#four loves fairy tale challenge

[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.

[inklings-challenge]

2024 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, 2023. Writers and artists are encouraged to post their works by February 14, 2024, 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, 2024.

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.

[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.”

[fictionadventurer]

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

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

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

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

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

[eruanna1875]

Four Loves Challenge: Kate Crackernuts (Storge)

So I was really excited about the Four Loves Challenge, put on by @inklings-challenge, but what with life and sickness and new projects collaring me in a dark alley and dragging me away, I didn't have time to finish the project I was hoping for. I'm still hoping to complete and post it at some point, though.

BUT, I still wanted to do something, so I decided to make a bit of art. In the past week or so, I found this really interesting fairy tale. Since it had such a strong familial element, I decided to pick that!

The story is "Kate Crackernuts", an old Scottish story, and it's about two sisters named Kate and Anne. When the jealous queen enchants Anne's head into a sheep, the sisters go out to seek their fortunes together. They find a castle where two brothers live, and one of them is very sick (whoever watches over him at night vanishes). Kate offers to stand watch, and discovers that he is hypnotized by the fairies into riding out and dancing all night in their rounds. So she has to find a way to cure both him and her sister (it ends up involving a fairy baby and, you guessed it, some nuts).

This one really caught my eye. I loved the fact that it had so much emphasis on these sibling relationships - that would be a huge focus in a retelling for me, deepening those even further, and even contrasting them. Plus, the fact that it's a fairy baby that holds the solution could potentially play into more themes of family.

Well, I hope y'all like it! I wish I could've done some writing, but I'm pretty happy with this moodboard anyway. :)

[ozthearistocrat]

Mrs. Swan's Three Unfortunate Suitors

Here's my entry for the @inklings-challenge I hope all of you like it, it was quite a challenge to write, as I have been feeling quite sick as of late. I hope you all enjoy this long retelling of a rather short Brother's Grimm story.

Mrs. Swan's Three Unfortunate Suitors

Retelling: Mrs. Fox’s Wedding, with a little bit of the Judgement of Paris hehe

Theme: Storage and Eros

One day Mrs. Swan visited a friend, Ms. Magpie, who’s husband had recently died. She talked after the funeral with the new widow, and a mutual friend, Ms. Goose. They talked and reminisced about many things, and soon their conversation turned to the subject of husbands and marriage. 

“I could talk a great deal about my husband,” said Mrs. Magpie, “Even now as he is buried I must have some guard at his grave to see if his death isn’t some ruse. He was always galavanting around, taking his time hunting and drinking. It is a miracle that he hadn’t taken a second wife with the time he spent away from me.”

“My dear, you must not talk like that,” Mrs. Swan shook her head, “You must trust that he was faithful, especially now that he is dead.”

“You are one talk about having faithfulness Mrs. Swan.” Ms. Goose chuckled a little, “As your husband seems all too trusting to let you travel on your own, what with so many others coveting you. If I had a husband that was as eyed as you, I’d have a guard watching his every move to ensure his faithfulness.”

“Whatever do you mean Ms. Goose.” Mrs. Swan blinked in confusion. “You mean you haven’t heard the rumors? Your three neighbors in the country, Mr. Thrush, Mr. Jay and Lord Owl are all smitten with you. Quite waiting for your husband to shuffle off this mortal coil so they can court you as suitors. I would have thought that you would have noticed by now.”

“No, I had not realized that I had such an effect on my neighbors. How dreadful to think of it. Whatever shall I do?”

“I would think nothing of it dear,” Mrs. Magpie comforted her friend. “At the moment, you can enjoy your husband, and as ages pass when you grow tired of him, one might find your neighbors much more exciting. Well now let us have some lunch, I am dreadfully famished..”

Now Mrs. Swan was bothered a great deal by her friend’s conversation, and she kept mulling it over and over as she traveled home. The dreadful news about her neighbors troubled her so much that she had abstained from dinner and went straight to bed. Her maid, Ms.Finch, noticed this and knew that her mistress was in distress. 

“My Mistress Swan, if it is not too impertinent, may I ask what troubles you?”

“Oh dear Ms. Finch, I have been told that I am being coveted by my neighbors. How unfortunate. I fear telling my husband such news, as he may think me unfaithful.”

“But why Mistress Swan? You have always been a good and faithful wife. Just tell Master Swan and he’ll be on those lechers faster than a jackrabbit.”

“Oh but what if I tell him, and he thinks that I have done something to attract them, or what if I have done something to attract them, and shall do it again and again.” Mrs. Swan dove into her pillows and cried, inconsolable.

Ms. Finch was quite distressed by what had become of her mistress and wondered what she could do to resolve this problem. She had not the slightest idea, as she was not versed in the subject of marriage, being unmarried herself.She resolved to tell Mr. Swan of this, as she was sure that he would understand the problem, and resolve it quickly.

After she had told her master of Mrs. Swan’s distress, he showed no sign of anger or sorrow. What Mr. Swan did was laugh, surprising Ms. Finch. He explained to her that he had no doubts that Mrs. Swan was as faithful to him as they day he married her, but in ordered to assuage her own doubts, Mr. Swan created a plan that would solve everything.

A few days later while she was visiting a friend, Mrs. Swan heard that her husband was gravely ill and was close to death. She went as fast as she could to see her husband in his last moments, but it was all in vain. When she arrived, Mr. Swan was dead. She grieved greatly, and Ms. Finch, in order to help her quickly put together a funeral, with letters being sent out by the morning. By the time Mrs. Swan could compose herself and protest anything, the funeral preparations were already underway.

Within the next day, the funeral was done and many came to pay their respects to the newly widowed Mrs. Swan, including her three neighbors. They made no effort to hide their intentions to marry the widowed Mrs. Swan, and they lingered until the end of the funeral. Mrs. Swan sent Ms. Finch to send them away, but Ms. Finch said that they each desired to give their condolences in private. But before she could do so, a fourth figure appeared, with a traveling cloak and walking stick. No one knew this stranger, but he too wished to give his condolences to the widowed Mrs. Swan, but everyone suspected that he was also aiming to win the heart of the new widow. To grief stricken to argue, Mrs. Swan allowed them all to stay and talk.

The first of these suitors was Mr. Sparrow, small and quite wealthy. He was confident that he could win the heart of the Mrs. Swan

“Greetings Mrs. Swan, my condolences on your husband’s death. The most unfortunate circumstances. I have no doubt that your husband left a sizable will, but if you find yourself in need of substantial material accommodations, I would be more than happy to make a suitable and beneficial contract between us. “You are quite generous Mr. Sparrow,” Mrs. Swan smiled graciously, “But I am afraid that I will remain faithful to my husband. My love has no price.”

And with that Mr. Sparrow left the room with no prospect of marriage and brooded in the parlor.

This rejection emboldened the next suitor, Mr.Jay, who preened himself in the parlor mirror before entering to speak with Mrs. Swan. “My dear Mrs. Swan, I am terribly sorry for the death of your late husband,” Mr. Jay produced a flower with a flourish and presented it to Mrs. Swan, “May you not be cut as short as your husband. With this flower I would implore you to think about things as youth and beauty and how they fade. As the poet says "gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”

Mrs. Swam accepted the flower and placed it on her husband’s closed casket. “I thank you for your condolences and your gift, flowers are remembered fondly for their beauty even after they fade. Will you remember my beauty when it fades I wonder. But even as my beauty may fade, the love I have for my husband does not, for as the poetess says, “That when we live no more, we may live ever.” And so I bid you adieu.” 

And with that Mr. Jay left the room with no prospect of marriage and sulked in the parlor.

The next suitor was Lord Owl, who was of great political prospect, being of land and noble lineage. He was confident that no other could win the heart of Mrs. Swan, as he had been married three times before, and he knew what was desirable in a marriage.

“Mrs. Swan, I must give my deepest condolences, yes, a terrible thing to happen. I’ll have you know that I survived my three previous marriages so I know what you must be going through. Yes, it is quite unfortunate. I do not doubt that your husband left you in a good position in his will, yes. But all that seems quite distressing for such a young widow. Would it not be better to have someone managing your affairs and keeping you from being snatched by rogues and various other ne'er do wells, yes?

Mrs. Swan smiled courteously at Lord Owl, nodding as he spoke. “Lord Owl, you are most certainly magnanimous, but I am not bothered by managing my house nor by the roguish machinations of others. I can stand firm by my husband and the love I have for him, as I still do love him. You of all people would know of a wife’s love for her husband, as you have been married three times, yes?”

