#fix-it fairy tales

[laurasimonsdaughter]

The Singing Princess

My take on a fairy tale of type 306: The twelve dancing princesses / The shoes that were danced to pieces (but what if there was only one of them, and what if she was queer). [Also on AO3.]

Once upon a time there was a king who had only one daughter and a plumper, pleasanter, prettier maiden had never been seen wearing a crown. She was the apple of her father’s eye and so anxious he was for her health and well-being that her bed was hung with curtains of the thickest velvet and that every night after she had gone to bed, the doors and windows to her room were all locked and barred. All so that she may sleep soundly and undisturbed.

Of all the princess’s many talents, her beautiful singing delighted the court most of all. No one knew of a sweeter voice than that of their princess when she let her voice ring out merrily in the great hall. So it was a great sadness indeed when it came to pass that one day, after the princess had finally got out of bed to a very late breakfast, it was discovered that she could not sing a single note. Indeed she was so hoarse and tired that she could barely speak, and when she did speak she was yawning all the while, as if she had not slept a wink.

In time, with lazing about in the garden and resting in the parlour she was no longer so sleepy, but her poor voice did not recover until it was time to retire to bed. And the next morning it was the same thing all over again!

So it went for weeks and weeks. The princess never sang anymore, though she smiled often enough. And while she went early to bed and was late to rise, she was forever trying to hide her yawns behind her fan.

The king was worried sick and the whole court lamented, for no one could understand what strange kind of illness had come over their princess.

At last the king could take it no longer and he proclaimed to all the kingdom that whoever could find out how to cure his daughter would be given their weight in gold and then some. Many came, many boasted, many sat at the princess’s bedroom door and tried to find out what ailed her. But none of them could stay awake to watch her. Whatever remedy they suggested, it was all for naught, and the king had them sent away in disgrace.

Now it happened that not very far from the castle lived a young couple with two small children and one more on the way, who often saw the king and the princess ride by in their carriage. And they said to one another that while the princess did not look at all sickly, it was a bad thing to have such a mystery hanging about her. And besides, they would very much like to receive such a kingly sum of gold.

So the following day the young father kissed his wife and children and went to the castle to tell the king that he would like to try his luck at finding out what afflicted the princess. The king agreed and after the princess had withdrawn for the night, the young father was brought to a small antechamber to the princess’s bedroom, after which all the doors and windows were locked. Only the door between the antechamber and the bedroom was left open, so that he might watch over the princess during the night.

The princess very politely wished him goodnight from behind the heavy velvet curtains round her bed. But a few moments later she began a lilting lullaby, as if to sing herself to sleep. The young father lay listening and he did not wonder at everyone who came before him not being able to stay awake. He almost fell asleep himself, but with every lilting trill of her voice he started awake again and looked around wildly for his children, as if he had heard the very beginning of a baby’s cry. He kept quiet though and did not stir, and after a long while the chamber grew silent. After a longer while still, he heard a rustling of bedding in the princess’s bedroom, and when he slyly opened one eye to see what he should see, the princess was quietly getting out of her bed.

She tiptoed across the floor and quietly took out her loveliest clothes and finest jewels and prettiest ornaments and primped and preened until she was a vision of beauty. Then she took hold of the heavy bed curtains, drew them shut, then drew them back once more, and as she pulled them aside there was a stairwell leading down where a moment before her bed had been. With one last glance over her shoulder she gaily lifted up her skirts and ran down the steps into the dark.

The young father was so surprised she had gotten quite a head start on him before he was able to follow her and he did not dare to hurry, for fear of making any noise. So he followed the princess at a distance, climbing all the way down until the stone steps became hard earth and lights began to shimmer in the distance.

The princess hurried on and the young father followed, until they came to a winding path that led into a beautiful grove. All the trees were tall and slender and every single one of them had leaves of shining silver. The princess did not look left or right, but the young father reached out and plucked a silver leaf from one of the trees so that he might be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The path went on and as they went, the trees around them grew larger and older and all their leaves were glimmering gold. And further still the trees were so many it was no longer possible to stray from the path, and all their leaves were of dazzling diamond. The young father plucked a golden and a diamond leaf too and hid them in his pocket.

At the very heart of that strange forest, old, deep-rooted trees twisted all about, bowing low and spreading their branches to form a shady bower. In its entrance stood a lady of unearthly beauty, proud and tall, with a smile that was as eager as it was sharp and eyes that were as endless as they were wild. She held out her arms, laughing like the wind does, and the princess ran to her.

The lady caught her up in her arms and whisked her off her feet. She carried her into the bower, as the branches closed rustling around them, to a bed spread with shimmering silk. And there the princess sang like a bird, all night long.

Just before dawning, the princess emerged from her hiding place and hurried back along the forest path. She was not so fast as she had been before and often the young father had to halt his step for fear of catching up with her. But at last they were climbing the stone steps back into the royal palace and the princess was so worn out and sleepy that she did not notice him slipping out behind her.

