#four loves challenge

[lauraschiller]

Bright Wings

(Written for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves Challenge.)

You may think you know this story. 

Think again.

Once upon a time, a handsome prince lost his way while hunting in the woods. Just as the prince had reached what is now called Swan Lake, and was taking aim at two particularly fine birds (even a whole flock, some say; hunters’ tales always grow in the telling), what should happen but, instead of both taking flight, one swan should suddenly spread her wings to shield the other? 

Surprised and touched, the prince lowered his bow. He was still more surprised when the rising moon broke through the black pines to shine upon their wings, and in the blink of an eye, two young women stood before him: one dressed in white and one in black, both lean and strong and silver-haired, our faces alike as two coins. We held our heads high, even as we trembled. 

I am the woman in black, and this is my story. 

The prince hardly noticed me that night, nor did I wish him to do so. The threat of sharp iron still rang through my bones, and so I faded into the shadows, keeping a watchful eye on my sister. Our father had always warned us that men (except for himself, naturally) were not to be trusted. In this arrow-wielding stranger, I saw all his teachings confirmed. My sister, however, always braver than I, forgave the prince as soon as his bow dropped into the grass. She held out her hand to him with all the grace and dignity of her nature, and he bowed over it with the air of one dazed.

“Forgive me,” he said. “If I had known … that is, I never meant to frighten you.”

Odette merely smiled and beckoned me forward.

“Do not be afraid,” she said. “He will not hurt us. Will you, Master … ?”

“Prince Siegfried, at your service.” He swept off his feathered hat. “And … might I have your names?”

“I am Odette, and this,” she drew her arm around my shoulders, “Is Odile.”

That was how it began.

He could not stay long that night, or any other night that followed. Father, who unlike us could change his shape whenever he chose, guarded his lands in the form of an eagle-owl. Whenever we heard him scream, or his wings darkened the moon, we always sent our secret visitor away, fearing for his life should Father discover him. Yet even those brief visits were enough for the prince to open a whole new world to us. He brought us rare fruits we had never tasted, oranges and mangoes from the palace greenhouses. He lent us books from his library, tales of adventure we read to each other in whispers. He played the flute for us and we danced, Odette following the music step by step as I spun and flapped to rhythms of my own. 

I no longer feared him as time passed. How could I, when he was so kind? I can see him now, with leaves in his hair and laughter in his eyes, leaning against the trunk of a tree. He would twirl me about and ruffle my hair as if I were his little sister, but it was Odette’s hand he lingered over every time he bowed farewell. My heart leapt when I saw him coming, only to sink when he left.

Still, I did not wholly trust him. 

When I found my sister weeping in her bedchamber one night after he had gone, my heart sank with premonitions of trouble to come.

“Is it Siegfried? If he has hurt you, I shall peck out his eyes.”

“He has asked me to marry him … and I said yes.”

“That is indeed cause to weep,” I said. “But I am surprised you think so.”

“Don’t you see?” She cried. “He wants me to come to the ball tomorrow, to introduce me to the Queen and ask for her blessing. Tomorrow is a new moon! Even if Father permits it, which he never will, I cannot go. I shall be a swan all night. He will be shamed before the court when the girl he spoke of never arrives, or if I arrive in swan form, they will call him mad. He will think I do not care for him, and that will break my heart,” and she hid her face in her pillow, like the waning moon behind the clouds. And like the moon, I realized, her thoughts were so hidden from me, I could barely follow them.

“You cannot mean to tell me,” I faltered, “That you do care for him?”

Odette’s look made it clear I was a fool for even asking.

“Enough to marry him? Enough to leave me here - with Father?”

Her eyes widened. It was a measure of her love for Siegfried that, for once, I had not even entered into her plans.

“I could take you with me, perhaps,” she said. “As my lady-in-waiting, if the Queen permits?”

I had little faith in such an idea. Siegfried had spoken to us often of the stifling conventions of his mother’s court, which he sought to escape with us. Any place that made Father’s lands look like freedom was not one I cared to call home.

“You do not know Father if you think you can escape him so easily.” Yet as the brief light of hope faded from her eyes, to be replaced by despair as deep as any I had ever seen (for she did know Father, and therefore knew that escape would be anything but easy), I knew what I must do, though fear lay in wait like a steel-tipped arrow.

“If you cannot go to the ball,” I said, “I will.”

I was the darkness to her light, and so our shape-changes were mirrored. If the swan in her was strongest during the new moon, for me it was weakest. 

“Oh, sister! Would you?”

“I will speak to the prince for you. He is not worthy of you, but if you want him, I shall bring him to you. I give you my word.”

She embraced and thanked me half a dozen times over, but even as I stroked her hair and told her all would be well, I felt a splinter of darkness drive itself into my heart.

Once I helped her unite with her prince, I thought, how long until they both abandoned me?

/

I had tracked Prince Siegfried to his palace more than once, thinking it useful to know where he lived. It was not far as the swan flies, yet by the time I saw its pale walls painted red by the setting sun, my wings ached from the speed of my flight. I had seen no shadow, heard no rustle, felt no stir in the air but my own, but all my bird-instincts cried out that I was being hunted.

I landed awkwardly inside a hedge maze in the gardens, so as to change shape unnoticed at moonrise. I had not expected the maze, which seemed so simple from above, to loom so tall and dark over my head once I was inside it. I turned one corner, then another. Surely, I would soon find a way out.

Something rustled behind me.

I whirled around.

Father stepped out of the shadows, his great brown eagle-owl’s wings shifting into a velvet cloak. He could fly as silently as darkness itself when he chose. I should have known.

“You must have thought you were very clever, child. Did you think I would not notice you stealing away?”

“Father! I - I can explain - ”

“No need.” He held up one leather-gloved hand to silence me. “Your sister told me everything.”

“ … she did?”

“Young Prince Siegfried has caught your fancy, has he?” His golden eyes gleamed like a night-hunter’s. “Odette tells me you have reached an understanding already, that all you need is the Queen’s consent. I had no idea you were capable of such ambition.”

I thought, at first, there must be some misunderstanding. I opened my mouth to correct him - tell him it was Odette, not I, who had fallen in love with the prince - when I realized what must have happened. Odette had made me her scapegoat, to protect herself from Father when he had demanded to know where I was. She had lied to him.

(Impossible, those who have heard this tale will say. She was the light to my darkness. If anyone is a liar, I am - but I leave that to you to judge.)

Neither of us had betrayed the other to Father on this scale before. Then again, neither of us had disobeyed Father on this scale either.

While I was still speechless, what Father did next frightened me more than punishment, for I could not begin to guess his purpose. 

He smiled.

“Come now, stop staring. I could not have chosen better for you myself. I am proud of you, my future queen.”

Never once had he told us so, in all our sixteen years. “Truly, Father?”

“Truly.” He placed his heavy hands on my shoulders and - for the first time in my life - kissed my brow. 

“But I must warn you first.” His smile sharpened. “Have I ever told you why you and your sister are swans by day and maidens by night?”

“All I know is that we have lived this way as long as I can remember. Why?”

“Because swans mate for life, of course.” He pulled a black feather from my hair and turned it in his fingers as he spoke. “When your mother broke her word, I could think of no better shape to teach her the meaning of loyalty. She sought to fly from me. I gave her wings.”

He crushed the feather in his fist and let the fragments fall.

My mind reeled. I remembered nothing of our mother, and neither, I believed, did Odette. There was not so much as a portrait of her anywhere in Father’s manor. He never spoke her name. We had never missed her, not knowing what there was to miss, but we had often wondered what she might be like. The mockery in his voice as he spoke of giving her wings made my own flightless body heavy as lead.

“You … cursed her?” I whispered through my dry throat. “Is that why she died?”

“I did not kill her. A hunter’s arrow did. It was a merciful death, I assure you.” There was no mercy in this sorcerer’s eyes. 

“So take care, my cygnet. If you or the one you love should ever break your word to each other, you will be a swan all your life, and Odile no longer.”

“I understand, Father.”

And indeed I understood - that my body, my sanity, my very self, were held by a tyrant from whom there could be no escape.

/

Father led me out of the maze, through the gardens and up the palace steps, where we joined the throng of arriving guests. I had not given a thought to my appearance, but Father conjured garments for us both. The ball was a masquerade and masked we were, he as an eagle-owl in brown and gold, I as a swan in black and silver. Father showed his note of invitation to the herald at the door, gave our name to him as Tannenwald, and mine as Odette. Soldiers in chain mail stood guard beside the doors and in every corner of the ballroom, to protect the royal family and their guests from just such impostors as we were, but they did not give us a second glance.

That was my chance to tell the truth, to run, to do anything but betray my sister, but Father’s arm and my own cowardice held me fast.

Our false names rang out into the ballroom.

I had never seen so many people in all my life, let alone all crushed together into one hall. More candles burned than we used in a year. Masked strangers whirled about in unfamiliar patterns, smelling of sweat and wine and perfumes. Painted nails flashed like talons, bared teeth like fangs. Fur and feathers shone with every movement. My swan-self screamed a silent warning: hunters on every side.

They all made way as Prince Siegfried bounded across the floor.

Alone among the company, he wore no mask. His handsome face, his blue eyes guileless and open as the lake at noonday, his dark curls that bounced with every step, I would have known anywhere. In honor of his guests, his clothes were finer than any in which I had seen him, though I missed his hunting leathers and was rather in awe of his velvet and gold. It was difficult to imagine this man content in the woods.

He bowed to Father with respect, but without fear. He then turned to me, smiling with unaffected delight.

“Odette! At last! I thought you were never coming - I - that is … how delighted I am to finally make your acquaintance.” He blushed as he took my hand. He could hardly admit to our secret meetings in front of Father. “I had heard that Baron von Tannenwald never left his estate.”

“Only for special occasions,” Father said smoothly. “Such as Your Highness’ coming-of-age, or my daughter’s first ball.” His fond smile looked almost genuine.

“You have two daughters, sir, have you not? Twins?”

“Odile is indisposed tonight. A trifle, never fear. She will soon have her chance.”

“I look forward to it.” Siegfried beamed. “Will you come and meet my mother?”

“We would be honored.”