And with that Lord Owl left the room with no prospect of marriage and grumbled to himself in the parlor.

Finally the last suitor, the mysterious stranger entered to speak with Mrs. Swan. But before he could say anything Mrs. Swan spoke.

“My kind sir, you are not a guest I recognize and yet you have come to comfort me in my grief. I would like to thank you for your kindness but I do not know your name. Pray, tell me your name.”

The stranger smiled and said, “I can not give my name yet, as I must first give my condolences. You see, your husband was a dear friend of mine and he told me that I was the only man that he would desire to marry his widow, should he die suddenly. I am here to ask your hand in marriage. I promise to be everything that your husband was and more.”

Taken aback by the strangers words, Mrs. Swan thought for a second. “These words…is it true that you are selected to be the successor to my husband?”

“It is true my lady, in both word and deed.”

“So you are everything my husband was and more?”

“Everything and more.”

“Then…I must…still choose to reject you. Even if you are as you say, twice as my husband was, I cannot betray my husband. I am sorry but you must go.”

But as she rejected the stranger, something wondrous happened, his cloak fell away in a flourish and as if by magic, Mrs. Swan recognized the stranger as her husband instantly. She fell to her knees in surprise, but before she could speak, Mr. Swan sprang into action. Flyin out the room, Mr. Swan took his walking stick and fell upon Mrs. Swan's three unfortunate suitors, striking them and sending them flying from the house. Soon all that was left was Mrs. Swan and her husband, seemingly returned from the dead. “Now my dear wife, I have something for you.” And Mr. Swan took his walking stick and lightly tapped her cheek. “As I have struck the covetous neighbors for their wicked thoughts, so I strike you, so that you might leave behind all the wicked thoughts that you have thought of. May you no longer have doubts, and may all fear leave you.” 

And with that Mrs. Swan realized that her husband had faked his death with Ms. Finch, so as to teach her and her neighbors a lesson. She and her husband then left to turn the funeral feast into a new wedding feast. And as for the three would be suitors, they never bothered Mrs. Swan again, and they could never leave behind the shame and embarrassment that Mr. Swan had inflicted upon them. And so Mr. and Mrs. Swan remained faithfully married until the end of both their days.

The End.

[novelmonger]

In your writing for the Inklings Challenge, who is really your favourite character and why??

So I'm working on a rewrite of the obscure Grimm's fairy tale Fundevogel for @inklings-challenge's Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge. I'm not changing anything fundamental about it (like anyone would notice; how many people have even heard of this fairy tale? :P), just fleshing it out, giving the characters more personality, etc.

My favorite character right out the gate was Lina, the main character. Maybe it's the big sister in me, but...she's so protective of her little brother, and it makes my heart clench ;^;

She's such a young girl when her whole life goes topsy-turvy (which is...partly my fault, because I'm adding additional horrors onto her already-horrific fairy tale existence). She basically has to start growing up at the age of five, poor thing. That would be difficult in any world, but when you also have to contend with a wicked witch (of sorts) who wants to eat you on top of that?

You know, I'd already more or less settled on how I wanted to do my rewrite when I thought to look around and see if I could find any analysis of the tale. There wasn't much I could find on something so obscure, but what I did turn up was that this fairy tale is about growing up, coming of age. And boy is that ever true of my version! :'( These poor kids have precious few opportunities to just be children - particularly for Lina, who constantly has to be watching out for her little brother and...y'know, making sure he doesn't get eaten :[

Fairy tales get intense, man.

[fictionadventurer]

I love this so much. I think it's the best short story version of "Cinderella" I've read so far. I love Cinderella stories about politics, and versions from the prince's POV, and this provided both!

Filipino Cinderella! I figured it out about halfway through, and was so delighted. Weaving in the alternate history adds so much to the worldbuilding and brings so much drama to the politics. Plus, it's just plain cool to see this setting used in a fairy tale retelling.

And then all the worldbuilding with the fairies--how they were enemies to the Spanish and are a dangerous, unpredictable element that can be helpful, but shouldn't be sought out. Perfect blend of explanation and mystery.

Dominic is a darling. He's so practical and dutiful, and we understand why it's so important that he is, yet he's still drawn to this wildly romantic path, and you portray that inner conflict so well.

His sister is a fascinating character. Seemingly troublesome until you see the deep love she has for her brother. Deposed-queen-turned-nun is an excellent character arc, especially since she seems to legitimately have a vocation. ("You were right to start that coup against me" was a wonderful reveal).

I got nerdy satisfaction out of how well-structured this retelling is. You showed your knowledge of short story technique--where to start it, when to flash back, when to reveal information, knowing where to leave room for the reader's imagination to fill things in. It's a short story--not a novella, not a piece of a novel, but a full retelling that uses the short story format to its advantage.

Nice things about the flashbacks: How he recognizes that her beauty is a revelation of her inner goodness; how he recognizes her abusive situation and offers to help; how she manages to show her kindness and humor and they connect over that.

"Your kingdom is watching how you make your choice [...] what to do when love beckons you." A lovely line, perfectly resolving the tension between duty and romance, and tying in nicely with the Christian element. (It brings to mind St. Faustina calling Christ "Love".)

I love how the story acknowledges that trying the glass slipper on every girl in the kingdom is absurd, but without mocking it. His decision to do this, after spending so long doing the sensible thing, is a triumph rather than foolishness. Plus, you've already set up the fact that it will only fit her, so it's a pretty logical plan.

The ending is lovely--how she acknowledges how improper the match is and he makes it clear that he loves her too much for it to matter.

This works well as a short story, but I would also totally read a novel-length version of this story set in this world. So much interesting worldbuilding and so many layered character and concepts offers a lot of room for exploration.

Thank you for sharing this!

The Prince

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A slipper?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“I’ve never heard of-“

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

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

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

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

“How could that be so?”

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

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

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

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

“Will you look for her?”

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

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

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

“Concerned?”

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

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

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

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

“You disagree?”

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

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

“Perhaps,” she says again.

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

“Did you offer?” she asks pointedly.

“Of course.”

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

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

“Danger can take many forms, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

_ _ _

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

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

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

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

He is trapped.

“Brother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they do not talk about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not the reason I’m here,” she sings.

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

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

“I am not in love!” he snaps.

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

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

“Why not?” she asks airily.

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

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

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

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

Then he sobs outright, a hand covering his eyes.

_ _ _

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

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

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

It was unseemly. It was embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“You’re the prince?”

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

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

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do?” She sounded afraid.

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

“It was only the puns,” she protested.

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

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

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

“Deplorable!” she exclaimed.

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

“I don’t-“

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

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

“It’s alright,” he said gently.

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

Then the clock struck midnight.

_ _ _

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorts.

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

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

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

“But Spain is still watching us-“

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

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

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

“Thanks, Regine,” he mutters.

She flicks his nose.

“Huy!”

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

“And what advice is that, dear sister?”

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

“What choice?”

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

_ _ _

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so they went.

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

Then they get to the city outskirts.

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

“Wait.”

Prince Dominic turns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

Her mouth twists a little. “Cinderella.”

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

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

“Alright,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

/ / /

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

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

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From there, he watches.

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

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

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

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

Then, they dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

THREE—FOUR—

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

FIVE—SIX—

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

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

SEVEN—EIGHT—

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

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

NINE—TEN—

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

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

ELEVEN—

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

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

TWELVE.

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

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

—

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

It’s quite the walk.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[popcornfairy28]

Posting this right at midnight, so sorry if I'm late @inklings-challenge

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Marks of Loyalty: A Retelling of Maid Maleen

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

Seven years, the high king declared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you abandon Jarroth?” Rilla asked.

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

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

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

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

*

Seven years, they stayed in the tower.

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

Maleen was glad to have a friend.

*

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

The food was running low.

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Maleen whispered.

“War,” Rilla replied.

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

Years had passed. War had come.

What of the world had survived?

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

It was worse than Maleen could have imagined.

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

Taina was being wiped out.

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

The Oprien emperor did not believe in tolerance.

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

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

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

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

Maleen got no sleep that night.

*

Jarroth had not married.

Jarroth was the king of Montane.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In two weeks’ time, Jarroth would marry another.

*

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

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

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

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

Maleen sank into a patch of parsley and wept.

*

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

“Is that the vixen?” Rilla asked.

Maleen shushed and scolded her.

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

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

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

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

The princess remained in the background, watching.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maleen’s blood ran cold.