She drew the curtains and threw them back again, restoring her bed to its rightful place. Then she took off all her finery, hid everything neatly away, and collapsed into bed to sleep like a rose.

Now the astonished young father did not sleep a wink. For a while he thought he had dreamed the whole thing, but there in his pocket were the three shimmering leaves, as real as the nose on his face. So he lay there in silence, frowning like anything, wondering what to do. Imagine what might happen if the princess did not make it home before dawn one night? They could not loose their only princess to the fairies, that would never do. But what should be done about it?

So he lay thinking, as long as the princess lay sleeping. And when she finally rose, near the end of the morning, she was just as drowsy and heavy-eyed, exactly as hoarse and voiceless as she had been the day before. The courtiers lamented, but the young father had risen with a smile and immediately asked to speak to the king in private, to discuss what ailed his daughter.

“Your Majesty,” he said solemnly, “your noble daughter is lonesome. She weeps in her sleep and this wears out her sweet voice so by night that she cannot sing by day. If you will take my advice, my liege, you must call to your castle every young woman who is of age and unmarried and willing to leave home, and let your daughter pick from among them whomever she likes best to be her companions and confidantes. Do this and all will be well, I am sure.”

It was done exactly as the young father recommended and to the entire court’s joy and astonishment, it went precisely as he had predicted. From then on the princess appeared at breakfast bright and early, almost every morning, surrounded by her new companions and in high enough spirits to sing all day long.

The king did not know how to praise the young father highly enough. He gave him trice his weight in gold and then some extra because his daughter begged him to, and the young father returned home to his wife and children with as much fanfare as any knight of noble blood.

His wife kissed him and his children hugged him and they were merry all day long. And when the children had been put to bed and his wife had put her feet up, he told her all about what had happened at the palace. Then they both laughed and blushed and laughed again until they were quite out of breath. The three peculiar leaves they hid away for another day, for you never knew. And from that day on they lived comfortably and happily and drank to the health of their princess at every breakfast.

[superloves4]

Something that compels me so much about Maglor/Luthien is that if you change Beren with Maglor, the quest for the silmaril becomes so much more juicy

Because, yeah, on one hand it's still a suicide quest designated to either make Maglor give up Luthien or die in the process of the quest, thus freeing Luthien.

But on the other hand, this is Maglor's family treasure he is asking as bride price (which also makes it an actually accurate as a bride price is supposed to be something the groom's family already has yk), Thingol is asking Maglor to give him the whole reason the Feanorians even left Aman in the first place, the thing Feanor died trying to re-take, the reason he has been fighting for years.

Not to mention that depending on how you decide to read the oath, Thingol is asking him to not only curse himself but his entire family for Luthien, asking him if a life with Luthien is worth eternal damnation.

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

[zoeloveconvers99]

Finally after months of hiatus I’m back,I decided to put aside for a much more busier period studying and working In accounting,while that I had a new comfort zone and even created a much more grim version,I decided to create the first design of the main protagonist and put in confrontation with the most popular adaptation just compare the aesthetic and personalities of the characters + a funny draw of me rising from the dead maybe,let’s see if I can keep up

[fountainpenguin]

what might your version of sparky be like

I hate admitting this, but I think the most terrible out-of-context part of my worldbuilding is that these two-

-are cousins and have been since I started Origin of the Pixies in 2016. They share their grandmother, Corinna Posy, from the days when Sparky was still a proper Fairy and went by the name Sparkle Doubletake (later Sparky Doublecross).

Sparkle's not on the Whimsifinado family tree (Deliberately excluded), but he mentions Corinna in Chapter 4 ("School's Out - Not Much of a Musical") and she's on H.P.'s family tree. Sparkle and H.P. both have orange scent in their pheromones.

Since Ambrosine was cut from the family after H.P. was born and Solara was an absent mother (for... reasons), H.P. isn't familiar with Solara's side of the family and didn't recognize Sparkle as a relative when he introduced himself. But, it's always been there in my canon!

H.P. always found Sparkle super annoying because he'd constantly get drunk and break rules, like smuggling a cù sith (fairy dog) into the dorm, notwithstanding that Fairy culture hates them because they steal souls.

In Origin of the Pixies, a golden cù sith named Leonard lived with H.P. and his housemates in Chapter 6, "A Grain of Truth" (in line with Sparky's appearance in the Snow White story in Season 9's "Fairly Odd Fairy Tales"). Sparky envied Leonard's life as a fairy dog and killed a man specifically so Leonard would grab the opportunity to steal his body (which fairy dogs can only do in special situations). So, technically, Leonard is now H.P.'s cousin and Sparky isn't any longer.

Here's my Sparky design from an old height chart (October 2016) with some other fellas:

I like this design because his wings are very subtle on his back, playing into the vibe of disguising himself as an average dog.