The prince ushered us to the throne at the far end of the room, upon which Queen Hildegard sat with her courtiers about her. Her face was as handsome as her son’s, her blonde-and-silver hair tied back in a net of pearls, and her gown a rich shade of gold. Father swept her a bow, and I attempted a curtsey. She inclined her head graciously in response, but her smile was uncertain, perhaps even sad.

“You remind me of someone,” she murmured, her eyes fixed upon our masked faces. “I cannot think who it is.”

“This is the young lady of whom I spoke, Mother,��� said Siegfried. “I told you she would be here.”

“She is as lovely as you said, my son,” said the Queen. “I am pleased to meet you both. Baron, may tonight be the start of friendship between our houses. Odette, my dear, I hope you enjoy your evening. Take care of her, Siegfried, for she has lived quietly, and we do not wish for the crowd to overwhelm her.”

Tongue-tied, I nodded.

“Of course, Mother,” said Siegfried, “May I begin now by asking for the honor of the next dance?”

“You may,” said Father, handing me over to the younger man like a parcel.

Siegfried led me away, waiting until we were out of earshot - he could not know that Father had the ears of a bird of prey - to lean down and speak to me.

“You look ravishing, though I have never seen you wear black before. I almost took you for your sister.”

One more chance to tell the truth. 

“Thank goodness you are not. Nothing against Odile, she is a sweet girl, only so odd I never know what to say to her.”

Once more, I let it go.

“Have you ever known a young lady to wear only one color?” I said, with Odette’s gentle smile. “We contain multitudes, my prince.”

“So I see,” he said, drawing me close as the orchestra began the next dance.

(I wish I could tell you what came over me when he took my hand. They say I was jealous. As the black swan, what else would I be? They say I set out on purpose to steal him from my sister and win him for myself. That was never my intent, and even if it were, a man’s heart is no trinket for the taking. But I ask you, if you were starving with a banquet before you, could you turn away? If you had lived for sixteen years with such a man as Father, how far would you go for a bit of attention?)

I did not know the dances of this court, but music had always been my refuge, whether it came from the prince’s flute, my sister’s lullabies, or the nightly songs of frogs, birds and crickets by the lake. I could not dance as anyone but myself, and so I did. I jumped. I flapped. I spun myself dizzy. I stomped until the floor shook. I swung Siegfried around, reeled him in and pushed him away. I danced out my wildness and my shyness, my fears and my rage. I danced to drown out the two discordant voices within me: the bird demanding to fly, the woman longing to be seen. 

I looked up, and Siegfried saw me.

The blue of his eyes was nearly swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils. His face was flushed from more than the dance. When he lifted me, I felt the heat of his hands through layers of black silk. 

That look, that touch, though it made my own heart race, by rights belonged to my sister. 

For all our sakes, I had to tell him the truth.

“I must speak to you alone,” I said, catching my breath in the moment between dances.

“Yes … ” He could not tear his eyes from me. “Alone.”

“It is a matter of urgency!” I snapped. “Is there any place we will not be overheard?”

I rose on my toes, searching frantically for Father among the crowd. If I could only get Siegfried far enough away from him, I could end this charade right now and take him to Odette as I had planned from the beginning.

“The balcony!” he gasped. “Come with me.”

He pulled me by the hand, weaving through a swarm of dancing couples, toward the balcony doors. 

He was already reaching for the handle when Father’s booming voice stopped us both.

“Not so fast, Your Highness.”

The other dancers drew away from us as he approached. Some lifted their eyeglasses to stare, others whispered and giggled. Even the musicians, who had just ended their previous piece, did not begin another one. 

In the silence that replaced their playing, I thought I heard a strange tapping sound.

“Sneaking off to a dark corner, were we?” He chuckled. “I was young once too, I understand. But,” his smile flashed into a snarl as his hand shot out to grab Siegfried by the shirtfront. “That is my daughter you are dealing with, not some common tavern wench. I expect her to be treated with all the respect due to her station.”

Gasps and excited chatter rippled through the audience. Apparently, the one thing these people enjoyed more than a dance was a scene. 

“Sir, please - ” Siegfried dropped my hand as though it were a live coal. “It was nothing like that. We were only - ”

“I needed to tell him something,” I broke in. “Somewhere quiet enough to talk, nothing more.”

The tapping continued, followed by a thump, as if something heavy had struck wood.

“Surely telling each other secrets can wait until you are married.” Father let go of Siegfried’s shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles, but there was an implied threat even in this. “You do intend to marry her, no? You have been paying such marked attention to her all evening, I would be very much surprised if that was not the case.”

“Are you implying that my son - your future king - is not a man of honor?” Queen Hildegard had made her way through the onlookers and was frowning at us all with royal displeasure. “Because I raised him as such, and have never known him to be anything less.”

“Please forgive any implied insult, Your Majesty,” said Father. “Naturally, I was concerned for my beloved daughter. When I see a man pulling her away to get her alone - ”

“He did what?” The Queen turned her frown upon her son. “Siegfried, explain yourself.”

This crossfire of questions and accusations from all sides, surrounded by scandal-hungry strangers, backed up against a pair of closed doors and with that relentless tap-tap-tap still sounding in the background, was like a nightmare from which I could not wake. Siegfried must have felt the same way, because when he spoke, he did so with the desperation of a condemned man. 

“Yes! Yes, of course I will marry her. I give you my word!”

The balcony doors flew open as Odette hurled herself through. 

The first thing she saw was her betrothed, with one hand gesturing to me and the other raised to heaven, pledging himself to another woman before her eyes. 

She hovered in mid-air, wings beating hard, beak open as she gasped for breath. Had she flown here for Siegfried, or for me? To keep her appointment, to apologize for making me her scapegoat, or to warn us of Father’s plans? Had he given her the same warning he had given me?

“If you or the one you love should ever break your word to each other, you will be a swan all your life … ”

What had I done?

/

Odette, speechless and tearless, let out a piercing cry and soared into the night.

Rage at all the world, myself most of all, boiled up within me and struck out at the most convenient target: Prince Siegfried.

“There!” I shrieked, pointing to the sky. “There goes your betrothed! I am Odile, you fool, not Odette! I tried to tell you - how could you not know? How can you say you love her, if you cannot even tell us apart?”

Siegfried glanced from me to the moonless night into which Odette had flown, then to Father, the Queen, and everyone watching. His face twisted from confusion to fury as he saw us, saw me, for who I truly was.

“You - you tricked me … you lied to me! Why?”

Too many reasons to name, all of them true, all of them worthless … and all of them drowned out by Father’s mocking laughter.

“You have only yourself to blame, young prince. So this is Odile, is it? No matter.” Father clapped me on the back, sending me staggering toward Siegfried, who recoiled. “You saw what you wanted to see, and blinded yourself to the truth. Still, you had better marry one of my girls, unless you want them both to be swans forever. Which shall it be, boy? Choose!”

Siegfried froze in horror, unwilling to condemn either of us to lose ourselves that way. 

It was the Queen who, hearing Father all but boast of the shape-changing curse upon his daughters, came to a conclusion about her formerly honored guest that did not please her in the least. She stepped forward, snatched the owl-feather mask from his face, and threw it at his feet.

“Rothbart,” she hissed. “Sorcerer. How dare you return, after all these years?”

“Is that any way to greet your future kinsman?” Father raised his arms in mock offense. “Since you banished me from this kingdom, there can be no sweeter irony than for my child to rule it - whichever one of them lasts the night.”

“I see you have no more regard for your daughters than you once had for your wife.” Her lips twitched and her eyes flickered, grief warring with anger across her face. “Ophelie was my friend. For her sake, I should have killed you when I had the chance. Guards, seize him!”

The royal guards drew their weapons and converged on Father. With a flourish of his brown feather cloak, he turned into an owl and flew over their heads, dodging spears and arrows as if they were toys. Guests shrieked and scattered in all directions as the guards tried to evacuate the room. Others raised shields around the Queen. 

Siegfried drew his sword as well, but I caught him by the sleeve.

“Get away from me,” he spat. “Witch!”

“Insult me later,” I shouted over the noise. “We must find Odette!”

“Yes, but - where could she have gone?”

“Where else but the lake?”

If the curse was already working, if my sister was fading and her swan-self taking control, she would be drawn there with the instinct of a bird. And even if she was still herself, where could she go? It was the closest either of us had to a home.

He nodded sharply and leaped over the balcony railing, climbing down by way of a strong vine that grew along the wall. I leaned down long enough to see him land on his feet and run to the stables.

I knew a faster way.

The swan called to us, you see. It was always there in the back of our minds, urging us to take flight. We could only change from swan to girl at moonrise, but from girl to swan at any time, if we were desperate - which I was.

I launched myself off the balcony and let my black silk gown ripple into wings.

/

I found Odette just where I had been expecting her.

An old weeping willow grew by the shores of the lake, its low-hanging branches making a curtain of leaves which, in swan form, sheltered us from the sun, wind and rain. The roots of this tree formed a hollow which, over the years, we had padded with moss, leaves, grass and shed feathers until it was as comfortable a nest as we could make it. We slept there in the daytime, to make the most of our moonlight hours as girls. If Father knew where it was, he had never sought us there. It was the most likely place I could think of for either of us to hide in a time of trouble. I landed on the surface of the lake as smoothly as I could, swam to the willow, and drew the leaf-curtain aside. 

Odette was a ball of rumpled white feathers in the middle of the nest, her head tucked under her wing. Her breaths, still rapid, were the only signs that she was still awake. She had flown so fast; she must have been exhausted. She had always been more of a woman and less of a swan than I was.

I had a thousand things to say to her, but even in the daytime, I would have been at a loss how to begin. How could I explain to her the tangled web of lies, manipulations, resentment and fear that had led us to this? How could I tell her that, when the sun would rise and her mind would break in a few hours, so would my heart?

I stretched out my neck and nudged her gently.

She flew up with a scream and attacked me in a flurry of beak and wings. 

I of all people, her twin, the one fellow creature who understood what it meant to be Father’s daughters, had stolen the only thing she had ever wanted for herself: the love that would have helped her escape. Soon, she would never be herself again, and it would be my fault. What I had done was unforgivable, and we both knew it. I deserved to be torn to shreds.