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

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

*

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

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

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

“If Jarroth sees me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rilla grinned.

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

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

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

“Nothing very sensible, I’m sure.”

*

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

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

“Yes?” Maleen asked, heart racing.

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

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

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

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

Jarroth glanced over in surprise. “Pardon?”

Maleen looked away. “Nothing.”

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

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

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

“Did you say something?” Jarroth asked.

Maleen rushed into the church.

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

“He chose that woman, Rilla.”

“But he married you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the path?

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

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

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

The princess cursed and returned to the bedchamber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me your ankles.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And Rilla?” he asked.

“Downstairs.”

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[inklings-challenge]

This list (and the notes) could be helpful for anyone wanting to write a fairy tale retelling focused on romantic love that doesn't end with the wedding.

"Wives saving their husbands/betrothed," very incomplete list:

Cupid and Psyche (the archetype, a lot of its structure shows up in later examples)

The Black Bull of Norroway

The Singing, Springing Lark/Lily and the Lion

East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon

There are a lot more listed under the Aarne-Thomson-Uther Index type 425, "Search for the Lost Husband" (although the Wikipedia page is titled "Animal As Bridegroom," which is an overlapping subtype). The ones above are just the ones I have some personal knowledge of.

[inklings-challenge]

2024 Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge Archive

Godmother: A Cinderella retelling by @lydiahosek

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

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

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

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

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

The Selkie Story: A Little Mermaid retelling by @allisonreader

Tam Lin: A retelling by @physicsgoblin

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

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

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

[griseldabanks]

Fundevogel

For my entry in @inklings-challenge's Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge, I decided to write my version of the obscure Grimm's fairy tale "Fundevogel," which can be found in text and audio here. It's always appealed to me, for reasons I hope will soon become obvious to you! I took some creative liberties with my rewrite, mostly to flesh out the characters and make certain things (hopefully) make a little more sense. Please let me know of any thoughts, questions, or constructive criticism you might have!

Once upon a time, there was a rich landowner whose land was covered with lush forests. He had a loving wife, with whom he lived happily in a beautiful house on a hill overlooking the forest on all sides. Early in their marriage, they were blessed with a lovely daughter they named Lina.

For five years, this little family lived in happiness and prosperity. Lina grew more lovely every day, her hair falling about her shoulders in golden curls, her eyes sparkling like the sun on the merry brook at the foot of the hill. The house was filled with merriment and song, the servants carrying boughs of fragrant leaves and flowers in from the forest to freshen the grand old house. Lina skipped and sang on the emerald-green grass on the hill on fine days, and brought her songs and games indoors when the weather confined them all to the house. Many long, dark winter evenings were brightened by Lina's laughter mingling with that of her parents as they played and sang before the fire.

But on the darkest night of Lina's fifth year, her mother took ill and was confined to her bed. The illness moved swiftly, so that the landowner had barely begun to worry for his wife's safety before she was taken away. The servants whispered that this sickness was unnatural—after all, no one else had fallen ill. A curse, they said, though none could say who would have dared to curse their kind mistress, nor why.

Overnight, Lina's sunny, golden world was overshadowed by grief and darkness. Bowed down with grief and a thousand unanswerable questions, her father no longer tossed her up in the air with a laugh or carried her about on his shoulders as he strode through the forest. Moreover, he no longer let her run carefree about the hilltop or at the edge of the forest, not even during the height of summer. He was terrified of losing the only treasure remaining to him that he cared about, so he kept Lina closeted away in the big old house. By his orders, the house was shut up and kept silent. No more songs echoed through the halls. No more flowers were brought from the forest to freshen the rooms.

As time passed, Lina's father emerged from the darkness swamping him long enough to see that Lina needed more care than he in his grief-stricken state could give. At that time, one of his servants approached him. Old Sanna was a fat old crone who had worked in the kitchens since the landowner himself had been a boy. He remembered her scolding him coldly when he would sneak down to the kitchens as a child to sample a pie before dinner.

“My Lord,” Old Sanna said, wringing her hands with a gap-toothed smile, “if it please you, I would be happy to act as Lina's nurse. I will see to it that no harm comes to the lovely child's head.”

With relief, the landowner swiftly agreed to this arrangement. He put Lina under Old Sanna's care, then threw himself into his work as a balm for his grief. He would stop in once a day to see that all was well with Lina, but besides that, Lina rarely saw her father anymore.

As for Old Sanna, Lina at first thought the old woman was kind, as all the other servants were. The old woman preened and petted her, running a gnarled finger down Lina's smooth cheek and admiring her youthful beauty with many words of praise. This treatment was a far cry from the love her mother had always lavished upon her, but Lina craved even the tiniest crumb of esteem, now that her days had grown so cold and empty.

However, as Lina grew, she slowly became aware of a hungry light that would gleam in Old Sanna's eyes when she spoke these words of praise. Sometimes, when she would brush out Lina's soft curls, her gnarled fingers would tangle almost painfully in them, as if she secretly longed to yank Lina's hair straight off her head. Sometimes, Old Sanna would sigh as she helped Lina into her pretty little dresses, “Ah, once I was young and beautiful as well! To have a body as young and strong as yours....”

Lina also began to hear the occasional whisper from the other servants, when they thought no one could hear. They said there had been nothing natural about her mother's death—it had been too quick for someone as young and strong as her, and those who had helped prepare the body for burial said she looked as though she had aged several decades overnight, as though someone had stolen her youth away.

Though she could not quite explain it to herself at such a young age, Lina discovered that she did not like Old Sanna at all. Lina's needs were met, but there were no games with Old Sanna, no songs, no laughter. Lina had no playmates, and Old Sanna wouldn't even let her play by herself if it disturbed the old woman's rest in front of the fire. She was to sit and spin, or embroider, or work on her letters. But when she did, she would often look up and find Old Sanna watching her with that hungry look in her eyes, as if she longed to gobble Lina up.

It was at this time that Lina's father went on an inspection of his property, and his path led through the forest. When the edge of the forest had left his sight, he heard the sound of a baby's cry high above him. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that, sure enough, a baby lay in an eagle's nest high above him. It seemed that an eagle had swooped down and snatched up the baby from where it had been lying in the open, and brought it back to its nest.

Taking great care not to shake the tree and dislodge the child, the landowner climbed the tree and brought the baby down to safety. The child was a boy, not more than a year old, with dark eyes and a tuft of hair as brown as a sparrow's wing. He seemed strong and healthy, though hungry and frightened, and the landowner's heart went out to him. He carried the child back to his house, sending servants into the surrounding countryside to discover whose child this was, and saw to it that the child was fed and washed.

When a thorough search had been made and none claimed the child, the landowner decided to raise the boy as his own son. He could not bear to leave such a small, helpless child to fend for himself in the great, wide world—and besides, he thought perhaps the boy would be a good playmate for Lina. So he made it known that the boy was now his son, and he named him Fundevogel, or bird-foundling.

As for Lina, she was overjoyed to have a little brother to love and care for. At last, her cold solitude was brought to an end. She called her brother Vogel for short, saying that he was her little sparrow that her mother had sent from heaven so that she would have someone to play with. And from the first time Vogel looked up at Lina as she held him in her arms, he smiled with a look that would have melted a heart of ice.

Lina and Vogel could not have looked more different from one another. When Vogel began to walk, it became common to see Lina holding his little hand as he toddled along the dark corridors, her golden curls seeming to shine in the candlelight while Vogel's dark hair seemed to blend into the shadows. Nothing in their appearance would have suggested they were brother and sister, but it was not long before they were inseparable. Any time Vogel was taken away from Lina, he would begin to cry, and Lina would grow sad when she had to leave him, even for a short time.

“Mother left me,” Lina said sadly to Vogel as she rocked him to sleep at night, “and Father is rarely here. So I will never leave you, little brother, if you will never leave me.”

Old Sanna still had the care of the two children, for though the landowner had taken Vogel in, he had much work to do and little time to care for two small children. At first, Old Sanna seemed resentful that she was now responsible for another charge, and left much of the work of caring for Vogel to Lina. Though at first it was difficult, for Lina knew nothing of caring for babies and was only a small child herself, she was more than happy to look after her little brother. Besides, Vogel would laugh and babble and sing, and was a much better companion than grumpy Old Sanna sitting before the fire.