In our current Origin timeline, Sparky's in the dog body and has supposedly been living with Queen Vyanda all this time (Chapter 32, "Almost"). He doesn't fight in the War of the Angels because of this, although coin sìth and their soul-stealing ability definitely caused some chaos that we'll see later.

H.P. actually hates him specifically for the fact that his reward for a string of thefts, at minimum 1 murder, and a habit of chronic drunkenness was living in luxury with a princess for thousands of years and he even got out of the war. Also, I think H.P. blames him for ruining his life (Inviting him to a party when he was a teen that led to a huge fight when his dad found out) and it's hilarious to me because he looks like a loon for hating on a dog.

To be fair, H.P. despised him before he was a dog because they were roommates and he drove H.P. mad, but... it's funny.

[Scene snippets & more info under the cut, covering bits of Sparky, H.P., and Rice (fairy dog OC from Origin of the Pixies)]

H.P.'s description of Sparkle in Origin Chapter 4:

Sparkle was a hard worker in school who knew his stuff. I found myself grudgingly admitting to myself that while he came off as annoying at the best of times, by no stretch of the imagination could he be described as uneducated. He was dumb and emotionally unstable, but well-traveled, and it made him clever. He could drive anything with pedals, and while he rubbed many an animal and Fairy the wrong way, his positive attitude never allowed him to back down from the challenge of friendship. And not even the grouchiest goblin among us could claim that Sparkle Doubletake, who never took the last slice of cherry pie and spent every Wednesday night baking tarts for the whole floor to taste come morning, was unkind. Our third dinner in the Hole, for example, when he saw my hesitation upon finding he and Polly sitting beside another gyne, he didn't even have to be asked to move. He recognized his error and jumped up to help me find another seat, even while I protested that I didn't require his assistance. Now, if he would only do something about those rotting square teeth. That was territory of the Tooth Fairies alone, unfortunately, or I would have shelled out the cash to fix them up myself. Let me make myself clear: I did not like Sparkle. He won himself a fair amount of detentions within our first week alone, he had his wand suspended more than once during my time at the Academy, he constantly toed the line around my section of our room, he frequently came onto me when sugarloaded, and he had no real respect for the rules or Da Rules at all. No. I never learned to like Sparkle. I simply said that he performed well concerning his schoolwork, and I respected him for his ability to get his act together in time for class when he spent his nights drunk or chasing damsels until three in the morning. He and I got on perfectly fine so long as we didn't have to be anywhere near one another.

The golden dog body has always been described as undersized to keep in line with him being a puppy in the Season 9 episode "Let Sleeper Dogs Lie." I kept the canon about Sparky living with Crocker for a bit, though I don't consider the way Crocker lost Cosmo and Wanda in that episode canon since it conflicts with the much better-known episode "Secret Origins of Denzel Crocker" from Season 3.

I don't have much to say about my portrayal of Sparky because for the most part, I think the personality I gave him connects with canon. I especially like this one scene in Chapter 4 where he summoned a battering ram with a wave of magic, which is a nod to his behavior in Season 9 where he summons vehicles like monster trucks in broad daylight and loves to drive.

My face and chest slammed into the door. I bounced back and rolled heels over head. Sparkle cringed, then clucked his tongue as he watched me climb to my feet and stumble in a circle. "Gee Fergus, you're gonna want like a battering ram drill chariot or something. Fortunately, I'm your guy." With a swirl of his wand, he poofed up a buggy with a hefty spike affixed to the front, and positioned himself in the high chair… with me as his draft pegasus.

One thing I'd like to say is that I dislike Sparky's canon portrayal, as he tends to use magic in front of people without facing consequences and it doesn't vibe well with the show's established rules about lying low. I also feel he doesn't connect with Cosmo and Wanda (compared to Poof or Chloe, who engage with them directly). Sparky tends to have separate adventures and only really talks to Timmy, so he doesn't feel like he adds to the dynamic.

I don't often write content for the humans (as I do more cloudland worldbuilding and backstory pieces), but those are things I like to focus on with my Sparky portrayal: he tends to be aloof, struggles to connect with his friends (who learn bits and pieces of his wild activities, but never get the full story), and he always has random storylines going on in his background.

If I were to improve him (in my eyes), I'd like to make the dynamic feel more natural by adding to his relationship with Cosmo and Wanda- In other words, giving him more interactive dialogue with the other characters so he feels he fits in the scene. I do try to play him more as a dog, emphasizing the magical need to hide his origins compared to his canon self, who floats and cooks food in front of humans. His personality is very rebellious and wacky. He's a person confined to a dog's body (by choice, but confined nonetheless), so his behavior's not always dog-like. He has... issues and drama in his past.

There's actually a lot of weird depth to my Sparky portrayal (in the sense of "He's been around for ages and seen a lot of traumatizing things"), but in true Sparky fashion, he's off doing questionable things and you never get his whole story. Which, y'know... as much as I'm not a Sparky fan, I'm glad I found a place for him in my 'fics, even if it's bizarre.

