's a minor plot point, your story should offer a clarification or a rationale behind some element of the original. Asking Who? is a great way to expand upon the fairy tale and make it something more psychologically complex. First-person point-of-view is very helpful in this case, because it instantly adds something new to your telling of the story, even if you follow every beat of the original tale.

What If? retellings also need to answer Why? and Who?, but they're not the driving force in the same way that they have to be for traditional retellings. What If? allows for a twist that's the driving force behind the story, but when you're not changing anything, the depth that Why? and Who? provide is crucial to making your story feel new.

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It's very weird to have a writing process that veers more and more toward discovery writing, but still has to have outlines. I've got to sink into the flow and let the story unfold as I write. But after a writing session, I almost always have to go back and rewrite the last scene I wrote to better match my original idea. Yet it's still about vibes--I have to make sure the prose has the right flow before I can move on.

It's most evident when I write these traditional retellings. With original fiction, I can get more intellectual about it. I can to some extent put the story together like Lego bricks, slotting in a plot point here, a bit of characterization there. I'm just trying to figure out what is happening, so the exact wording doesn't matter as much. I can view it much more as a whole story, that can be adjusted in bits and pieces all over the place.

With a retelling, there's another author who told us what happened. The point of my story is how I tell it. It's as much meta as story. I'm giving you a lens through which to view the fairy tale. If that lens gets out of focus, I've got to go back and make it clear before I go any further, or else I'll end up way off-course from where I wanted to go.

The emotional atmosphere is key to the whole story. So I've got to sink into the writing and just let the prose flow so I can immerse myself in that emotional atmosphere. But I've still got to go back and make sure my prose is flowing in the right channels. It's not something that can be solved by further outlining. The repeated drafting is the only way to make the story work. Even if it's a lot of work.

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I didn't follow the first rule very well, but at the end of this writing session, I've now got 3,100 words in this story, I'm roughly at the point I wanted to be at, and so far, I've successfully avoided forcing the story into any unnatural forms.

I'd say the story is at least 60% done, so finishing it by Friday morning is doable.

Plan for this writing session:

No tumblr until I finish at least this next section of the story.

Don't worry about artificial story structure rules.

Just follow the flow of the story and prose.

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Plan for this writing session:

No tumblr until I finish at least this next section of the story.

Don't worry about artificial story structure rules.

Just follow the flow of the story and prose.

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Once again, I am SO EXCITED to show you guys a retelling, but unfortunately I have to write it first.

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To prove that I am trying to write a retelling, here's a failed opening paragraph to a "King Thrushbeard" retelling that I'm never going to write.

Our first year of marriage, my husband and I lived in a hovel. It was a tiny, damp, dim little room, with a dirt floor, a straw roof, and a chimney that always smoked. It sat a mile from the nearest village, abandoned by a farmer who had failed. It sat on the banks of a tiny creek, and at sunrise I would leave the dim confines of the house to wade in the shallows and watch the water ripple over stones, watch the sun flash on the water, watch the birds dive for bugs and sing their praises to the living God who'd given them another day. Sometimes I dream of returning there—the creek would be the same, I think, even so many years later. Of course, at the time, I was miserable.

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Here's a new one.

A couple years ago, I had in-depth ideas about how to adapt "King Thrushbeard". I thought I'd look up the outline to get inspiration for a possible short-story version.

Well, it turns out a while back I left my computer open by my niece and nephew. I left the room for like two minutes, and when I returned, both were banging on the keyboard, and they'd opened like five different programs and some settings windows and all kinds of things I couldn't open on my computer if I tried.

Including FocusWriter, which had this outline as the default document that pops up. I thought I had exited the program without saving their changes.

Apparently I did not.

So this is now the entire document:

’n /iky/u6%>*L:764kyj+65//h.l*[=-P / lpo

Profound.

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Things I Would Like to Write for the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge

New Year's Eve Retelling: Top priority. Only way this doesn't get done is if I decide that it needs more editing to live up to its potential (because it's the longest fantasy retelling I've ever written).

First-person retelling featuring a deeply-in-love married couple: I'd like to continue the tradition and post this on Valentine's Day. "King Thrushbeard" is especially compelling at the moment, but I've also got ideas for "Beauty and the Beast" and "The Lindworm". I could wind up focusing on an entirely different fairy tale, too, but I'd like to fill this category with something.

Riquet of the Tuft: I still owe a flash fiction of this one, it would be a good way to feature storge between sisters, and I think with a new angle on the story, I could write it fairly quickly.

Political Goose Girl: This one came back and caught my interest. It would be a fascinating friendship-focused (possibly with some agape) short story. However, I've tried and failed with this story plenty of times before, and I could well lose interest again.

Arateph: There is an insane part of my brain that thinks I could try to throw together a version of one of my long-running Arateph retellings by the end of the month. This is completely unrealistic and won't happen. It still has to go on the list because I want to be able to ignore the physical limitations of reality, even if I can't find a way to do it.

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If I hurry up and finish this draft, I'll be able to edit! I'm so excited!

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It turns out that when you decide not to stay up until three in the morning finishing a scene, the next time you look at the scene, you can't remember any of the lines you were going to write. I am not a fan.

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Since I can't really adjust the look of my main blog, my writing blog is where I get to satisfy my desire to redecorate. I am living it up.

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Actually, I love that I now have two romantic heroes who are told, "You should give up the woman you love because it's your duty to the kingdom to marry well," and respond, "Marrying a woman I love is what's best for the kingdom," and they have a good point.