As the years passed and Vogel grew into a fine, strong boy, Lina began to notice the way Old Sanna would look at him when she thought no one was looking. She had grown used to the hungry light in Old Sanna's eyes when she looked at Lina, but the hunger seemed even more ravenous when she looked upon little Vogel. Lina was not sure what to make of this, but she was even more careful to remain by Vogel's side at all times.

One night, Lina woke when she heard someone shuffling around the nursery. Peering carefully over her blankets so that she would seem to still be asleep, Lina saw Old Sanna standing hunched over by the fireplace. By the dim light of the dying embers, she could see that Old Sanna clutched the hairbrush with which she brushed Lina's golden curls every day. Old Sanna pulled out a single golden hair from the brush, lifted it to her lips, and ate it.

With a flash of light, Old Sanna suddenly straightened her old, bent back. Lina could not be quite sure in the uncertain light, but it seemed to her that Old Sanna had become transformed into a young woman, smooth-cheeked and beautiful, moving with the ease of youth.

When the morning came, however, Lina looked at Old Sanna and saw that she was the same old crone she had always been. At first she thought she must have simply dreamed that the old woman had become young, but that night she feigned sleep until she heard Old Sanna moving about the room again. Just as she had done the night before, Lina watched Old Sanna eat a single hair from Lina's hairbrush, and was transformed into a young woman once more. Night after night, the old woman would go through the same ritual, as though the only thing sustaining her life was devouring Lina's hair.

Lina told no one of what she had seen, for who would believe her? And if Old Sanna knew of her suspicions, what would she do? So Lina remained silent, but became even more protective of her little brother. She grew more and more suspicious of the way Old Sanna looked at him. If she merely ate the hairs that fell from their heads, that would not be a problem. But Lina feared that eventually even this would not be enough for Old Sanna.

As much as possible, Lina tried to keep Vogel away from Old Sanna. They spent many long hours together in the extensive gardens around her father's house, and occasionally ventured into the forest—but never out of sight of the great house. The many hours they played together not only kept them out of the old nurse's hungry grasp, but also strengthened the bond between brother and sister.

In the years following the discovery of Fundevogel in the branches of the tree, Lina began to realize that he was far from ordinary. When he was overcome with great emotion, he would often transform into a bird, or a toy he had been playing with, or some other object he was familiar with. The first time he turned into a little sparrow while crying at the top of his lungs, Lina was filled with terror that he would be forever trapped in that form. However, once he had flown about the room several times, twittering loudly, he settled on Lina's pillow and became a little boy again in the blink of an eye.

Lina went to great lengths to keep her brother's strange ability from being discovered. She feared that, if anyone knew what Vogel could do, they would think he was a fairy-child or an evil spirit, and they would send him back into the forest where he had been found. Unable to bear the thought of being separated, Lina told Vogel sternly that he was not to talk about his gift or transform into anything unless they were alone. Vogel loved Lina more than anyone in the whole world, so he always strove to follow what she said.

As Vogel grew, he gradually became better able to control his powers. When they were alone in the forest together, he would beg Lina to let him turn into a bird or a squirrel or a fox. One such time, when he turned into a tree to stop her from pulling him to his feet to go back home, Lina transformed with him. Vogel became a tall oak tree, and Lina became a vine that twisted around his trunk. Vogel was so surprised that he immediately changed them back into their original forms.

“I'm sorry!” Vogel cried, tears filling his eyes as he stared imploringly up at Lina. “I didn't mean to! Did it...hurt?”

“No...” Lina said slowly, staring down at her hands that had been pale green leaves moments before. “But it felt...strange....”

An overwhelming curiosity overcame Lina. Taking Vogel's little hand in hers, she said, “Try turning into something else. Maybe...a cow?”

With an overjoyed laugh that Lina wanted to play with him, Vogel turned into a cow just like the ones that produced the milk they drank every morning. Lina held tight to his hand, and she became a silver bell hanging from his neck. She laughed out of pure joy, and the bell tinkled merrily.

After this discovery, Lina and Vogel would often transform as part of their games. Lina could only transform if she were touching Vogel when he used his power, but that was of no matter. They were always together.

As birds and beasts, the brother and sister roamed the nearby countryside, discovering the beauties and small wonders of the world around them. No longer were they confined to the cold, drab halls of their gloomy house. Even in the winter, if they had a spare moment to themselves, they could turn into mice and explore inside the walls, or become wolves and race across the icy hills in the moonlight. Once or twice, Lina was sure that Old Sanna had seen them transform, but the old woman never spoke a word about it. Lina thought that as long as they were careful, perhaps they would still be safe.

But then came the day that their father left on a trip to a town several days' journey away. Though he kept himself busy, and Lina and Vogel saw little of him on any given day, his presence was constantly felt in the huge old house, and he returned at the end of every long day. This time, however, he would be gone for a score of days, long enough that he took a number of servants with him. Old Sanna was to be left in charge of the household while he was gone, for she had lived there all her long life and knew what was to be done. At the ages of ten and five, Lina and Vogel did not need her constant care; they had been taking care of each other for the most part already.

Thinking he was leaving his children in good hands, their father left to conduct his business. As soon as the sound of jingling harness had faded into the distance, Old Sanna turned upon the children with a hungry light in her eyes brighter than ever before, and Lina felt her heart sink to her toes. She could see now that the only thing holding the old woman back had been her fear of the consequences should harm come to the children while their father was near.

But Old Sanna did nothing that night. As she pondered it in later years, Lina suspected that the old woman was merely waiting until she could be sure that her master was far enough away that he could not be swiftly fetched back home. So the children went to bed unharmed, but Lina did not close her eyes all night.

It was in the early hours of the morning that Lina heard some of the remaining manservants grumbling in the courtyard. Creeping to the window, Lina cracked it open and listened to them wondering aloud why Old Sanna had ordered them to gather enough wood to make a bonfire, and so early in the morning.

“She said she was ravenously hungry,” one of the servants said with a yawn.

“Oh, is that why she had us haul out that old cauldron?” the other servant replied. “I wonder what she intends to cook in it.”

“Whatever it is,” the first servant grumbled, “I certainly hope she sees fit to share it with the rest of us. There ought to be enough to go around—one could boil a grown man alive in that thing!”

Upon hearing this, Lina's very blood turned to ice in her veins. She knew that Old Sanna would not be boiling a grown man in the cauldron, but two children. Clearly, she would no longer be satisfied with a few hairs from their heads.

Swiftly, Lina dressed herself and went to shake her little brother awake. “Make haste!” she urged him as he blinked sleepily up at her. “We must run away—now, at once! Old Sanna means to boil us alive and eat us!”

Vogel began to cry. “But I don't want to be eaten!” he wailed.

“Hush, now,” Lina soothed, her heart clenching to see her brother in such distress. Hoping to reassure him, as well as quiet him before someone heard them, she said, “I will be with you, Fundevogel. Every step of the way.”

Wiping away his tears, Vogel looked up at his sister, the dearest person to him in the whole world. “You won't leave me alone?”

Lina grasped her brother's hand tightly in her own. “I will never leave you, if you will never leave me.”

“No,” Vogel said earnestly, clinging to her hand with all his might. “Neither now, nor ever will I leave you.”

As soon as the two were dressed, they slipped out of the house. At first, Lina intended to sneak into the kitchen and steal some food for their journey, but when they approached the final corridor, they could hear Old Sanna ordering the cooks about at the top of her lungs, as they prepared for her horrific feast.

So Lina and Vogel slipped out of the house and ran for the forest, taking nothing with them but the clothes on their backs. Until they had reached the shelter of the trees, Lina was sure at each step that she would hear the sounds of pursuit hot on their heels. However, no one seemed to notice them; the servants were all too sleepy and too preoccupied by their unusual orders. Holding tightly to each other's hand, the two children put as much distance between them and their home as they could.

For a time, Old Sanna was none the wiser as to the children's escape. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, she left the other servants to their tasks and made her way up to the nursery again. She thought to fetch Fundevogel and throw him into the boiling cauldron first, for she knew of his power. If he had the slightest inkling of the danger he faced, he might turn into a sparrow and fly away, and then she would lose her prized meal.

To Old Sanna's shock, when she opened the door to the nursery, she found the children's beds empty and cold. Immediately, she called the servants to search the whole estate for them, but even after a thorough search, they could not be found. Enraged, Old Sanna sent the three strongest and swiftest men to find the children's trail and hunt them down.

Lina and Vogel had been walking for hours, but their progress was hampered by the undergrowth in the forest and by Vogel's short legs, which grew more and more weary as time dragged on. Yet neither of them dared to stop and rest, for they knew they had not reached safety yet.