He still has extreme behavior- I don't intend to take that from him, but I prefer it kept behind closed doors like the other Fairy characters keep theirs (though not all magic species do, with Norm being a good example of a blatant magic user). Timmy appreciates him dearly and Sparky stays with him even after Cosmo, Wanda, and Poof leave; he just has to go silent or be removed. Theoretically... He is a rebel.

In the 130 Prompt "Bones," Sparky attended Doidle's funeral; Mark even refers to him as Sparky Stealer of Souls. In the 130 Prompt "Repeat," Sparky's moved to Cosmo and Wanda's place in Fairy World and is growing gray on his muzzle. He hung out in the garden while Cosmo was weeding plants.

One of my favorite moments from the canon is Timmy freeing Sparky from Megan Bacon's net in "The Past and the Furious." Instead of attacking Megan, Sparky immediately poofs away and Timmy just stands there before saying "Ladies and gentlemen, my loyal dog, Sparky" in utter disappointment. It gets me every time.

On a side note, I introduced the chihuahua cù sith Rice to Origin of the Pixies for a few reasons- the in-universe reasoning being of course that H.P. keeps him around so he'll be more likely to hesitate in killing Longwood since doing so would allow Rice to steal his soul (as we saw when H.P. adopted him in Chapter 28, "Cotton Candy Oatmeal").

Rice has an upcoming purpose as well that's spoilers, but I have to say... I get why introducing a pet to an existing cast (especially a talking pet) can suddenly make it more difficult to write fluid content. I have to justify his existence by including him, but he's also limited in what he can do because Rice is a dog doing dog things and he doesn't have hands or, like... a job. He's not often relevant and he drains my energy fast because he's always kinda following H.P. around, but it doesn't make sense to separate them when his whole purpose is to follow him, so... not a character type I'll repeat.

Funnily enough, in another project of mine, I have an OC with an anthro service dog and I ran into the same issue of "I've now stopped my main character from committing crimes, flirting with his wife, and getting into trouble because he's followed all the time. This is infuriating."

I enjoy watching the H.P. & Rice friendship grow (from "purposely adopting the dog with the worst personality to prevent me from killing my son") to them having serious conversations about H.P. sending Keefe and Springs to live with Reddinski, and from there to them genuinely caring about each other and valuing each other's opinions. Rice & H.P. relationship post-Iris's rejection in "Off," my beloved...

"You know," I said to Rice that night, "it would have been nice if she said yes. I miss falling asleep with someone next to me who didn't kick and squirm and maybe wet the bed. I miss waking up and finding someone else there." "What about me?" he asked, sounding legitimately offended. "I sleep with you, like, every night, strudel. And I've only wet once." I rolled over and looked at him, squinting without my glasses. "You're a cù sith." "Oh." He lifted his paw and looked at it. "Yeah. I forget sometimes." Rice lay his head back on my shoulder, nuzzling his cheek into my skin. He yawned. We were quiet for a while. Then I asked, "Did you tell your wife you planned to go cù sith? Or did it just happen?" "… Well, we weren't sharing the bed anymore. I was already used to being in the doghouse when I took this body." Then he said, "I liked Iris," which I almost want to kill him for looking back on it now. "Me too," I said, nestling into my pillow. "I just wish I knew how to make friends." Until now, the other party had always done it for me. "I wish… things stopped falling apart. China. The Eros Nest. My parenting classes. Anti-Bryndin lying about the Purple Robe. Kris Kringle laying me off. The stillborn. Now Iris… Nothing seems to go right anymore. The cakes are working out, but that's just business. Friends, damsels, or drones, I can't get anyone to like me. The Anti-Fairies tell me I have this invisible 'karmic weave' that they alone can see, and apparently I'm going to be someone important and influential someday. But what's the point in being influential if no one cares about me?" "I care," Rice said softly. He placed his chin on my shoulder. "Look… You're my best friend, cinnamon. I'm a lot happier now than I was when you first took me home." I stared at the wall, curling my fingers in the bedsheets. "Sometimes… I don't think anyone would care if I went back to the Eros Nest. I could spend the rest of my life in there. I'm forgettable. No one would visit me." "I care, sugarball." "You're a pet. You don't count." Rice closed his eyes. "Pals before gals, fudge bar. At least we have each other." "Friends before it ends," I mumbled, and drifted into sleep.

I do actually enjoy Rice. I just hate that it takes a crowbar to pry him out of any scene <3

Hands-down my favorite part of Rice thus far is when H.P. is having emotional moments in his bedroom (like his conversation with Rupert at the end of Chapter 36, "Senseless"), and Rice is just there squeaking his rubber steak toy. His role in the story isn't my favorite, but oh if he isn't my annoying little guy (affectionate-derogatory).