My swan-self knew nothing of remorse, however. It demanded I fight back, blow for blow, bite for bite, until one of us was dead and the other broken - just as Father would have wanted.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

She was better than this. Even I was better than this. We had to be.

I made myself limp and defenseless, floating on the water among twigs and leaves. I would not raise a wing against her, even if she killed me.

She stopped.

Her head tilted sideways to look at me, her neck lowered, and her wings drooped. She pecked tiredly at our lost feathers, black and white, which had been scattered everywhere. The sorrow in her eyes had nothing swan-like about it.

When she began to shine, my first thought was that sunrise had come early.

Yet the sky above us was still dark, the new moon barely a sliver among the stars. Still she shone, whiter than paper, whiter than snow, then too impossibly bright to look at. I covered my eyes, but my own black wings were shining too, until there seemed no difference between them; both of us glowed with the blue light found at the heart of a flame. The pain of my injuries faded, healed by a warmth stronger than summer sunshine. I called out, and my voice was no longer a swan’s. I found myself laughing, or weeping, or both - and so did she.

When the light faded, we were standing on the banks of the lake, barefoot and tousle-haired, the hems of our dresses soaked with mud, human from head to toe. 

Her face, mirroring my own in wide-eyed disbelief, was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. 

We laughed. We wept. We embraced. We pulled water-weed out of each other’s hair and helped each other to the nearby cabin where we kept dry clothes and shoes. We tried to act as if this were any other morning shape-change, when we both knew it was anything but that.

“We broke the spell,” were the first coherent words I found to say. “How is this possible?”

“I am not certain,” said Odette, still breathless, blinking down at her own hands as if newly born. “All I remember is thinking that … ”

“Yes?”

“That I forgave you.” She looked up at me with an astonished smile. “I forgive you!”

“You … you do?”

“Always. Are we not sisters?” She squeezed my hands even as her smile faded and her eyes filled once more. “Can you ever forgive me? It was my idea to lie about which of us was betrothed - ”

“Of course I forgive you, how could I not? Father was using us both.” 

“So he did, but … oh, Odile, why did you let him do it?”

“I was jealous.” Beneath all of Father’s schemes I could have used as an excuse, this was the ugly truth. “No one has ever looked at me the way your prince looks at you.”

“No one has seen us for sixteen years, so how could they?” She tilted her head, bird-like even now, to give me that pointed look that told me to stop acting the fool. “You may yet have your chance. We are free now, to go anywhere and be anyone we choose.”

This idea was beyond my comprehension, so soon after breaking a curse that had lasted a lifetime. 

We could have debated for hours about what to do next, had we not heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats among the trees.

Siegfried came crashing through the undergrowth, leapt down from his horse and ran towards Odette. He stopped short for a moment at the sight of me, but continued on, even as she stood waiting beside me in the doorframe of our cabin with a dignity that would have done credit to Queen Hildegard herself.

“Odette? Thank Heaven you’re alright - but … how?”

“Odile saved me.” Odette wrapped her arm around me, refusing to let me hide (and showing him, unmistakably, which of us was which). 

“We saved each other,” I corrected her. “The spell is broken. We are no longer swans.”

Siegfried stared back at us, lost for words, struggling between joy for her, resentment for me, and sheer amazement at the miracle that had taken place. 

“I am sorry for my part in Father’s plot,” I added. “You deserved better than to be used like that.”

“Indeed not,” said Odette ruefully. “We hardly know each other, as tonight proves, and in that short time we’ve brought you nothing but trouble. I would not blame you if you chose to walk away.”

“Walk away?” Siegfried’s voice rose in disbelief. “Having met your father, if you think I would abandon anyone to him, let alone the woman I - ” He stopped, ducked his head, and shifted from one foot to another, like the bashful boy he must have been not so long ago. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me, after what I’ve done,” he said to Odette. “But please - all I ask for is the chance to earn it back. Let me take you - both of you - back to the palace. You will be under the Queen’s protection. He will never come near you again.”

He held out his hand to Odette.

She hesitated for what felt like a long time, and I wondered what she was thinking. Did she see that same hand in her mind’s eye, gesturing to me as he broke his promise? Which of us traitors would be easier for her to forgive: sister or lover? Did she still love him? Did any of us even know what it was to love?

“Can you really not see the differences between Odile and me?” she asked suddenly. “Or were you pretending not to, and using our resemblance as an excuse? If you were, tell me now. I would rather face the truth.”

“What a fool and scoundrel you must think me … ” Siegfried shrank into his evening clothes. “The truth is that Rothbart was right. I saw what I wanted to see, and blinded myself to the truth. Odile seemed so - so free on that dance floor, so unguarded … ever since we met, I always hoped to see you like that someday.”

Unguarded - with Father watching us all night? And yet I knew what Siegfried meant. I remembered a moment when the music had struck a high note and he had lifted me clear over his head, turning in a circle, so I could see the entire ballroom at one glance. I had never come so close to flying in my human form as I had then. 

“I have never known freedom in all my life,” said Odette, looking up at him so wistfully I began to wonder if I should leave them alone. “But with you, I began to believe it was possible … until tonight.”

“Couldn’t you still believe it? Even now?” Siegfried asked her in a low voice. “Couldn’t you try?”

I withdrew into the shadows. I believe they had forgotten I was there. Neither one could take their eyes off the other, even though Odette still held herself apart. 

Whatever answer she might have given him, though, was drowned out by the scream of an eagle-owl above our heads.

We all froze, like mice in a burrow hoping the hunter will pass them by. We should have known the royal guards could not stop Father, though they had certainly delayed him for a while. Breaking his curse had done nothing to prevent the hot knife of fear that stabbed me as I heard him call. 

We could not spirit our guest away and pretend innocence this time. We had no choice but to face him down.

“Well met, son-in-law,” said Father, landing before us with barely a rustle. “I thought I would find you here. So, have you made your choice?”

He gave no sign of being surprised, or even aware, that Odette and I had broken the curse. His owl-senses must have told him what shape we wore already.

“I am not your son–in-law!” Siegfried reached for the sword at his belt, which I had assumed was ceremonial, but which gleamed sharply as he drew it. “You have no right to call yourself a father to these women. In the name of the Crown, I order you to let them go.”

“Order me?” Father scoffed. “I give the orders here, little prince.”

He gestured with one hand. Siegfried’s sword glowed red-hot, as if freshly forged. He cried out in pain and flung it away, clutching his burnt hand. The sword landed in the lake with a hiss of steam.

“Father, please listen.”

Odette’s voice rang out in the cool night air, clear and confident, without a trace of the fear she must have felt. Siegfried had stepped in front of us, but now she did the same. She held out her arms to shield us. Even in the pale light of the new moon, the long sleeves of her dress shone like bright wings.

I had seen this before.

That sweep of white blew layers of dust from my memories, opening a strongbox my mind had locked and buried years ago. I had never forgotten it, only feared it - until now.

Baroness Rothbart. Ophelie. Mother. 

I remembered.

/

Mother is packing. Odette smiles as if we are going on holiday, but I am anxious. Mother is throwing clothes into a bag at random, not even folding them, which is unlike her. She keeps looking over her shoulder at the door. I try to stay out of her way as she hurries back and forth. 

The door creaks open. Father is angry. I thought he was going with us, but no - Mother really means to go without him.

“If you must leave, good riddance, but you will not take my flesh and blood from me.” He waves a commanding hand at us. “Girls, come here.”

Odette takes a step forward. I hide behind Mother’s skirt. She gathers us both close. “You are on the wrong path, Eric. You might not see it, but I do. I will not leave them - and certainly not with you.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” He raises his hands to cast a spell.

Mother throws herself between him and us, white sleeves billowing, 

He does not stop.

The world twists all out of shape, like your face reflected in the bowl of a spoon, like fragments of colored glass being shaken in a kaleidoscope. My bones are on fire. Odette is screaming, or is that both of us? No, all three.

We are a swan and two cygnets, lying dazed on the floor.

/

I remembered it all - Father’s hand tearing like talons through the air, Mother’s hand warm and trembling on my shoulder. I remembered the strange, kaleidoscopic world I had glimpsed as the curse took hold, a world of magic underneath the reality to which I was accustomed. It would have been beautiful, were it not so terrifying. Was this what Father saw, every time he cast a spell?

He made it look so easy. Could I do it?

Even as my mind reeled, Odette was calling on all the strength she had to reason with him.

“We are no threat to you,” she said. “All we ask is that you allow us to accept the prince’s generosity, and live at court like any other baron’s daughters. Our curse is broken, so you will no longer have to spend magic to provide for us. We can leave each other in peace. Was that not what you wanted by arranging this betrothal?”

Siegfried’s head lifted in joyful surprise, as this was the first sign Odette had shown of accepting his olive branch. Father, however, scowled.

“What I want, what I have always wanted, is to rule … and for that end, I begin to suspect the boy is more trouble than he is worth.”

Again, he flicked aside the veil between worlds; a small movement this time, but I still saw it. A crossbow appeared in his leather-gloved grasp.

“Stand aside, girl. This won’t take long.”

“We’ll see about that.” Siegfried, brave fool, raised his fists. “If this is your challenge, sorcerer, I accept.”

“No, please!” Odette cried. “Father, let us go!”

Father raised his weapon. Siegfried pushed Odette aside. History was repeating itself, just as it had all those years ago. Once again, I was helpless to do anything but watch … or was I?

Oh Mother, this is why you tried to save us. Shall we never be free of him?

That was when I felt something brush my shoulder, soft as feathers, and heard a voice in my mind that might have been Mother - or Someone else.

I am with you, my children. Free yourselves.

I burst out of the shadowy cabin where I had been hiding and flung up my hands. 

To this day, I can neither describe nor understand what reached out through me the moment I opened the veil. It was a force that could reshape reality as a child plays with mud. If Father thought he could control it, he was deeply mistaken. When he had told me he was the one to choose what creature we turned into, either he had been lying, or he did not understand magic as well as he thought.

Whatever it was, it poured out of me, flowed harmlessly in streams around Odette and Siegfried, and caught hold of Father as if he were a toy.