Then came the sound Lina had been dreading most: the tread of men's heavy boots, and the call of voices angered by the inconvenience of fighting through the forest in search of two runaway children. It was only a matter of time before the children would be found and dragged back to their deaths.

“Quickly, Vogel!” Lina cried, as the sound of tromping feet grew closer and closer. “Turn into a bird and fly away while there is still time!”

But Vogel gripped her hand more tightly and stared up at her with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I will never leave you, if you will never leave me.”

Seeing that her brother would not be persuaded otherwise, Lina nodded and said, “Neither now nor ever will I leave you. Now turn into a bush, and we will hide until the men are gone!”

So Vogel turned into a small, leafy bush, and Lina became a rose on the bush. They held still and silent as the servants burst into the clearing, following the sound of the children's voices and their footprints in the soft earth. But instead of two children, they saw only a small, trim rosebush—which looked very out of place in the wildness of the forest, but after all was not the children they had been sent to find.

At last, not knowing what else to do, the servants returned to Old Sanna. “We followed the trail into the forest,” they told her, “but all we found was a bush, with a single rose on it.”

“You fools!” Old Sanna shrieked, seeing at once what the children had done. “You should have plucked the rose and cut down the bush, and brought them back here! Now go after them again, and do not fail me this time!”

Startled by this strange outburst, but knowing they had been ordered to follow all of Old Sanna's directions, the servants returned to the forest and picked up the trail again.

Meanwhile, Lina and Vogel had waited for the servants to leave, then had returned to their original forms and continued on their way. But it was only a matter of hours before their steps flagged once again, and they heard the sounds of pursuit close behind them.

“I will never leave you, if you will never leave me,” Lina said, knowing her brother would not consent to leave her behind.

“Neither now nor ever will I leave you,” Vogel said. “I will turn into a church. They will not be able to take us back then.”

So Vogel turned into a little chapel in a forest clearing, and Lina became a chandelier hanging from its ceiling. He had never transformed into something so large before, but he managed it, down to the smallest detail. When the servants came upon the clearing, thinking to find two children, instead they were met with a small, quaint chapel. They looked all around it and peered through the windows, but they found no one inside. Indeed, it was completely bare except for the beautiful, glittering chandelier. The servants could not find the children's trail leading away from the chapel, so they could do nothing but return home again.

“We followed their trail into the forest,” they told Old Sanna, “but all we found was a church, with a chandelier inside it.”

“Fools, all of you!” Old Sanna roared again. “Why did you not pull down the chandelier, and break the church down stone by stone, and bring it back to me? This time I will go after them myself, for I can see that you are all useless!”

Then she opened wide her mouth, and swallowed the men in one gulp. As she devoured their lives, her back straightened, her shriveled fingers stretched out, and her hair grew long and golden as it had not in decades. Instead of an old, bent woman, she became a young, strong maiden again, with eyes that blazed with a cold flame. The rest of the servants ran from her, screaming in terror, but she paid them no heed. Filled with the strength and vigor of three men, she hastened in pursuit of the children. For she knew that the youth she had derived from the grown men would not last long. She needed the fresh, unlived lives of little children.

Once the men had gone away, Vogel and Lina had returned to their usual forms and continued on their way. At last, they emerged from the forest and set out across the open fields as the sun sank into the hills before them. They were weary enough that they could have lain down on the ground and slept, come what may. But just as they began to think that surely they had lost their pursuers once and for all, they heard the sound of feet running after them. Lina looked over her shoulder, and in the distance, at the edge of the dark forest, she could see a woman of terrible beauty running after them. Though she looked so different, Lina could recognize Old Sanna in an instant.

Holding tightly to her little brother's hand, Lina said, “I will never leave you, if you will never leave me.”

Vogel looked back as well, and though he trembled at the sight of their pursuer, he said staunchly, “Neither now nor ever will I leave you.”

So they ran to a dip in the ground, where they would pass out of Old Sanna's sight for a moment or two. Then Vogel turned into a pond, and Lina became a duck floating in the middle of the pond.

Old Sanna ran up to the pond, but unlike the servants, she was not fooled. She knew that the pond and the duck were none other than the children she had hungered after all this time. At first, she was angry with them, but once she had caught her breath, she began to laugh in triumph. For they had turned themselves into forms that were easy for her to devour. Old Sanna decided to drink the pond, and then she would grab the duck and roast it over a fire.

As Old Sanna knelt at the edge of the pond and put her lips to the water, Lina realized what she intended to do. If Old Sanna drank the water, she would be sucking away Vogel's life. And that was something Lina could not allow. She would not let anyone take Vogel away, for then she would be alone again.

So Lina swam up to the shore, and with her bill she grabbed Old Sanna by her long, golden hair that trailed into the water. With a mighty yank, she pulled Old Sanna into the water, holding fast even as she struggled. Vogel helped as well, stirring the waves on the pond so they crashed over their heads. As a duck, Lina was unharmed, but Old Sanna could not swim, and so she sank to the very bottom of the pond. And there, surrounded by the children she had longed to devour, she died a painful death.

Once they saw that they were safe, Vogel and Lina transformed back into their original forms. And there, in the hollow of the ground where moments before had been a little duck swimming in a pond, lay Old Sanna. No longer was she a young woman of terrible beauty. Now she was little more than a skeleton sheathed in skin, with hair that turned to dust as a fresh breeze blew past. She looked like a corpse that had lain in a tomb for centuries, and they wondered just how old she had truly been. How many lives had she stolen to sustain her own?

Pitying this woman who had been ruled by her own stomach, Lina said to Vogel, “We must bury her.”

So Vogel turned into a strong man, like the lumberjacks or farmers they sometimes saw around the estate, and Lina became a sturdy shovel. Together, they dug a small grave for Old Sanna, laid her in it, and spoke a short prayer before covering her with dirt.

Then, turning back into their ordinary forms, the children began the long trek homeward. They were exhausted, but they longed for nothing more than the safety and warmth of home, and so they walked all through the night.

As the first golden rays of sunlight touched the tops of the trees, Lina and Vogel came within sight of their home. No sooner did they step out from the shadow of the trees did they see their father alighting from his horse at the gate. He saw them at once and ran to meet them, catching them up in his arms and smothering them with kisses.

For once Old Sanna had shown her true colors, one of the remaining servants had come to his senses and rode after his master, telling him all that had happened in his absence. The landowner had immediately turned around and raced back home, fearing the worst. But now the children were able to tell him all they had endured, and reassure him that they would be safe from Old Sanna's wickedness forevermore. Their father wept for the danger he had put them in unknowingly, and assured them that from now on, he would stay close by their side and care for them himself. Never again would they be left alone.

Taking his son and daughter by the hand, the landowner led them back into the house. And they all lived happily ever after.

[atlantic-riona]

Exile of the Sons of Uisliu

A (long! very long!) retelling of the tale, Longes mac nUislenn (“Exile of the Sons of Uisliu”), an Irish tale from the Ulster Cycle of medieval Irish literature. Written for the Four Loves Fairy Tale event by @inklings-challenge.

Notes: I’ve published part of this before, though right now I can’t find the post. I finished it for the challenge, as it fit well with the themes. It was originally intended to be a retelling that made it easier to approach medieval Irish literature for those who felt intimidated by the often more archaic translations. As such, it sticks very closely to the two sources I was working from, though events from both get blended together in a way that weren’t, strictly speaking, present in both tales. See the end of the story for sources (with links!) and further notes about the adaptation process.

Pronunciation: “Derdriu” = “Deer-druh,” Noisiu = “Nee-shuh,” “Cathbad” = “Kah-vuh,” “Conchobar” = “Kon-cho-var” (with the “ch” as in “loch”, though I’ve heard various other pronunciations as well, Leborcham = “Leh-vor-cham, Cúchulainn = “Koo-chull-in”, “Uisliu” = ish-loo, “Eogan” = “Oh-wen”, and “Medb” = “May-uhv”. The other names should be less tricky, but let me know if you have problems with them.

This is the story of Derdriu.

Of beauty in death.

Some say the story begins before she was even born, at her scream from her mother’s womb. This is somewhat true; it was indeed this scream that caused the men of Ulster to rise from their beds and demand to know its origin. And it was this scream that caused her mother to press her hands to her face and deny any knowledge of its origin, despite the fact it came from her own womb. Indeed, it was this scream that caused Cathbad, the great and wise druid, to set the question of its origin at rest.