Also, shout-out to H.P. throwing his newborn son across the rooftops in Chapter 30 ("What Karma Is") while Rice watched in horror and couldn't do anything about it:

"Oh, shoot. You're right. If I jump, how's he going to get across? He can't fly." I looked at Springs. I looked at the gap between us and the next building. I looked at Springs again. Then I picked him up and lifted him above my head. "Never mind. Problem solved. Time this little guy lived up to his name." Rice wrapped his paws around my arm. "Whoa, hold on, hold on! What the frosted strawberries? Are you going to peppermint cocoa throw him?" I looked at him again, too, but didn't lower Springs back to the ground. "Why not? It's not against the law. It's actually the better of two options. And nymphs bounce, right? This is literally the point of elastic exoskeletons." "Well… Uh…" "He's not your pixie," I pointed out, squeezing the squirming nymph with my fingertips. "He's mine. I don't have a problem with it. I don't see why anyone else should. Okay. Here we go, Springs. Keep your chin up." Calculating distance comes naturally to a pixie, of course, and Springs landed exactly where I was aiming. On his rebound, he skipped halfway across the roof before crashing against some metal art sculpture thing and bouncing back. I leapt after him, pushing forward with my wings. Even if they lost momentum when I flew too high, at least steering was still an option. I stretched forward with my arms, grasped the new building's rail, and flipped over to my feet. Or tried to. I tipped too far and crashed on my back with a solid wumph. "Oof… Whoa. Okay. I just jumped a roof as if I could fly. That's the most dazzled thing I have ever done in my life." Rice slunk from his tote, stumbling from side to side. "Granola, that was a rough spin for an old boy…"

Best use of a service dog character: reminding us why the protagonist needs help.

[starry-skies-tell-no-lies]

The First Spinner of Light

When the world was far younger, there lived a girl who had been taught to spin by her mother and found nothing more enjoyable than to spin all manner of roving into the finest yarns ever seen. She was only extraordinary in the ways that all young children are, full of joy and life and potential.

Her family celebrated her talent as they did all of her siblings talents. They wore and sold the thread that she spun, and used the money to support themselves and ensure that there would always be roving on Arachne's spindle and wheel.

Word of her talent spread, and she would often receive offers of commission to spin new found fibers into stunning threads. She happily took most commissions, turning away only those that she was too busy for, as she enjoyed the challenge of learning something new.

Until one day, a man from very far away, and great wealth, thought himself entitled to her work as he believed himself to be the most important man in the world. He demanded that she spin him enough thread to be woven into a hundred yards of the finest cloth yet seen on earth.

She of course was still working on her latest commission, and her own projects. To start such a thing would be insane, she told the man. He did not care, and threatened the spinner and her family if she did not comply.

Seeing no other option the girl agreed, and only then did the man reveal the last requirement of this cloth. It must be made of a material never before seen on this earth. No other fabric could already be made of this fiber.

The spinner wanted to cry and weep, for she had seen and spun fiber from every end of the earth, and she did not know of any fibers left untried. She did not let her despair hinder her though, for the lives of her family were at stake, and she must succeed. She consoled herself with the thought of returning to them, and never seeing this horrible man again.

She worked on her other projects as she pondered what she could spin that had never been spun before.

She asked of the birds as they sang out her window what she hadn't yet spun, but they simply kept singing ignoring her.

She asked _______(patron with a focus on creating things/crafting) for advice, but that was the Wednesday that _______(pc) was busy making ________(ceramics) so they did not hear her pleas.

She continued to spin through the entire day and well through the night, pleading and asking anyone who would listen to tell her of some new thing to spin for her freedom and her family's.

In her distraction, she had not noticed night give way to dawn. Arachne, had not noticed The Lady of the Dark hearing her in the night. The Lady of the Dark's heart cried for this child who should not be in such a position, so she sought to remedy this for the child.

The Lady of the Dark knew of something that no one had ever spun, but she also knew that Arachne was one of the favored children of _______(pc) and would only need a little push to figure it out on her own.

Come dawn, a beam of light fell right where Arachne's roving ended, and as she continued to spin, some of the light was spun along with her roving. When she finished her latest appeal to ______(pc) she realized what she had done.

Crying in delight, she quickly set down her spindle, and sat down at the spinning wheel the arrogant man insisted she spin his thread on. It was enchanted so that none may steal the thread off of it, and if stolen the thread would return to him and him alone.

The girl sat there spinning for three days and three nights, until there was indeed enough thread to weave a hundred yards of fabric.

_______(pc) sustained her throughout the day, easing the soreness of her fingers, and ensuring the wheel spun true.

The Lady of Darkness took over in the night, singing to Arachne the first weaving songs to keep her in time. Kissing the spinner's brow, and holding her in comfort and strength.

When dawn ended the third night, and Arachne had finished, she knew not who had saved her, but gave her thanks all the same. (The Lady of Darkness did not blame this child for not knowing her, this was a child of daylight and warmth, a summer's child)

The man came to see Arachne's work, and praised her for her ingenuity. Never before had someone seen roving in light, and the thread she had spun was as radiant as the light she had twisted.