His conjured crossbow dropped into the grass. He roared and struggled, but the magic did not let him go. It tugged and twisted him this way and that, stretching his face into a beak, pulling at his shoulder blades until wings erupted. At first, I thought he was changing into his owl form again - although when he’d done it for himself, it had never looked this painful - but if so, this owl was taller than a man and had feathers that gleamed like knives. Its screech had a grating sharpness nothing living could produce - and yet, somewhere underneath it was still Father’s voice.

Odette was the first of us to recover her presence of mind. She pounced on the fallen crossbow and pushed it into Siegfried’s arms.

“Run!”

And so we did.

No matter what the ballads tell you, there is nothing glorious about battle. It consists of scrambling up trees, behind bushes or down muddy holes in the hope of not having the flesh torn from your bones. The crossbow was a magical weapon with an endless supply of arrows, but Siegfried’s shots kept glancing off the creature’s scales. The few that struck seemed to enrage it even further. All that saved us was the increasing wildness of its attacks. We were watching Father lose himself before our eyes.

But Siegfried was still a master archer, and eventually there came a moment when his enemy dragged himself along the ground, breath rattling, leaving a dark trail along the shoreline.

I thought of Odette, pecking at the feathers we had shed during our fight. If I spoke now, I might regret it all my life, but no less would I regret staying silent.

“Father? Forgiveness breaks the curse. It will heal you. It doesn’t need to end this way.”

Could I forgive him? Could Odette? I saw her from the corner of my eye, hiding behind a tree trunk, watching warily to see what he would do. Siegfried held his bow steady, poised to shoot at the slightest movement. 

The creature moaned. His eyes, yellow as an owl’s, seemed to darken with a look that was almost human. 

I took one small step toward him, then another. Odette emerged from behind the tree. Siegfried lowered his weapon.

The creature snapped at me, who was closest. Odette pulled me back. Its owl-eyes flashed up at us with mindless animal aggression.

Siegfried’s last shot struck home inside its open beak.

It fell, thrashing, and slid sideways down the bank and into the lake. The water hissed and bubbled until it was still.

Siegfried’s bow vanished in a twist of nothingness. He ran to Odette, kissed her as if he were the one drowning, and held her close as she melted into him. I backed away, but Odette caught me by the sleeve and pulled me in. Siegfried, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed me on the forehead like a brother.

The sun was rising. By its light, I saw us in living colour for the first time: Siegfried’s hazel eyes shadowed with weariness, Odette’s blue as the morning sky and red-rimmed with tears, and my own red-blond hair straggling down around my face. Our dresses, no longer enchanted to mimic the feathers of water birds, were streaked with dirt. We were beautiful. We were alive.

“Let me take you home,” said Siegfried, offering us each an arm.

Needless to say, we accepted.

THE END

[tending-the-hearth]

thinking about how canonically the pevensie siblings are 13, 12, 10, and 8 in "the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe"

thinking about how lucy needed a stool to be able to get up onto her throne, how peter's sword is a little too large for him, how susan's bow is a little too difficult for her to pull back, how edmund's shield nearly covers his entire body.

thinking about the pevensie siblings and their first few months in narnia, getting to know their new people, and half the narnians sitting there horrified because WHAT have these literal babies been through to give them such traumatized, old eyes, and the other half of the narnians are preparing to adopt them, no it doesn't matter that they're the rules, they're children who are being put in charge of too many things, and if peter looks at the old man council long enough he's going to cry, so someone needs to give him paternal support while aslan is off doing Lion Jesus Stuff™️ and whoops oreius is being nice and encouraging and now he's adopted his kings and queens they're his kids now he doesn't make the rules.

just the narnians and the pevensies being thrown into it together, and just as the pevensies will do anything to protect their new kingdom, the narnians will do anything to protect their rules, because let's be honest, these children have no sense of self-preservation, and are far too overprotective of each other and their people to take into account their own safety, so a lot of battles it's just one of the pevensie siblings running headfirst into danger with oreius running after them because his kids are feral and don't know proper royalty manners and won't threatening old kings from different countries because they're being assholes and the last time one of them tried undermining the queens susan called him a self-righteous asshole and lucy tried to stab him SOMEONE help him corral his children please

[inklings-challenge]

2025 Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge: Official Announcement

The Event

The Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge invites Christian writers and artists to retell or illustrate a fairy tale that features at least one of the four loves:

Storge: Familial love

Eros: Romantic love

Philia: Friendship

Agape: Self-giving love

All stories and artwork will be reblogged to the main Inklings Challenge blog during the month of February.

For Writers

Writers participating in the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge are invited to retell a fairy tale from a Christian worldview in a way that features at least one of the four types of love. This could involve retelling a fairy tale that features on the chosen type of love or changing a fairy tale that traditionally focuses upon romance, family or friendship to focus on a different type of love. Retellings can be in any genre–fantasy, science fiction, historical, contemporary, etc.–and should retell the original tale, rather than any modern adaptations. There is no maximum or minimum word limit, but because of the short time frame, the challenge is best suited to short works.

For Artists

Artists participating in the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge are invited to create artworks related to a fairy tale. Artworks can take any form–illustrations, moodboards, photographs, crafts, etc.–so long as they are related to a fairy tale. Artworks can feature a scene from the traditional tale or adapt the fairy tale to a different setting or genre. Artists who are also writers can also illustrate their own works if they desire.

Posting

Retellings and artwork can be posted to a tumblr blog anytime after February 1, 2025. Writers and artists are encouraged to post their works by February 14, 2025, but works can be finished and posted after that date. Works will be shared to the main Inklings Challenge blog until the final deadline of February 28, 2025.

All stories and art will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, creators should tag their posts according to the following guidelines.

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the type of love that is featured in the work: theme: storge, theme: eros, theme: philia, and/or theme: agape

Tag the fairy tale that is being retold or illustrated within the work.

For writers, tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

And that’s the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge! Any questions, comments or concerns can be sent to this blog, and I’ll do my best to answer them.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

character A and character B are enemies who are in fact idiots in love (but they’re such idiots they don’t know the feelings are mutual). one of them is drunk, so the other has to be sober in order to look after them. suddenly the drunk one prompts their enemy to play two truths and a lie with them. it’s fine, it’s just a silly game.

until one of the 3 choices provided is an outright love confession.

and of course, that damn confession isn’t the lie.

read a fic with this prompt here

[bookshelf-in-progress]

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.

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

𝒔𝒐𝒘 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚

sequel to eyes of the ranger

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genres: western!au, angst, domestic fluff, bits of hurt/comfort

word count: 8.6k

warnings: spoilers for boothill's backstory, death, heavy angst, explorations of grief, gun violence, blood, implied suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms

notes: I've only seen the bare minimum of his story leaks, and they've been spinning around my head ever since. Some details of the timeline might be tweaked, or imagined/added, but that's just for the au. Still, please enjoy this sequel, and what more I've added to this world! Here's some flowers again :) 💐

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Candles cast their glow brightly across wood panels as you hummed a lilting melody. Hands played with your hair, tugging on the strands to draw your attention away from the swirling pot of stew.

“Papa?"

"He'll be back soon, sweetie."

Your daughter shifted on your arm as you placed the spoon back in its resting spot. Her head fell against your shoulder, no doubt growing bored as crackles of fire echoed across the cabin.

You resumed the tune, bouncing slightly from side to side. She perked up once more as you took her hand over your first two fingers, thumb covering its small size. Her eyes began to crinkle as her first few teeth were revealed by a smile. She always loved dancing and music, likely because of her "silly papa".

When he left for town in the afternoon, he tripped over the porch's last step – on purpose, you suspected. She quickly laughed from where she sat with you in the rocking chair, calling him the nickname as he straightened up again. In just a couple strides he was back in front of you, fingertip meeting her nose before she swatted at him. He chuckled, leaving another kiss on both of your foreheads and embarking again.

As you gently spun, her gaze drifted to the window. She lit up, brighter than any heavenly body, and pointed to the door.

"Papa! Papa!"

The sound of approaching hooves met your ears softly, leading you to peer through the glass panes. Unfortunately, your vision was greeted by the furthest people from Boothill.

The National Hunter's Agency had grown to infamy everywhere you went. They had been given many pardons, and bought off plenty of sheriffs and their higher-ups to be able to operate as they pleased in numerous states. It seems now, after two years, they had caught wind of your bounty and wanted to cash in.

You carefully set her down on the floor, hands staying at her sides in case she lost balance. With some support, you walked her to your shared bedroom, guiding her to hide in your shaker wardrobe.

An anxious hand rotated the knob on the front door, leaving you face to face with a row of five men. Two in suits at the center, and three dressed more rugged at their side.

"Good evening." one greeted, smoke flowing from his mouth. "I assume you know why we're here."

The reverberations of your boots ceased before the steps as you stared at the lineup. "Naturally."

He hummed, throwing the remains of his cigarette to the dirt.

The agent at his right spoke up, "Why don't you walk down here, then."

“Isn’t it your job to capture me?”

“Continue resisting and you don’t have to be the only one we take.”

Your resolution faltered, and the hunters closed in. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Are you sure?”

Glass shattered behind you, followed by heavy thumping. Tendrils of dread inched in, their freeze creeping over your bones.

“Step down.”

Despite every instinct screaming for you to move, to follow their commands, denial and fear kept you in place.

“You’ve got about one minute before we force you to.”

A glaze fell over your surroundings, the situation tumbling to the wayside as your thoughts and blood rushed in unison. It was five against one, and each of them were armed – you were not. They had more information than they were letting on. Someone was searching the cabin for your daughter, likely their sixth. She would be weaponized if she was caught, stuck in the crossfire of your bounty.

Was there a way out of this? To prevent what seemed increasingly inevitable?

Well, yes. You could give yourself up.

But there was no guarantee of her safety afterward, or that you would remain alive.

Still, you and Boothill had made a promise when you first took her in, just one year ago. If danger ever presented itself, you would lay down your lives to protect her.

One of the hunters drew his pistol as your boot hit the first step.

Another dismounted, his dirtied white shirt twisting, then straightening once more as he approached you. A rough grip captured your arms, dragging them behind your back. Something hard hit the ground at your right, a rope thrown by one of his partners. It was wrapped and tied around your wrists, the friction beginning to cast a light burning sensation over the skin.