He said, “It is your daughter, woman. Her loveliness will surpass all others; her green eyes and tall form will cause envy among queens and desire among kings. Men will slaughter for her and over her, and heroes will do great deeds in her name.”

He said, “She will bring great evil to our land.” Then he fell silent and no more was said on the subject.

And some say the story begins when Deirdre entered the world for the first time, innocent of her great power and tragic fate. Again, the druid Cathbad prophesied of the evil that would follow in the girl’s wake, of jealousy and war and exile. And of death, of beloved children and heroes alike.

“Her tale will be famous,” he said, “as famous as the graves of the men who fought for her and the men who come after her.”

Hearing this, the men of Ulster cried aloud, “Kill the child! Kill her!” For they did not wish to see Ulster and its people suffer such a fate.

“Wait!” came one voice from the crowd. It was Conchobar, king of Ulster. “This girl won’t be killed; I want her for myself. I’ll make sure that no man sees her before we are wed, so there will be no fighting. And so that there will be no jealousy either, no woman will see her.”

No man present defied him.

And so Derdriu was taken away and raised by foster-parents. True to his word, Conchobar let no one else see her-except for Leborcham, who was Conchobar’s messenger and a satirist. It was she who acted as nurse and teacher to Derdriu. Besides them, Derdriu had no contact with anyone or anything from the outside world.

A lonely life for anyone, to be sure.

Years passed, and Derdriu, as predicted, grew into the most beautiful woman in all of Éire. Her hair was yellow as a warrior’s cloak, and her eyes were green as the land she walked on day after day; her lips Parthian-red and her teeth pure white. She saw no one but her foster parents and Leborcham, who had grown very fond of the girl.

One winter day, Leborcham and Derdriu sat outside watching her foster-father slaughter a calf for their supper. The blood from the calf stained the snow, and a raven swooped down to drink it.

Derdriu was struck by this, and said to Leborcham, “I'd like a man such as that: hair as black as a raven, cheeks as red as blood, and body as white as snow.”

A familiar story, is it not?

Without thinking, Leborcham replied, “Then may you have success, for there is one close by. Noisiu son of Uisliu is the man you’re seeking.” Then she fell silent, for she had remembered that Derdriu was bound for Conchobar’s bed.

“I want to see him,” Derdriu said.

“You musn’t,” Leborcham said reluctantly.

“If I don’t, I’ll be sick.”

This went on for some time, until Leborcham agreed to lead Derdriu to where Noisiu was. However, she refused to do anything more than that, for although she was fond of the girl, she could see nothing but harm in encouraging anything further.

Noisiu’s habit was to wander the ramparts of Emain Macha, the place where Conchobar and the other Ulaid gathered, chanting to himself. The chanting of Noisiu and his brothers was said to increase the milk of any cow that heard it, it was that pleasing to listen to. And for any man or woman who heard their chanting, they at once felt peace and happiness.

Do not think that the sons of Uisliu were skilled only in chanting or other such arts. Their skill in battle was renowned; they were swift and strong, and if the three brothers had to fight all of Ulster at once they would be so skilled with their blades and so able at defending one another that it would be a long time before their defeat.

And they were honorable, too; it was their honor that would be their downfall in the end.

Having gotten Leborcham to tell her of this tradition of Noisiu’s, Derdriu made a plan.

Noisiu was walking along the ramparts alone, chanting, when Derdriu came up to him. As though she intended to pay him no attention or recognition, she strolled past him, his fine voice making her heart beat faster.

Noisiu stopped his chanting and watched her go by. When she made to pass him entirely, he said, “That is a fine heifer going by.”

“As well it might,” she said, and turned to face him. At seeing her beauty, he recognized her for Derdriu, King Conchobar’s future wife. “The heifers grow big where there are no bulls, you know.”

“You have the bull of this province all to yourself,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “For you are to be wed to Conchobar himself.”

She tossed her head. “Of the two, I’d pick a game young bull like yourself.”

“Cathbad’s prophecy,” he said. “Have you forgotten it?” When she made no reply, he reminded her: “He said you will bring death and destruction to the men of Ulster. Your marriage to Conchobar is the solution to that.”

“I don’t want the men of Ulster or Conchobar,” she said and looked at him. “I want you.”

He shook his head and made to leave, although he did not wish to.

“Are you rejecting me?” she cried.

“I am.” 

She darted around in front of him and gripped him by the ears. “If you don’t take me with you, may shame and mockery fall upon you!”

“Leave me alone!”

“You’ll do it!”

“Woman, I will not!”

“My name is Derdriu,” she cried, “and I love you, Noisiu son of Uisliu! I loved you before I knew your face or form or voice, and now that I have seen them I love you even more! I will love you until the day I die!”

He reached up and pulled her hands from his ears. “Hush, or you’ll wake the whole of Ulster! Already the warriors inside exclaim and reach for their swords.” But he did not let go of her hands.

“It seems to be their recurring reaction to me,” she said, and they looked at each other without saying anything.

Perhaps Derdriu’s story begins here, where she and Noisiu made plans to slip away later that night when the sons of Uisliu and their company departed Emain, with Derdriu planning to hide amongst the women. Of course Noisiu’s brothers, Ardán and Annle, came with the two, and it was they who suggested seeking refuge with another king of Ireland. 

Whatever the start of the story was, this point was certainly the beginning of the end for all four of them.

They traveled from king to king, from one place to another, hunted by an angry Conchobar and all his warriors. Finally, in order to be free, they left Éire and escaped to the land of Alba.

They had no friends there, and so settled in the wilderness. Despite the fact that she was once again living with only three other people for company, Derdriu was happier than she had ever been. The brothers hunted for game, and when that ran out, they raided for cattle.

It was to be expected that the people of Alba rose up against them. As has been said before, the sons of Uisliu were skilled in many things, and cattle-stealing was certainly one of those things they excelled at. The people of Alba, however, excelled at disliking those who stole all of their livestock and food, and were certainly willing to do something about it. Both sides were well-matched, despite the brothers being greatly outnumbered. But the brothers were sick of fighting, and they searched for an alternative.

So they made an offer to the king of Alba: they would stop stealing cattle and in return, he would hire them as his soldiers. It was a good offer, and the king accepted it.

Noisiu and his brothers built their houses among the other warriors, but were careful to build them so that Derdriu could not be seen from the outside. For they did not wish for her beauty to bring them the same kind of trouble they had tried to escape in Éire. And for a time this worked.

But then, one day, the king’s steward came by early in the morning when everybody was asleep. He saw Derdriu and Noisiu sleeping peacefully, and even in sleep, Derdriu’s beauty struck him silent.

The steward went to the king, who was sleeping. The steward said, “My king, my king, I have found the perfect woman for you. She lies with Noisiu son of Uisliu even now, and she is a woman worthy of any king in the world. If you kill Noisiu now, you can have her to wife.”

The king declined to have Noisiu killed, saying, “Go instead and ask her every day in secret if she will leave Noisiu and wed me.”

And so every day the steward came to visit Derdriu while the brothers were away. And every day, she turned him down. At night, when the brothers returned, she told Noisiu of the steward’s visits.

“This is a bad business,” said Noisiu, “but I can’t see what there is to be done about it yet.” For if they offended the king, they could not return to Éire, and where else could they go? So the visits continued.

As Derdriu refused the king’s advances day after day, the king tried a different tactic. He ordered the brothers into fierce battles and set dangerous traps for them in the hopes that they would be slaughtered. But the sons of Uisliu were so skilled in battle and so clever that they always ended up unharmed.

Finally, the king grew weary of all this. “Try her one last time,” he told the steward. “Then we’ll kill the sons of Uisliu and take her anyway.”

The steward did as the king commanded. He said to Derdriu, “Listen. If you don’t do as the king wishes, he will gather up all the men of Alba and slaughter your beloved Noisiu and his brothers. Is that what you desire? Rather, by going to the king you may save their lives.”

It is not known what exactly Derdriu said to him after that, but it is certain that it was yet another refusal. The steward went away angry, and told the king that Derdriu had rejected him yet again. The men of Alba were called. Derdriu saw that they were many in number, too many for the sons of Uisliu to defeat without terrible cost.

Noisiu, Ardán, and Annle came home and Derdriu told them what the steward had said.

“You must leave,” she said. “If you don’t leave tonight, you won’t live to see tomorrow.”

Ardán, the youngest brother, said, “Will you not be coming with us, then?”

Annle, the middle brother, said, “It would certainly be a waste of all our efforts so far if she did not.”