The man insisted that as she had so little trouble spinning sunlight, she might not be troubled to spin more thread for him. Enough thread for a hundred more yards of fabric each, in two new materials.

Arachne was angry, but once again found herself with little choice, and she thought, surely this must be the last thing he could ask of me. Just this one thing more and my family will be free from harm.

This time she knew what to spin. She spun moonlight, silvery soft, and cool as well as starlight, which glittered on the bobbin.

For three more days and three more nights, she spun without pause for food or sleep. She would have perished if not for _____(pc) and The Lady of Darkness sustaining her, but all of the thread was done come dawn at the end of the third night, and all of it made by her hand. Her family would be free.

Once again the man came to inspect the goods. He was privately astonished at how much this mere peasant child had made. He was more shocked that this family still chose to live in their countryside home without flaunting the wealth that this child surely brought.

He said he would give her a week's rest, but then the spinner would have a week to spin a new thread, of the same amount as the first three.

Arachne realized that this man would never stop. As long as he still lived and threatened her family he would be asking her to spin him all of the earth. She could not let this happen.

For the week she had to recover, she rested, and thanked ____(pc), and planned. She thought of all the things she could try to spin to end this man.

The only thing that would resoundly stop this man was a death, and she had none but her own to spin.

Now, it must be noted that in this time, the world was considered generally more flexible than most would think today. Arachne is the finest weaver of all time, and she possessed skill and talent beyond the wildest reckoning.

And so at the end of her week of rest, she reached and pulled and teased and tugged, and spent three days and three nights spinning her death. It was a soft and gentle death, slipping off in her sleep at an advanced age.

She spun her death and her dying moments, and out of a bit of spite, she was never proud of it, a bit of her anger slipped in as well. Itching the horrid man for all eternity.

Her death only took half of the time, but that was important as she spun the most indestructible thing she could imagine to ply next to her death. She spun her hope. her desire to be free, to keep her family safe. She spun and spun until she thought that surely all of her hope must be wrapped around the bobbin of the wheel.

She would come to realize with age that hope heals itself, and she would never run out, but that is a story for another day.

At last she had a thread made of death, and hope. Terrible and indestructible. When the man came, she begged him to allow her the honor of being the one to weave it into cloth.

He agreed, not caring exactly who made his fine fabrics, and gave her considerably more time to weave than he ever did to spin.

When the fabric was done, she again begged him the honor of allowing her to be the one to make him a coat of such a fine material. He again agreed, not caring how the coat was made, only that he wear it, an no one else have anything as expensive.

She sewed it all with threads of hope, and when the man put it on, he immediately fell dead, she sewed the coat closed, so that no one may free him, and immediately fell to the floor crying.

She had never wanted to be the cause for death. She had never imagine the life of a spinner would lead to violence, but here was a horrible man wearing her death, and her hopes all wrapped up in one.

At that moment ______(pc) could do no good, for they are never good at soothing tears. The Lady of Darkness donned her mantle, and swept Arachne into her arms.

She hushed, and rocked, and sang until the child of summer's light in her arms could once more breathe evenly. She consoled ARachne who had become far more than she'd ever hoped in ways she was not yet ready to embrace.

Arachne went home to her family, they were all safe until the end of their days, but Arachne had spun away her death and her age, she would forever remain living as long as the horrible man remained dead.

She was not the same girl before as she was before she learned how to spin light. No, she was not the same, but she learned how to spin many many more things for the love of it, as she was not entirely different either.

[theshadowrealmitself]

My messed up Inuyasha au that’s only funny to me: the well takes Kagome back to before Kikyo meets Inuyasha and she’s like “fuck yeah, I can just fix everything before it even happens!! I’ll miss my friends but at least I can help them” so she tries her best to stop everything, but the first problem is Onigumo

At this point, Kikyo and Kaede have gladly welcomed Kagome into their household, but Kikyo’s not listening to anyone about abandoning Onigumo, so Kagome’s like “okay well then I’ll just take care of him instead, it’ll give me a chance to practice healing” cause she’s just trying to avoid Onigumo becoming obsessed with Kikyo. It works. Because he becomes obsessed with Kagome instead. (Kagome unfortunately does not notice)

Then Inuyasha shows up, and Kagome’s happy that he’ll have a chance to actually be happy with Kikyo, but she actually had developed a bit of a crush on Inuyasha before falling into this new time, she doesn’t want to let Kaede or Kikyo know (since how tf would she even explain to them how she knew Inuyasha to begin with since he doesn’t know her?) so she kinda vents at Onigumo, technically she was venting to herself but it was while helping Onigumo. That was big mistake two.