A foot met the back of your knees as he tightened the restraints, dust rising at the impact. One of the agents joined you, the scent of smoke lingering on his fingers as he brought your head up to meet his eyes. They returned to his side a moment later as his gaze turned to the cabin.

A hunter had your little girl in his grasp, her steps short, frightened, and struggling as she was led down the stairs. She looked at you, searching for answers or what to do.

The saddled agent’s voice sounded from behind, “The NHA seeks to rid these ranges of their impurities. When you wish to uproot an evil such as yourself, no trace must remain.”

He gestured toward the four hunters, and his fellow agent disappeared from your view.

Then the brutality they were known for reared its unforgettable head.

The low flat heel of a dress shoe met your back, staying there as you writhed on the ground, watching up at your daughter.

A metallic barrel crept to the rear of her head.

The tendrils of dread became horrible claws, sinking into every organ and twisting.

Warm ruby droplets cascaded over pale brown and flesh, as the shot’s echo dulled your senses and her body crumbled to the ground.

The claws dug open a void as a defeated cry exit your lips. You were released from under the agent’s foot, flipped over to stare at the cloud-stricken dusk. Voices yelled around you, the words fading into one persistent cacophony. A hand pressed itself down onto your shoulder, before a pain blossomed in the other. A rugged face peered down at you, contempt rising in their features. A new flower of sharp ache grew in your left thigh, tears finally stinging at your eyes.

A fresh splattering of blood flowed over your face, shocking you out of despair. Their body went limp over yours, and you quickly brushed them to the side. Now free from the hunter’s reach, you sunk your hands into the dirt beside you, slowly turning yourself back to your stomach. The hilt of a knife hit the ground as you did so, veins coming alight with panic from its twist in your wound.

Despite every injury, you only had one focus – to see your daughter one last time.

Sharp gravel digged uncomfortably underneath your legs as your restrained hands inched forward. Blood thrummed in your ears, yet the unmistakable sound of gunshots broke through. Within a matter of seconds someone rushed to your crawling form. They called for you, voice breaking at the scene as a hand brushed through your hair.

“Darlin’?”

Your head rose at every emotion kept within that one word, asked by a husky voice you could find in any darkness. Anguish cast itself over his face when he finally saw what you were headed toward. He sank to his knees next to you, a wrecked sob reaching into the evening only to be greeted by no comfort.

Reluctantly, you gazed at your daughter’s corpse, journeying silently past Boothill to finally touch her.

A sticky scarlet liquid mocked you, revealing your sorrow-stricken features coated in its kind within the pool. Your fingers rose to her, a warmth lingering below as she was turned. You summoned any last inkling of strength you had, smiling down to her and speaking softly.

“You were my pride and joy, sweetheart. I’ve had no greater honor than being your parent.”

You leaned down, a soft kiss landing on her forehead before you cried a chant of apologies. When any words you could conjure finally entered oblivion, your eyes looked back to Boothill. He hadn’t moved an inch, rendered paralyzed by the gravity of what he arrived home to. It seemed as though he had been ripped apart, every wire inside of him fraying.

This was your fault, and you were sure he knew that too.

Regret became a well in your heart, rising from the depths and overflowing onto its dying grass. Your head ached, thoughts swirling until each one sinked in grief’s whirlpool. In resignation, you lie beside her, holding her chilled hands between your fingers. If you closed your eyes, you could still see her smile as you danced making dinner.

It would feel best if you never opened them again, but you couldn’t leave Boothill to carry this weight alone. He didn’t deserve such a fate.

A hand swiped over your stained cheek, drawing you back to miserable reality. Tears descended from silver, embers kindling beneath their despair. You lifted your hands from hers, closing her lifeless eyes. Boothill’s hat rested at his chest, head downturned from where he knelt.

Together, you mourned.

—

PART I - Fatherhood And Other Dreams

"Papa! The moo-moos!"

"I see them!" Boothill chuckled, watching a finger point at their pasture.

Rena wriggled against his side, wanting to move closer to them. He complied, jogging to the wooden fence as she smiled.

Her small hands reached past the log fence, petting along one of the cow's heads as it grazed. She had such an affinity for the animals here, something you always joked she got from him.

Every morning like clockwork, she would point them out, longing to go and sit with them for a while. He would join her, occasionally teaching her things about their diets or hair as she would get close and stare into their big brown eyes.

Today she angled back against his leg and smiled at her altered reflection in them, before you tousled her growing hair. He hadn’t heard you approach, too absorbed in the scene to hear your boots kick up dust. His hand rose to rub against the back of your neck as you leaned into him, sipping on your mug of black coffee.

He had noticed your odd positioning on the pillow, no doubt leaving you with some pains when you woke. Quiet snores filled the room; something he would laugh with Rena about, her high-pitched giggles overtaking the silence of the night as her hands pat against your cheeks. Your light snoring would cease, and your face would scrunch up at the unexpected disturbance before you recognized the poking of your daughter. He watched as you tickled the side of her neck, placing a hand on her back when she fell on your chest and wiggled around in joy.

He’s never felt more love than in those little moments, witnessing his entire world as two shining stars amidst the murky midnight.

“In!”

“Brush first?”

“Yeah!”

He was brought back to you after a quick shake of his head, two gazes of the same color waiting for him. One enthusiastic, the other fond and patient as he bent down to pick up Rena. She played with his low braided hair, pulling a few small strands free. You ventured to the stables, likely fetching a brush that she had dropped on one of the chairs yesterday.

The grass was fresh with dew, shining under the morning rays. He opened the gate with ease, feeling a breeze run over his cheeks as he shut it behind him. The pasture was wide, yet filled with only ten cows. Each one would be brushed daily by Rena, starting with one patterned in brown and white. It was an activity she had adored since the first time you had brought her out to help just a couple months ago. Seeing how much she enjoyed it, he joined the two of you only a week later.

You came to his side, handing the brush over to her as you sipped on your coffee. He gestured at you with his chin as bristles met little hairs. With a smile, you turned the mug in his direction, a warm and bitter liquid flowing over his tongue.

A gentle laugh left your lips when the cow’s head moved, rising up into the brush and slightly twisting into it. Rena turned to you, beaming as she moved the brush to another spot. The cow reacted in turn, and you laughed again.

~

The wood ceiling of the barn came into view as Boothill’s head was tugged backward. A light chuckle echoed through the space, falling in time with the noon bird's chirp. His hat tumbled to the hay and dust riddled floor, yet it didn’t remain for long. Little hands left the ends of his hair, snatching the hat instead. He watched, bale in hand, as you scooped up Rena. In a swift motion, you placed his hat on her head, one arm wrapped around your neck and the other reaching for the large brim.

The bale crashed onto the floor, beginning a new stack by one of the stables. The sound brought Rena's attention to him, her head tilting backward to spot him from underneath the hat.

“Like papa!”

“You wanna be like him?"

"Yeah!"

"Then we're gonna have a lot to teach you."

He grinned, the brightness of the sun’s rays and his daughter’s admiration seeping into his smile. With her now distracted by one of the horses, he wrapped an arm around your waist, leaving a kiss on your lips before continuing his work.

~

The orange and golden rays of sunset beckoned your gaze to the large window overlooking the front porch. Rena slept peacefully on your chest, a combination of a full stomach and boredom likely the cause. You brought the book in your right hand to the other supporting her, flipping the page carefully.

The slow thumping of boots echoed through the door, prompting Rena to stir. She had always been a light sleeper, though she didn't always fully awaken. It seemed that this evening she would, leaning backward into your hand as the door opened. Boothill's figure emerged, lit by the bright horizon. She shuffled as her eyes opened to meet his, slowly laying further backward against your hand. Letting the leather-bound book fall from your lap, you wrapped both hands around her. She whined, leading one of your brows to raise.

Boothill inched closer, stopping at the edge of the rug in your little living area. You set Rena down, your hands staying at her sides. She watched the floor intently, gaze shifting between it and her papa. Quickly you picked up on her intentions, standing behind her and holding her hands just above her head.

Her foot moved forward slightly, and excitement blossomed on both your and Boothill's faces. He knelt down, holding his arms out for her. Feeling encouraged, she moved faster, taking her first few steps with your support. When she finally reached her papa, he lifted her up, cheering at her along with you. She beamed, her feet kicking back and forth in the air as she giggled.

~

The stars twinkled in the growing twilight, contrasting with the auburn and violet hues on the horizon. Cool grass stood between your fingers, the tranquility of the coming night bleeding into your spirit. The hill provided a lovely view of the valley below as crickets began to chirp. A thin herd of deer moved like whispers just a few feet before you.

One startled in your direction, the sound of Rena picking at strings increasing its paranoia. She was transfixed by the instrument, plucking as she sat in Boothill’s lap. His affectionate gaze watched down at her, adjusting the blanket over her legs.

There were many nights over the past few days you would wake to find Boothill absent from your bed. Rena would stir at your side, face scrunching further into the pillow as she murmured. After returning her stuffed bear from the other side of the bed, you would walk to find him at the kitchen table. The fire lit various scenes; some filled with brushes and varnish, others with whittling tools and etched knobs. Sometimes he would be passed out against the table, shavings coating his cheek. He wanted to complete the gift as soon as possible, his wish of sharing and passing on melodies and lyrics from his life fueling his craft.

Feeling fingers brush through his hair, Boothill would awaken to your soft gaze. Wordlessly you wiped his cheek, taking his hand in yours and bringing him to bed.

Gentle singing met your ears, skilled strumming of a guitar accompanying it. One large hand shifted up and down the strings, holding, shaking, and lifting to change the tune. The other encased one of Rena’s guiding her through the song.

The sun completed its descent underneath the horizon, and the herd of deer found their way back into the forest. Hints of light hung in the sky, now joined by colors of dandelions and the deep sea. The high-pitched babbling of your daughter chimed in during certain sections, forming a heart-warming duet. With your head on Boothill’s shoulder, you hummed along.

—

The town of Iris Creek was blissful, wilted blossoms gathering on the path's edges from the growing heat. The watery flow of its namesake echoed through the grand trees, calming your mind as you approached with Boothill at your side. After your most recent hunt, a week of rest was well-deserved.