And Noisiu, the eldest brother, said, “Do you not think we can protect you?”

So Derdriu went with them. They left that very night and traveled over the sea until they reached an island that was between Alba and Éire. The king of Alba pursued them with many men, but the sons of Uisliu fended them off in a series of battles deserving of their own heroic legend.

The news of the exiles’ flight from Alba reached Éire. Everybody said to Conchobar that it would be a great shame if the sons of Uisliu fell to an enemy king in an enemy land by the fault of a bad woman. “Forgive and protect them instead, Conchobar, and let the sons of Uisliu come home,” they said. “It is better to do this then to let them be harmed by enemies.”

“Very well then,” Conchobar said. “Let them come home. I will guarantee their safety. Send for them.”

“Who will take the message?” they asked.

“It is well known that Noisiu son of Uisliu will only come in peace to Éire again if he is brought by one of three people: Cúchulainn son of Sualdam, Conall Cernach son of Amergin, and Fergus mac Roich,” Conchobar said. “I will choose one of them.”

He took Conall aside and asked him, “What would you do, Conall, if I sent you to bring the sons of Uisliu back to Éire and through some cunning and betrayal-not my own, of course-they were slaughtered despite your promises of safety?”

Conall answered, “Any Ulsterman, no matter who he was, would fall at my hand. No man would escape my wrath.”

“That is a good answer, Conall,” Conchobar said. “But I see you will not be my choice.”

Next he asked his nephew Cúchulainn the same question. 

Cúchulainn was more perceptive and answered thus: “I swear that if you were to ask me to do such a thing, and to bring them home to be slain by you, I would take no bribe from you, great though it might be, in favor of taking your own head for such a deed.”

“I see that you do not love me either, Cúchulainn,” Conchobar said, and sent him away.

He called Fergus over to him and asked him the same question.

And Fergus said, “I swear not to attack you yourself, but if any Ulsterman should attempt harm on them, death and destruction will meet that man by my hands.”

“You will be messenger, Fergus,” Conchobar said. “It was you who had the best answer.”

So Fergus mac Roich was chosen as messenger. He sailed to their island, accompanied only by his son Fiacha, but could find no traces of the exiles. He made a loud call for them. Derdriu and Noisiu were playing fidchell, and both heard Fergus’ shout. 

“That is a man of Éire shouting,”said Noisiu, looking up from the board.

Derdriu recognized it as Fergus’ voice, but said, “No, you are mistaken. That is a man of Alba.”

Again Fergus shouted, and again Noisiu looked up from the board. “There it is again, and this time I am sure it came from a man of Éire.”

“You are mistaken,” Derdriu said, “and now it is your turn. Play on.”

Fergus shouted a third time, and this time Noisiu knew for certain his voice was that of a man from Éire. He rose from his seat and told Ardán to go and meet the speaker, to see who it was. For it would make them poor hosts if they neglected their guest any longer.

“I know who it is,” said Derdriu. “It is Fergus mac Roich. I recognized his voice from the start.”

Angry, Noisiu demanded to know why she had concealed this from him.

“I dreamed last night,” she said. “I dreamed that three birds flew to us from Emain Macha, and that in their beaks were three sips of honey. They left the honey with us, but took three sips of our blood in return.”

Noisiu sat down. “What do you think your dream meant?” Dreams might foretell the future or provide insight into the present, and so were not to be ignored.

“Fergus comes from our beloved home bearing a message of peace, but the message he bears is false, for a false message of peace is sweeter than honey. That is the meaning of the honey.”

“And the blood?” said Ardán, for he hadn’t left yet.

“The three sips of blood the bird took from us,” said Derdriu, “are the three of you, who will leave with him and be tricked.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” said Ardán. The others agreed.

Then Noisiu said, “Never mind that for now. We’ve left Fergus waiting at the harbor for far too long. Ardán, go and fetch him.”

Ardán, grumbling, went down to fetch Fergus. But he was much heartened to see him and his son, and kept asking tidings of Éire, and of Ulster especially.

“It’s glad we are to see you,” Fergus and Fiacha said, “and we’ll tell you everything when everyone’s there to hear it.”

And when Noisiu and Annle and Derdriu saw the travelers, their hearts were gladdened also; and they also asked for tidings of the land they missed so dearly.

“We bring the best tidings,” Fergus said. “I have been sent to bring you back to Éire. Conchobar guarantees your safety, and I swear to you I’ll see you safe to him on the very day we set foot back in Éire.”

“Don’t go,” said Derdriu to Noisiu. “It will end badly, I’m sure of it.” 

But the brothers dearly missed their homeland, and great was their desire to return.

“We will go,” they said. And even though they longed to return, they were also practical and knew they must put in safeguards. “But only if you yourself, Fergus, accompany us, as well as Dubthach and Conchobar’s eldest son Cormac, and if all three of you swear as to our safety.”

Fergus agreed to this, as it was a prudent request, given what had happened the last time the four had set foot in Éire. 

But Derdriu argued against it; she said that going to Éire would be their doom and that she felt sure their deaths awaited them there. And although the brothers pleaded and cajoled, argued and promised, she would not be swayed.

Finally Fergus said to her, “You need not fear, lady: should all the men of Éire betray you, I will fight and defeat them no matter how great their number. Their shields will be poor protection against the wrath of my sword. Of that you may be certain.”

“Friend Fergus,” she said, “I’ll hold you to that.”

They boarded the ship and set sail for Éire. As they passed Alba’s shores, Derdriu looked behind her at them and cried, “Farewell to you, O land that I loved! O land that was my home, I will miss your shores and hills, and the happy days we spent among them. O land, I will not see you again in this lifetime.”

Then she sang a lament, mourning all the places she had loved and lost. “If it were not for Noisiu,” she said, “I would not have left them.”

Dubthach and Cormac met them when they landed. The sons of Uisliu were so glad to be home that they swore they would not rest or eat until they had eaten Conchobar’s food. So the group started their journey at once.

Alas, Conchobar’s treachery knew no bounds. For he had sent Borrach mac Annte to draw Fergus away from them, and this was how he did it.

There was a geas upon Fergus, and it was this: he could not refuse an invitation to a feast. A geas was a powerful thing, and the breaking of it would lead to one’s doom.

Borrach met up with the group on the road and invited Fergus to several feasts. Fergus grew red with anger and cursed Borrach, saying it was ill-done of him to pick today of all days to invite him to a feast. Borrach would not rescind his invitations and so Fergus was caught between his promise to see the sons of Uisliu safely to Conchobar and his old geas.

“What should I do?” Fergus asked Noisiu.

Derdriu said, “Do what you want, friend Fergus. If you prefer to forsake us for a feast, then by all means do so. Leaving us is surely a good price to pay for a feast.”

“I won’t forsake you,” he said. “I’ll send my son Fiacha on with you and my own word of honor as well. And there will be Dubthach and Cormac as well.”

But Dubthach and Cormac chose to remain with Fergus, leaving only Fergus’ son Fiacha to accompany the sons of Uisliu and Derdriu.

“We give you thanks,” said Noisiu to Fiacha, “since none but our own hands have ever defended us in combat.” They were angry with Borrach, and left quickly. 

Fergus was gloomy about that but trusted that the whole of Éire could not defeat Fiacha.

“Noisiu,” Derdriu said, “I will give you some advice, although you will not listen to it.”

Noisiu drew her closer. “What is this advice of yours, O Derdriu?”

“Tonight we should go back to our island and remain there until Fergus has finished with his feast. Thus his word will be fulfilled and we may continue onward with him as safeguard.”

“That is evil advice,” Fiacha said. “My father has sworn to see you safe home today, and I am duty-bound to carry out his oath. Do you doubt his honor? If you turn back now it will be an insult.”

Derdriu was silent for a long time. At last she spoke: “Great is the evil fallen upon us today because of Fergus, since he abandoned us for a feast.” She was greatly sorrowed, for she had only agreed to come back to Éire because of Fergus’ oath to protect them. And then she chanted:

“Great is my grief that I have come 

at Fergus’ word, that reckless son of Roich.

I will lament and mourn forevermore—

and my heart is bitter because of it.

O sons of Uisliu—

your last days have come.”

Noisiu chanted in response:

“Say not such things,

O woman as radiant as the sun!

Fergus would not have fetched us

if destruction were in his heart.”

Derdriu chanted:

“Alas, I grieve for you,

O delightful son of Uisliu!

To have left our home in strange lands—

nothing good will come of it.”