This all leads to Onigumo still becoming Naraku, and then his attacks on Inuyasha and Kikyo to get the jewel, except he also attacks Kagome, hoping to get her to hate Inuyasha or something, Kagome who’s now injured makes her way to the well, and miraculously it’s working again

So same stuff still ends up happening, Inuyasha and Kikyo betrayed, Inuyasha pinned to the tree, Kikyo dying and trying to take the jewel with her, etc etc

Except, before her death, Kikyo and Kaede now think that Inuyasha also randomly attacked Kagome and killed her and did god knows what with her body since they can’t find her

Now, Kagome’s back into the original past where she first met Inuyasha, but it’s now the past breaking off from what she changed, Kaede, not understanding how Kagome is back, is happy she’s back and keeps trying to keep Inuyasha away from her, when Kikyo is brought back to life, she remembers “Inuyasha” attacking Kagome, who she’s come to think of as a sister, and keeps trying to get him away from her too, and Naraku is now obsessed with Kagome

In the end, she has fixed nothing from that side trip and has actually accidentally created new problems for herself

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

i finally caught up with sugar apple fairy tale and wHY is this show so god damn stressful

[sage-nebula]

Summary: Once upon a time, a wicked viscount whisks a newborn baby lemur away, and hides her in a tower to guard and care for his treasures. Fifteen years later, Princess Jewel sets off on a journey to find that girl and bring her home. [@sonicplatonicfairytales, Day 1: Rapunzel]

Once upon a time, in a kingdom of jewels and riches, there was a lemur couple who desperately wanted a baby.

The couple lived on the palace grounds, in service to the royal family. They worked as gardeners, tending to the flowers and greenery sculptures that lined the palace walls. The two were happy with their lot in life; their work was highly valued by the royal family, and they wanted for nothing.

Nothing, that is, but a child.

Seeing how the king and queen were so pleased with their children, the lemur couple longed for that same happiness. For years they tried for a family of their own, and eventually, their efforts bore fruit and the wife found herself pregnant.

Alas, their happiness was short-lived. Near the end of her pregnancy, when she was already bedridden due to the physical toll the pregnancy wrought on her body, the wife fell deathly ill. The castle medic examined her, and came away with grave news: in no short order both mother and baby would die, unless she was treated with a medicine crafted from the mythical tangleweed.

His wife’s clammy hand clasped in his own, the husband mopped his wife’s sweaty brow and made her a promise: “I’ll return with the tangleweed, and we’ll save your life.”

The wife smiled, and said nothing; she fell into slumber, with the medic promising he would not leave her side.

With permission from the royal family, the husband set out on a journey across the kingdom. Tangleweed was a mysterious herb, oft spoken in legend but rarely harvested. Through tales told by travelers in taverns and bards on street corners, the husband made his way to a bustling city on the opposite end of the continent, bordered by a dark forest and run by a viscount with an even darker legacy.

The viscount’s name was Clutch, an opossum known far and wide for brokering deals and holding the economy of his city in his fist. Rumors said that it wasn’t only his city he controlled, but that his influence spread across the kingdom to the royal family themselves. Whether this was true or not, the lemur husband did not know. What he did know was that of all the tales he heard, and all the rumors he was told, if anyone had access to the mythical tangleweed, it was Viscount Clutch.

So the lemur husband bartered for an audience with the viscount, and when it was finally granted to him, he bent the knee. “Please,” he said, “spare me some tangleweed, for my wife is deathly ill.”

Clutch stroked his beard, and considered the man before him. “I donate nothing; instead, I deal,” he said. “Tell me, what is it you have to offer me?”

“My wife and I are but royal servants; we own nothing of value. My wife is soon to give birth to our baby, but—”

Clutch held up one hand. “The child. When your wife gives birth, I’ll take the child.”

The husband stared at Clutch, aghast. “Our child? But what—”

“Tangleweed has mysterious properties,” said Clutch, “and it’s too valuable to part with for nothing. But the properties it possesses, it imparts. Feed it to your wife, and watch her grow healthy enough to bear your child; then, deliver the child to me when I come to collect. These are my terms: take them or leave them.”

[Continue reading on AO3]

[ofyorkshire]

the one thing about having to use the roleplay formatter to make tumblr's formatting work is that spellcheck doesn't work in rpf and i am constantly making typos

if i misspell something or have a glaring error... no... you saw nothing

[a-sunset-outside-my-window]

fic rec friday

The Adventures of Gerald White

by ThePuppeteer28 on Ao3

Gerald White is definately NOT Sirius Black in disguise. Snape is not taking this well.or; Haters (Snape) can't stand to see a bad bitch (Gerald White) winning (living life).

Grimsfall

by pixelated(prettyremus) on Ao3

There is a legend in the old city of Grimsfall that a large, black creature used to emerge from the forest at night, and anyone who met its gaze would be driven to madness before the thing dragged them into the depths of hell.

Felt like either one of those was a bit short for a fic rec friday so you get both ^^ The Adventures of Gerald White are just a sweet little crack fic and you basically get exactly what it says on the tin!