Leaning down, you let the velvety liquid rush between your fingers. Its chill permeated your flesh, a content smile on your face as Boothill toyed with your hair.

“I enjoy seeing you this way.” he whispered, staring at you lovingly.

You turned, removing your hand from the water and laying back on the grass.

“At ease?” you questioned.

He nodded, resting down beside you, hat on his chest. You brushed aside his lengthening bangs, turning the strands together before running a thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into your touch as you asked, “Do you watch me sleep then?”

Embarrassed, his face angled toward the ground.

“Gettin’ shy on me, cowboy?”

He gave no response, simply meeting your eyes with a tender silver. Your lips met his cheek, feeling the bashful warmth gracing his features.

“I like it.” you spoke softly in his ear, leaving a little bite along the lobe.

One hand came up to your waist, holding tightly as your focus shifted to his neck. The other fell into your hair, gripping after a bold lick to the revealed skin.

“Can’t help but be at your mercy, sugar.”

“Such a charmer.”

“Around someone like you, it’s only natural.”

A nibble at the edge of his jaw led his fingers to rub underneath your shirt.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, look at you. One conversation and I was hooked.”

“All it took was one challenge for you to love me?” you chuckled.

“Sugar, all it took was one glance.”

A cry reverberated down the creek as you finally kissed Boothill’s lips. It was panicked and small, drawing you almost entirely from the moment.

Pushing off of his chest, you sat up to survey your surroundings. Boothill rubbed your thigh, looking at you curiously. Just a minute later the two of you stood, spotting a tarnished cloth amongst the bank’s brush.

“Do you see that?”

He followed your gaze, walking ahead of you only to kneel down and lift the sullied fabric. His eyes widened as he beckoned you over. The crying intensified, a tiny head turning from side to side.

A baby.

Boothill was the first to move, cradling them gently in his arms. You brought a finger to their grabbing hands, brushing another one over their forehead.

“What should we do?” you wondered aloud.

“Take them in?” he uttered.

“Are we ready for that, though? We’re wanted criminals, Boothill. That’s no life for a child.”

“Then we settle down.”

“There’s still no guarantee we won’t be hunted or ambushed.”

Your hands fell back to your side, unsure eyes watching the gears turn in his mind.

“We would be their parents, together we can take anybody. Lay down our lives if necessary. We could find somewhere more isolated, maybe even further out of this state. Teach them some of our methods as they get older.”

A heavy sigh left your lungs, the weight of dozens of questions slowly dissipating. There were many details to discuss and new plans to craft. Nonetheless, your head landed on Boothill’s shoulder, two adoring gazes on your child.

~

Butter-colored rays bore through the train car’s windows, wide mountains of tan rock and green bushes waiting outside. A bundle of blankets lay in your arms, encasing your daughter in comfort and warmth.

Boothill had left for them not long after you brought her back to the hotel, returning worriedly with them in hand. They were soft and luscious, leading you to wonder who he had stolen them from. “Only the best for our little girl” – it wasn’t just a statement but a promise.

Another was sworn that evening, your daughter finally clean and sleeping in your arms. Boothill rest behind you in the bed, shielding your small family from any danger while wrapping you in care.

“What should we name her?” he asked quietly, warm breath fanning over your neck.

You pondered silently, letting your head lay on his shoulder. “How about Rena?”

He hummed, a thick finger running over her forehead. “From that play of Effie's, right?”

“I think her story was admirable. Live freely, out on your own road, never waste your time with what you can’t change.”

“Now I like the ring of that.”

“See?” you smiled, a teasing slant to it. “When I wrote to her a few days ago she added in a thought or two about the characters. She said Rena also meant melody, at least according to what she could find in Thatcher's library.”

“Then it's settled.”

His chin landed in the crook of your neck as he simply watched her be, absorbed in thoughts of the future. It wasn’t until she stirred, eyes opening and hands seeking, that you witnessed him take on a gentleness formerly reserved for only you.

His eyes began to water as she held his finger close, staring up in his direction yet unable to pin him down. When she finally did, he sat like a spooked deer, only releasing a low, happy chuckle after your own.

A cough down the car broke you from idle reminiscence. Boothill read a crinkled paper, the letter sent from the ranch you were seeking out. He had come back one evening with the result after days of asking around. Down near Iron Springs, there was someone with plenty of land – could provide decent wages and a cabin to stay in. A suitable place to settle down, with much for Rena to learn and experience.

Taking his cheek between your empty fingers, you pinched and watched him grumble. Despite your lifestyle, you could only hope that this would be a lovely and safe life for her.

—

PART II - A Luminous Star, Ephemeral

Murky skies cried chilling droplets, harshly soaking your bloodstained shirt. The evening had to be setting in, but any hope of seeing the sun finally fade had long since dissipated with the storm’s onslaught. A frayed splinter dug into your palm, the weight of the shovel increasing as the hole in the ground deepened. The dirt was malleable, easy to unearth and pile up.

Many graves were dug by your hand, and you prayed this would be the last.

Boothill wept only a few feet away, Rena’s corpse in his arms underneath a sturdy tree. Ashamed, your gaze fell back to the emptying plot.

Heavy throbbing found its home along your left side, yet still, you had to dig. The pain was deserved – a punishment that fit your crime. Crusting edges tug and bent at the surrounding skin, the quickly cauterized wounds only growing more irritated by the rainwater.

Trickles of pink traversed down your cheeks, blood washing away slowly with your tears. Leaning on the shovel, your eyes rose from the ground. A strong and steady breeze cast the rain in sheets, carving figures in the mist. Discerning who they were was useless, you could remember them anywhere.

Your father, the Weston family, and your daughter.

The mud and soil coating your fingers shifted to a deep scarlet, beads falling from their tips and hitting your boots. Trees morphed into tombstones, and you found yourself paralyzed. Mr. Whitfield’s gravelly voice rang in your ears, drowning out any natural melodies.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn a pure soul, lost too soon. Rena Blackwell was an adored child, and she will continue to be so in our thoughts, and all the way to the depths of our hearts. Her smile could dispel any darkness, and her curiosity persisted to the ends of the earth. Her fascinations lie with animals and music, her greatest friends a pony and her papa’s guitar. May she find eternal peace amidst these mountains and plains, their windy song carrying her gently to the hereafter.”

Lightning crackled across the sky, an omen of your judgment day. Boothill’s shadowed figure stand illuminated by the last ounce of daylight breaking from the clouds. Rena lay delicately in the grave, eyes closed and hands folded, his hat just beneath their union. Wordlessly he took the shovel, leaving you to kneel at her side as dirt cascaded over her corpse.

Stars found their stages in the wisp-struck night sky, their beaming light mocking. If they were tangible to Earth, you would have left plenty of rounds in them. Mourning was an act displayed to you since childhood, but it never came easily. Perhaps that was part of the point. Loss would never be simple, and humanity is far too complex to handle it so. Death was an odd thing, and despite working so intimately with the inevitable specter, it had yet to reveal every one of its forms.

Every body you would prepare never revealed its secrets. No amount of soap and water could cleanse it's invasiveness. No number of incisions and blood drained could release the agony. The fluids injected could not provide life, and clothes would only emulate. Death was permanent, and excruciating to all.

You could shoot a man without hesitation, but being along the receiving end of that cruelty, you could only resign yourself to regret. You killed bad men, yet they still had lives. Friends and family they found or created.

The grating sound of a knife on wood reached your ears, breaking into your thoughts. Boothill sat opposite to you, a neat piece of bark in his hands. Raging thunder rolled, sending a chill down your spine. Paranoia created the shattering sense that you would be reunited with Rena by dawn. Either by your own hands or someone else’s; perhaps the heavens would shoot back, sanctioned by some higher force that heard your monologue.

You watched him work, one tainted hand of yours rubbing back and forth over the dirt housing your daughter. His actions soon faded to oblivion as the song of the storm played on.

When a new bolt of lightning crashed, you became privy to her tombstone.

Rena Blackwell

Beloved star

1892 - 1892

Boothill stood, utterly dejected and tear-stained, before extending a hand down to you. His head met your shoulder once you rose, and one of your hands reached his hair. Strength was needed of you, not misery. The only comfort you received was a fact – no harm would befall you in Boothill’s arms, unless he pointed the gun at you instead.

—

Cheers ascended from under the floorboards, filling your pitch-black room with taunting joy. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, hands at your sides as you lay still – attempting to sink into the hard mattress while the hurricane to your left continued. It was the sixth night ending like this. Boothill had yet to find slumber, his journey to it only filled with suffering. He never reached out, always keeping his back to you and his face toward the pillow.

Despite the stinging urge to run your fingers through his hair, not once could you ever. Conflicting instincts wanting nothing more than to soothe him, but craving an escape.

You rubbed your eyes, throwing the sheet off of your body. The night chill creeped in, the sensation a welcome dissipation for your tenseness. A sniff echoed before a heavy sigh, and not even a moment later the bed resumed its light shaking. Stomps came in unison from the bar below, startling you to jump. With a worn exhale you sat up, feet touching the rough floor. In just a couple quick movements, you were dressed well and ready to face the ruckus below.

A saddened silver gaze finally revealed itself in the sliver of light from the doorway, but yours focused only on the ground, afraid to face him.

Instead, you would find solace in a bartender’s hands, the liquor he poured leaving a delightful blaze in your throat – easing the pain one sip at a time. It was only now you could understand why Isaiah Weston made the choices he did. Too cowardly to navigate his emotions, much less his son’s. The vulnerability intimidating, and any words gone with the wind. A weight too heavy to hold, but various fears preventing you from ever sharing it.

Getting lost in the bottle was a romantic escape, then, even if you would come to regret it. That blossomed the vicious cycle, when your method of coping only added more guilt – defeating the purpose of this night to begin with.

A hand placed itself on your shoulder, bringing your gaze from empty shot glasses to a familiarly styled head of black hair. Tears rapidly welled in your eyes, spirit feeling despondent when their hand returned to the counter.

“Jasper?” you whispered, feeble hope fueling your delusion.

They shook their head at you, “I’m afraid that’s not my name.”