Grimfall is a kind of spooky os with some fairytale elements and is pretty smutty in comparison to what I usually rec, so be warned!

don't think my favourite tropes make sense for this one since the fics are very different from each other ^^'

As always leave lots of love and kudos to the author and have an amazing rest of the week <3

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Good News: I've found an angle to take on an "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" retelling that could live up to my image of the fairy tale.

The Bad News: Who knows if I'll ever write it.

[naivesilver]

in a bad mood. does that justify rewatching ever after high or

[henriiiii-1001]

( I put that Malus calls Ces' mom "sis" because they could either be biological sisters or just sisters-in-law And it's Amanda accompanying Evie cause Cesar is still a frog at this point ) [I know you got plans for Amanda but I wanted to try and write her before shizz starts going down]

-Ladies of the Torres-Miller annual ladies picnic , lunch is served

*Torres side of the table going excited*

-You know, I heard that in Yonder one of the king's brothers is still single. You could tell her (Ces' mom) that it's still not too late to start over, sweetie Malus : Yes mother, I heard you the first thousand times

-Now presenting : the first course

Evelin : Look at this big girl sitting at the grown-up table! >:D

*awkward silence*

Evie : I'm too old (teenager) to be sitting at this stupid kids' table! Amanda : It's not stupid! You can eat all the fruit you want! :D And it's all fresh!

Evie : *gasp* It's starting to happen! Amanda : What starting to happen? Evie : Grown-up stuff!

*just adults arguing over irrelevant stuff Ig lol*

Malus, whispering : Sis, do something! -Oh, right, of course

-Ladies! There's no need to fight over such miniscule matters! We're all royalty as you know, and there is a way we can settle this petty dispute like the civilized we are. With... FLAGS!

Everyone else except M : FLAGS! Malus : Oh dear Lord....

*Evie finishes explaining the basics to Amanda* Amanda : Ooh..... Evie : I am so ready for this-! Malus : Absolutely not Evie : What?! Malus : We can play something else after all of this, but you are not going to play flags Evie : Why not? You played flags when you were my age...! Malus : I did a lot of things at your age that I won't allow you to do Evie : >:( Malus : *sigh* I know it's boring to be the oldest at the kids' table, but you are not ready to be the youngest at the adults' table. Now go and help you little cousins cut their fruit

Amanda : So uh, we obeying? Evie : Oh no.... I'll show her that I'm old enough for this!

*epic time skip*

*Also Malus being good at sword fighting if you want*

Evie : Mom...? Malus : Are you alright? Evie : Damn mom, those are some pretty good moves with your big ol' sword and stuff Malus : Eve, you won't believe what just happened : I just met your twin sister! She was made out of grapes(?) Evie : ... Malus : I don't even remember giving birth to her. Sis, did I ever give birth to a grape baby? -No, I only remember you having one child, Mal. Malus : Thank you sis- -Her name is Evie :) <- She's got a concussion Malus : Alright, why don't you just lay back down...

aawww this is all super cute!!!! didnt expect it to be lil quotes but it's cute!! :DDD

evie wanting to be a grown up so bad kinda fits her character!!! :DDDD

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

King Hans-the-Quillback

(A response to the Brothers Grimm tale Hans-my-Hedgehog; another poem I wrote in 2016)

I’ve heard the rumors – how my story’s told. First things first: it did not end that way (My skin all milky white, and hair of gold, My father proud until his dying day). And second: tell me, how would I have known The steps I’d need to take to ‛break the spell’ If I’d never left my bed of straw and stone? As if I’d even want to (go to Hell). That’s just the yarn they spin to quell their fears, And I’ve remained a monster – sixty years.

I ran away from home, that much is true. But never with a gift from ‛dear old Dad’. I stole those bagpipes, and the black hen, too – The only friend I ever really had.

It’s true the king was lost, and heard me play, Though, like I said: I never had a plan. But when he told me he would gladly pay, And pulled one of those rings from off his hand … He asked me if I’d like his “pretty hat” (Can you imagine – velvet on my head? And really, what would I have done with that?). But he was loved! I needed that, instead. So yes, I said: “Give me a living thing – The first to come and greet you at the door.” I never thought: the daughter of the king – Might be his dog, for I’d seen that, before. And after that, I let myself forget – Until the day my dear old chicken died. That was the first I ever felt regret, Though not the first time I had ever cried. I really didn’t think ’twould do much good, To try and claim a worn out IOU, But there was nothing for me, in that wood, And there was nothing left for me to do.

They kept their promise – that’s the magic thing, When they could have lied, or had me killed. I married her. And now I am the king, Though I still have my snout, and all my quills. For we can’t shed our pain, like some old shirt, To throw onto the coals, until it’s gone. I’m less than half a man, without my hurt Yet, truly, I was changed, that coming dawn.

’Twas neither flames nor salves that transformed me, But she – who saw my full humanity.

[tweeds-rp-hub]

Opposite Ends of a Spectrum

Opposite Ends of a Different Spectrum