“My apologies.” you nodded, downing another round as they began talking to the bartender.

He was dead, the first to meet the end of your revolver. There was no place to find him besides six feet under, at the very cemetery you first met.

Perhaps a visit to Fort Talia was what you needed. It had been four or five years since you left that fateful night with Boothill, never to look back. Although now, after everything, maybe looking back is the right thing to do. Return to, and learn from the past in order to glance forward. Walk the deck of the funeral parlor, stop by your old house. Finally speak to your mother again.

It was decided. Talk to Boothill come morning and see if he would join you.

—

Bright noon rays lit up the dusty buildings of Fort Talia, its peaceful people walking past Boothill with nods and greetings. Under any other circumstance he would respond, however words failed him now. The brim of his new hat hung low, obscuring his features and providing a bit of comfort. The less others saw of him the better.

He was fractured, too many pieces scattered across the range for him to find. Conversation would not come easy when he could hardly even handle a talk with himself. Your hotel rooms had become suffocating as of late. Silence reigning and gazes only ever in opposing directions. It was cold – a sensation Boothill had become unfamiliar with after all these years. That only served to make your icy temperament feel like a burning hell. No words exit your lips, eyes focused out of windows, on the ceiling or the floor. It was unbearable, the shunning that leaked from your figure.

What had he done to make you feel so? Was he even to blame?

Silver watched the clouds drift over the sky, a horrible longing to join them occupying his mind. A nearly impossible fate for him, now feared more than ever.

“Papa!”

A small, light voice shouted excitedly, followed by the pattering of boots on the deck.

Boothill turned expectantly, arms shifting and ready to pick up his daughter.

Instead he was made a fool.

He quickly returned to a regular stance, leaving down the nearby alleyway to lean himself against the wood. That was somebody else’s child, not his. The title he came to love most would never be used again, abandoned amidst the Iron Springs forest. “Papa” was her first word, and possibly even her last.

He recalled the tears you shared when she spoke, listening to her babble about him. Her voice was that of angels, as if he was finally worthy of speaking to the heavens.

Now he lost that angel, the most vivid star in the sky.

~

Three moss-coated tombstones lay before you, names that you first came to know at fifteen.

Isaiah, Callie, and Jasper.

Ellis must rest in Warren, then. Forever separated from his family.

A couple desert marigolds grew along the path to the cemetery, and you left one at each of their graves. Six in total gathered in your hand – one for each person you were to visit, as well as two extras for whoever you saw fit.

Boots trudged through the dry ground, avoiding stones that shaped plots or decorated the base of a tombstone. Rocks of grey and tan sat below your father’s and the one now beside it.

Upon reading the inscription, the marigolds fell to the dust.

Your mother was buried at his right, her death only one year ago.

With your forehead to the fine wood of said tombstone, your resolve finally crumbled. Any strength you wished to hold forsaken for the misery you denied. Tears flowed and fell frenzied, patiently creating a mud where your fingertips dug into the ground.

All of this loss, but why?

Why cherish anything if it would only be ripped away?

Holding your precious little girl one moment, only for her blood to splash over your face the next. Befriend a lonely boy, one who you found a kinship with, just for him to be shot by your hand.

Your mother, who despite her own mourning, still silently reached out to you, giving you what support she could muster. Your father, who robbed and killed unbeknownst to you, still provided and taught you things he knew about the world that would never be shared at the old schoolhouse.

They all had one common thread – loving you.

Burden, plague, curse. All words that could describe what a detriment you were. If they never loved you, never met or created you, perhaps their fates would be different.

What of Boothill, then?

—

Droplet-stained windows displayed a wagon of bottles stopping outside of the saloon. One of the drivers lept from its front, unlocking the back panel and pulling out two jugs. He lifted them in each hand, a big smile on his face as he cheered through the doors.

The crude and familiar scent of cigarette smoke curled through the window as you cracked it open, the stale quietude of your hotel room grating your nerves. Boothill observed you idly from the bed as you inhaled deeply, palms on the framing. The smell was lovely now, soothing almost. His gaze bore into you, seemingly trying to decipher your inner world.

"What is it?" you spoke softly, head turning toward him.

He sighed, eyes shifting to the ceiling. "I… You've just been so… cold I guess. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help it sometimes."

"Our daughter died, Boothill."

He sat up, "You think I don't know that?"

With a heavy exhale, you faced him. "Of course you do, but I just…"

"Every day begins and ends with her. Not a second goes by where that scene ain't fillin' my head."

"You assume it isn't the same for me? I watched them shoot her – her blood was on my face for hours! Do you think I can forget that?"

"I'm not askin' you to!"

"It sure sounds like it!"

"I just want some answers and for you to recognize that you're not the only one hurtin' here. Shutting me out hasn't been doing any good."

"Shutting you out? I recall you doing that to me. Any time I reach out, you leave or move away from me, and I get no words, nothing! You've got no love or respect for me anymore!"

"Don't you go there." He stood, inching closer to you with every word. "How dare you say that I feel nothing for you. If anything, you've been giving that treatment to me. Do you know how it feels to lay there cryin', wishing that your partner would just run their fingers through your hair and share that pain with you? No. Instead they go out for the night doin' who the heaven knows what, and then return at dawn like nothing happened. Like they didn't just abandon you to return reeking of alcohol or bruised and bloodied. Do you know how powerless that makes somebody?"

"I'm handlin' my own pain my way. I'm tryin' to be strong for you!"

"I don't want you to be strong for me! I want to know that my partner is here, and never leavin'! You remember what I said? I take care of you and you take care of me. That was the promise!"

"Well how are you takin' care of me exactly?"

"How am I supposed to begin if you never let me in!"

"Rich comin' from the likes of you."

"Why're you talkin' down to me? Do you think that helps?"

He paused before you, staring down into your eyes with a mixture of fire and love – an undertone of concern and fear. His hands came to hold your shoulders, and you hesitantly accepted the touch. One drifted up to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jaw and the edge of your cheek. The way he'd always comfort you. A guilt began setting in, tearing and biting at your throat, preventing any words from leaving you – likely for the better after your childish retorts.

"I don't wanna fight with you, darlin'. Please, just talk to me."

Wordlessly, you placed your arms around his neck, hugging him cheek to cheek. His own came to encase you when you finally whispered everything in his ear.

"I miss you… so much it hurts. I'm so sorry for all of the turmoil I've given you. That was never my intention. I just… I felt like you hated me. Blamed me for her… death."

"I never could."

"And I know that now. I didn't mean to be so cold, and I understand how you need me. I must admit I'd like to be selfish and have you do the same."

"That's not selfish."

You sniffed, "My… my mama died a year ago."

"Darlin'..."

"I didn't know." Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "She had no way to write to me. I have no idea what could have happened to her. She was all alone, lost to the world in our little house."

His hands descended to your hips, carefully stepping backward as you clung to him reluctant to move. He turned, setting you down on the bed before walking to get a blanket off of one of the chairs. The soft wool came into your hands before a weight settled behind you.

“Lay down.”

You shifted up the bed, throwing the blanket over your legs and resting your head. Boothill shuffled up next to you, his cheek to your chest. He stared up at you, eyes closing when your fingers finally ran through his hair. A sigh filled the room, mingling with gentle neighing from the street below. Silver was revealed to you once more, a low and husky whisper reaching your ears.

"We had this huge tree, back on the farm down in Redhawk. Its branches were wide and overflowing with leaves, but on a windy night you could see the stars through them. My fathers, they were always dreaming -- planning for our future. We'd sit out there and they'd talk for a while, answer any of my questions and teach me some life lessons. Eventually, one would get to strummin' on the guitar and we'd sing and cheer along – it was the most fun when some of their friends would come to visit or we'd host some guests from the road.

One was more pragmatic than the other, though they both had sharp minds. He could talk to anybody, find out anything he wanted to know. More caring and gentle, but still very strong. My other was a great gunslinger, and charismatic to a fault. He was a little rough around the edges, but I loved him anyway. They were my idols; taught me nearly everything I knew before I started goin' on the round-ups. Wasn't until I went back to our farm just a couple years later that I found it tore apart, two letters on the dining table for me. They were gone -- one captured and killed by the NHA and the other off to get revenge. He left me one of his revolvers, the same one I still use today."

Your fingers ran over his exposed cheek, noting the brimming water in his eyes matching your own.

“They raised a brilliant son.”

Your voice cracked as you finished speaking, watching him cry into you as you released your own burdens. The euphoria of budding forgiveness and the grief previously set aside catching up to you. It seemed that nearly every pain of yours was one he shared at some point or another, and it only emphasized the resolution of your argument.

You needed each other now more than ever.

—

“Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me?”

“Well I don’t believe it either.”

A man shook hands strongly with Boothill, hitting his other down on his shoulder. He had a confident glint in his hazel gaze, a boisterous air around him.

“How’ve you been, you beautiful piece of scrap?” he chuckled.

“Times have certainly been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, friend.” was his somber reply.

You extended your hand, feeling a calloused one against your palm.

“I see you’re his partner in crime, undertaker.”

“You got one of your own yet?” you asked, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“Of course! You’re more than welcome to come by tonight and meet her, our kids as well! We’ve got two of them raisin’ hell all over the place.”

“Thank you, but-”

“We’ll be there.” Boothill interrupted, a sharp smile contrasting with his sullen eyes.

“I’m happy to hear that!” Lee beamed, “Some supper'll be ready for you.”

His hand hit your elbow playfully before he focused on Boothill.

“What liquor do you like now, ‘Hill?”

~

Lee’s porch was well-lit, a small garden out front with bright flowers and a structure of twigs resting alongside the stairs. It was likely built by his children, or whoever got distracted while watering and left puddles on the steps. A light knock reverberated through the door, summoning a figure that stood as tall as the knob to open it.

“Hello!”

Quick steps came from behind them, before the door was tugged open further.

“Come in, please!”

You were the first to cross the threshold, a large fireplace and a set table coming into view. Chairs were gathered immediately to your left, some books and a half-built pyramid of empty cans decorating the scene. Blankets were gathered against the wall, dark brown eyes meeting yours as a shaggy dog rose from its bed.

Lee carried a pot to the table, a white cloth protecting his hands from the hot handles. He uttered warnings of the heat to his kids, the same ones who greeted you at the door. Another figure, just slightly taller than him, followed behind with a pitcher of water in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other.

While they continued preparing the food and adjusting the ambience, one child tugged on the ends of Boothill’s coat. The other peppered him with questions, looking excitedly at his gun and even more so at the chamber kept in his arm. A small smile grew on his face at their attention before they returned to Lee, wanting to know stories about his “heroic” friend. He followed them to the table, pouring two cups of water from the pitcher and handing it to them. Joyfully, they thanked him and resumed their conversation with Lee.

Seeing what he had raised mixed feelings. You were happy that he had found somebody of his own, that they seemed to love each other and work well together. That joy still couldn’t bury the tinge of envy sinking in, created from how it hurt to be reminded of what your family could have been had Rena simply been allowed to grow.

Scratching behind one of the dog’s ears, a tap landed on your shoulder and grey fingers came into view. They held a glass out to you, filled with clear liquid.

“For you, darlin’.”

The undertone of his words were not lost on you – avoid drinking tonight. Let me take care of you.

“Would you like some stew?”

The welcoming voice of Evelyn sounded from the dining table, a bowl and ladle in her hands. You accepted her offer, watching her gold wedding band glint in the light as you approached her. Their dog followed just behind, its nose occasionally bumping into the back of your leg.

The stew was warm in your hands, making a soft thud against the counter as you sat beside Boothill. A savory broth coated your tongue, the heat of a home-cooked meal comforting amidst the chilly desert night. Conversation flowed easily between all of you, as if you were playing back at the saloon years ago. It wasn’t until there were scraps in bowls and empty glasses covering the table that it took a more serious turn.

Evelyn dismissed their children, Emmett and Mable, from the table. Begrudgingly they went to the living area, playing with the dog and continuing to build their pyramid.

"What happened, 'Hill?" Lee questioned lowly.

You placed your hand along the back of Boothill's neck, meeting his somber gaze. “Let’s talk about it.”

He sighed, his eyes leaving yours and looking at the couple on the opposite side of the table. "Just eight or nine months ago we found a baby up in Iris Creek. We took her in as our own, raising her at that ranch I was tellin’ you about in Iron Springs.” He paused a moment, and you brushed your thumb against his nape, your focus remaining on the wood floor. “About… About three weeks ago the NHA came knockin'. They killed her right in front of them." His gaze turned to you momentarily. "I arrived shortly after."

"I'm so incredibly sorry to hear that." Evelyn spoke gently, placing her hands over one of yours and Boothill's. "I won't pretend to know that pain, but we're here if you need anything."

Lee reciprocated her action, a grit in his voice that was vastly different from hers. "Those cruel bastards will get their judgment day." He exhaled after a glance from his wife, solemnly looking at you, then at Boothill. "She's right, though. A room, food, company, whatever you need. There'll always be a warm fire ready here for you."

—

Bidding farewell to the McHale’s was difficult. They wanted nothing more than to continue catching up, but the night was passing and grogginess collectively set in. Emmett and Mable shouted their goodbyes from the porch, accompanied by the waves of Evelyn and Lee. You returned their gestures, slowly riding off from their home. Boothill’s gaze turned to the stars after saying his own goodbyes, watching the sky as he shifted back and forth. There was much to ponder after that visit, especially for him. The two of you hadn’t talked much in the past few hours, occupied by your own worlds and memories of the past.

Life had been fulfilling thus far, though one world-altering regret weighed heavily on that idea. A certain finality came with it, a need for eventual acceptance lest you meet that finality yourself. In time you would arrive there, but for now it was best to let the pain run its course – feel it and share in it. Boothill had no expectation of you than to simply be there for him as he is for you. Rena had two parents, and lived the best, most beautiful life you could provide for her.

There was one thing you had learned about death -- all that it claimed were eternally benevolent, either in life or the hereafter. If your parents, or Boothill's fathers were here right now, made of flesh and blood, they would want the best for you. For you to live another day and find your place in this wide and bittersweet world. They strived the same as you, to give their child the life they deserved. Perhaps Jasper's notions in the face of death's door were correct. Family would reunite, free of burdens and earthly matters. Spirits would live on in bliss, their memory preserved by each generation.

When you picture all that you've lost, you see a beautiful ranch -- just like the one you worked in Iron Springs. There would be a grand tree, housing Boothill's fathers and little Rena giggling and tugging on one's hair just like she would with you. Your parents would exit a cabin with various drinks and a bowl of apples, stopping to share one with a horse on their way to the meeting spot. Maybe even the Weston's were there, Isaiah smiling from a rocking chair on the porch. Callie would be happy, free of sickly features and whistling a tune. Ellis, cleaning his guns right beside his father. And Jasper would walk from the door, giving each of them a hug before running over to your parents and helping them carry their goods.

If the day ever came, when you would face that reaper with your boots on, that was the life you craved to return to. One where you could drink, laugh, and settle things with your large family -- everyone you ever held dear gathered 'round to celebrate the day. You would wait for Boothill, the inevitable fact being that he would outlive you. It was an idea accepted long ago. Confronting reality was necessary for the life you lead.

Yet that was the other thing about death -- love surpasses it. No matter what kind that love was, it would dance across the edge into the realm of departure. While it may alter itself, those living would still hold its fondness.

If the day ever came that Boothill joined you, either as he is now or as Jesse Blackwell, you would greet him with arms wide open. That very same love remaining with the dead, living in their own peaceful way at your little ranch.

"What's on your mind, darlin'?" he whispered, gazing at you now, instead of the night sky.

"You, and our dreams." you replied with a small smile.

“How romantic of you.” he chuckled, a contrasting and heavy look in his eyes.

Silence rode along between you for a moment until you spoke up, “Where do we go from here?”

He exhaled, a defeated yet promising sound. “Let’s just start with our hotel room. Take it one day at a time from there.”

[confetti-cat]

Before February is over, have some brief snippet-sneak peeks at my retelling for the Four Loves challenge over at the @inklings-challenge!

In which Cinderella can see whether or not people are lying, and her stepmother is very much of the opinion that "yep no that's a curse, stay away". This causes Some Angst and conflicted family relationships.

Sadly not going to make the deadline like I'd hoped, but the full story should be finished and up soon if life permits!

[reineyday]

shanks, four years younger than mihawk, is usually granted the "starry-eyed crush on the cool older boy" trope (with good reason!), so i was thinking it'd be cute to grant that dubious pleasure to mihawk in an age swap au instead.

mihawk, scrappy nine year old, gets picked up by roger for a trip on the oro jackson to the next island (roger just wants to feed the kid lol), and gets sweet talked into it by dangling a duel with rayleigh, the current world's greatest swordsman, as bait. when mihawk gets there, rayleigh says mihawk has to be able to beat his apprentices first, and gets his ass summarily handed to him by a thirteen year old shanks, who both impresses and embarrasses mihawk, as shanks beats him without even trying but he's so cool when he does it.

and so mihawk declares himself shanks's rival, and when he wins, shanks will have to listen to a request. and years and years later, when mihawk finally does win, that request--which he's never changed his mind about--is permission to start formally courting shanks. charmed, and absolutely having seen this coming after years of observing an obvious crush and slowly warming up to it as mihawk grew and changed between their meetings, laughs and just kisses mihawk straight-up.

[kantraels]

darktide playerbase challenge get a room full of zealots where the number of eyes outnumber the number of zealots

[hanahaki4hanami]

Hanahaki For Hanami Prompts

Think warm thoughts, spring will be here before you know it. And in the meantime, take a look at our prompt suggestions for #hanahaki4hanami. Prompts are merely there to inspire you. Use as many or as few as you would like. We look forward to posting in April!🌸

Week One: Yellow Hyacinth - Jealousy

Week Two: Red Tulip - Passion, Declaration of love

Week Three: Heliotrope - Eternal Love, Devotion

Week Four: Cyclamen - Resignation, Diffidence, Goodbye

Hanahaki for Hanami is a pro-fiction & pro-ship, multi-fandom event. All works are welcome as long as they are tagged accordingly and hanahaki related. You can view the full guidelines on our tumblr page or by clicking the Notion link.

[inklings-challenge]

Is anyone interested in another round of the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge?

Basic Format:

Retell a fairy tale in any genre from a Christian worldview (or create fairy tale related artwork)

Focus on at least one of the four types of love (family, romance, friendship, self-sacrificing).

Starts on February 1st. Aim for a deadline of Valentine's Day, but stories/art can be posted all the way through February.

No sign-up or assigned teams/genres/etc. necessary. Just choose a fairy tale and a type of love to focus on.

Feel free to mention nuance/reasoning in the tags or replies.

[rosemirmir]

I posted all the works I did for halfamoon over on dreamwidth! Each of these fics center around the main Gotchard girls, It's a mix of both gen and femslash. Some are also fills for Fresh Femslash Salad Bar event too.

Here's the link to the series I made for these fics on Ao3. You can also check out the masterpost I made that also links to the works that are graphics!

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

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

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

[flyingwiththesun]

I love Jason Bartok

[griseldabanks]

Maybelle and the Beast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You...would come back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybelle rolled her eyes. Always so dramatic.

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing but silence to welcome her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you too.”

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

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

Wait. “Ag...nes?”

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

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

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

“Agnes!”

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

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

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

“True love?” Maybelle sniffled.

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

“Oh, you're not as bad as all that.”

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

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

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

[allisonreader]

I just finished the third book in a series that mashes up different fairytales and retells them. This third book included at least four different (more like five at least hinted at) fairytales. Sleeping Beauty, Mulan, The Six Swans, The Nightingale, and a hint of Rapunzel. One of these stories gave me the vague idea of The Goose Girl and The Six Swans being mashed together.

The only image that really came to mind was the servant girl/lady-in-waiting taking the princess’s place and either cursing the princess (her brothers) herself or having a partner do so. And then the thought of the princess having her brothers as swans amongst her geese that she’s taking care of. While the princess is taking care of the geese and swans, working on the stinging nettle coats, and harvesting the nettle from the church graveyard at night. But also the prince that the princess was supposed to marry figuring that something's not right and eventually finding out the truth.