They came to the White Cairn of the Watching, on Sliab Fuad. There was a pleasant glen there. Derdriu stayed behind and fell asleep. At first they did not notice she was not with them, but Noisiu, turning to say something to her, let out a cry of startlement. 

“What is it?” Annle asked.

“Derdriu is not with us; she must have fallen behind.”

They hurried back and arrived there just as she was waking up. Noisiu knelt beside her. “Why did you stay behind, Derdriu?”

“I fell asleep,” said she, “and as I slept I dreamed.”

“What did you dream of?” he said.

“I saw each of you without a head,” she said. “I grew frightened and woke up.”

“It was only a dream,” he said.

“A sad dream,” she said.

Then they traveled onward to a place known as “the Height of the Willows.” Then Derdriu said to Noisiu, “I see a cloud of blood about your head, and I would give all of you advice!”

“What is your advice, Derdriu?” Noisiu asked.

“To go tonight to Cúchulainn’s place of dwelling and stay there until Fergus comes; or to have Cúchulainn escort us with promises of safety to Conchobar.”

“I am not afraid,” said Noisiu, “so we will not do that. And we have sworn to stop for nothing until we reach Conchobar anyway.”

Derdriu sang a song, then, about the great cloud of blood she saw hanging over Noisiu’s head, but Noisiu ignored this. 

They went onwards through the familiar lands, accompanied by Fergus’ son Fiacha, until they came to the green at Emain Macha.

While they had been traveling to Emain, Conchobar had made peace with his old enemy, Eogan mac Durthacht, the king of Fernmag. Eogan was to kill Noisiu and his brothers, and any who opposed this.

So when Derdriu, the sons of Uisliu, and Fiacha came to the green at Emain, Eogan was waiting for them in the middle of it with Conchobar. Hired soldiers surrounded Conchobar so that the sons of Uisliu could not reach him. Behind them, women sat on the ramparts of Emain to watch the fighting.

Eogan and his men came to where the sons of Uisliu stood. Fiacha was standing at Noisiu’s side. Eogan delivered Conchobar’s welcome to Noisiu with a spear thrust so fierce it broke his back. Fiacha grabbed Noisiu and flung himself over him, bringing them both down to the ground. The second spear thrust through Fiacha’s body ended Noisiu. Then the green came alive with battle.

Ardán and Annle defended Derdriu fiercely. They linked their shields together and put her between them, and such was their skill that they slaughtered all those who came against them.

Seeing so many fall, Conchobar turned to Cathbad the druid. “O Cathbad, work some enchantment upon the sons of Uisliu. See their skill and how many they have slain. If they should escape now, Ulster will never be safe from them. I swear if you do this, I will not harm Uisliu’s sons.”

Conchobar’s words were persuasive in the face of all the dead strewn about the green, and Cathbad believed him. He lifted a hand and suddenly a sea, with great waves that crashed like thunder, lay ahead of the sons of Uisliu and Deirdre. Behind them, not two feet away, were the men of Ulster, waiting for the chance to strike. The sea surged ever closer, threatening to engulf them, and the brothers placed Derdriu on their shoulders so that she would be safe from drowning.

With the sons of Uisliu thus trapped, Conchobar ordered someone to kill the brothers. But no man of Ulster moved, for everyone there had borne Noisiu and his brothers great love.

But Eogan mac Durthacht spoke up, saying that he was ready to behead them both.

“Since that is so,” Ardán said, “kill me first, as I am the youngest.”

“No,” Annle said. “Kill me first instead.”

Then Eogan struck a blow that severed the heads of both on the spot, and all the Ulstermen cried out in grief.

Fergus had been told of the treachery of Conchobar, and came now with Dubthach and Cormac to Emain. They entered the green, and saw Noisiu, lying dead under Fiacha’s body, and Ardán and Annle, beheaded by Eogan.

Furious at how his oath had been broken and his son slain, Fergus gave battle to the men of Ulster. Dubthach and Cormac joined him. All three fought fiercely, and many fell by their hand that day, including Cormac’s younger brother Maine.

During the fighting, Deirdre slipped away to the far side of the green, and it was there she happened to meet Cúchulainn, returning to Emain Macha. 

“Are you here to betray us too?” she said to him. “The sons of Uisliu lie dead on the green of Emain; you may as well kill the daughter of Fedlimid and lay her with them.”

“Dead? Betrayed?” Cúchulainn asked, and Derdriu told him the whole sorry tale. At this a glint came into his eye and he said, “That is sad news indeed. Who killed them?”

“Eogan mac Durthacht,” she said. “But it was at Conchobar’s demand.”

“Let us go and find them,” Cúchulainn said, “and make sure they have a proper burial.” He had not yet realized that his foster-father Fergus was the one leading the fight against Conchobar and Eogan’s men, and so he did not join the fight himself—though if he had, it would not have gone well for his enemies.

They came to the place where the bodies lay, and Derdriu flung herself down on top of Noisiu and kissed him, her lips red with his blood. “Without the three sons of Uisliu, I am not alive,” she said. “A day spent with them was full of mirth; a day without them a day of mourning. A curse on Conchobar, a curse on Cathbad, a curse on me—I wish I had died, that trickery and floods on my behalf had not killed them!”

And she sang a song of lamentation, refusing to part from the fallen brothers, though Cúchulainn tried to persuade her to flee to safety.

There was much weeping in Emain that day; and not just for the many brave Ulstermen who had fallen at the hands of Fergus, Dubthach, and Cormac. Dubthach slew the women of Ulster, and Fergus burned Emain. Three thousand men joined them when they went to Connacht. Ailill and Medb, the rulers of Connacht, welcomed them—not out of any great love, but because of the enmity between them and Ulster. With Aillil and Medb they found protection, but the exiles’ vengeance did not stop there. There was not a single night that passed from that day without the exiles wreaking more destruction and sorrow upon Ulster.

As for Derdriu, she was with Conchobar a year. During that year she did not smile. She barely ate, she rarely slept. She rested her head on her knee and would not lift it, though Conchobar brought musicians to try and raise her spirits.

When the musicians came, she would chant:

“You say the men of Emain coming home 

triumphant is a brilliant sight to see;

I say that more brilliant was the sight

of the sons of Uisliu returning home.

Noisiu bearing mead, 

Ardán and Anle bearing meat—

a sweeter supper by far

than any at the table of Conchobar.

The airs you play today lack the music

of Noisiu, who sang like the sea,

of Ardán, who sang bright as sunlight,

of Anle, who sang like the wind in the trees.

I loved Noisiu, the great hero—

loved him to his death.

I don’t sleep, I can’t sleep—

the son of Uisliu will never return.”

If Conchobar tried to calm her, she would say, “What are you thinking, you who heaped sorrow upon me? I might live a hundred years or more, and yet even then I wouldn’t have any love for you. You took the thing I loved most in the world, and I will not see him until I die. I weary of you—I see nothing but the dark stones of the grave covering Noisiu, once so bright and beautiful.”

And if he persisted, she would say to him, “Fergus wronged us, taking us over the sea to you. He sold his honor for a drink. If all the warriors of Ulster gathered before us today, without hesitation I would trade them all for Noisiu. Do not break my heart further today; I am not long for the grave. My sorrows are higher and heavier than the waves of the sea. If you were wise, you would know this.”

One day, Conchobar tired of this and asked, “Who do you hate most?”

“You and Eogan mac Durthecht!” she said.

“Then go live with Eogan for a year,” he said.

He gave her to Eogan, and the next day the three set out for the gathering at Macha. Derdriu was behind Eogan in the chariot. She looked down, so that she would not have to see the two men she hated most. She had sworn that neither of them would have her.

Conchobar had been watching her and Eogan, and when he saw her look down, he said, “Your glance is that of a ewe between two rams, Derdriu, sitting here between me and Eogan.”

Up ahead, there was a big boulder. When she heard him, she leapt up and struck her head upon it, smashing her skull to bits, and she was dead.

Even then, Conchobar was jealous that Noisiu and Derdriu dwellt in death together, and he ordered that their graves be far apart from one another. Yet every morning, the graves were found open, with the lovers inside one of them. To keep them apart, Conchobor had stakes of yew driven through their bodies, and the graves remained closed.

This was the story of Derdriu. Of beauty in death. Beauty brought Derdriu death: the death of the sons of Uisliu, the death of many in Ulster, and lastly her own death.

It was not death itself that was beautiful. The beauty was how Derdriu lived. Destined for a tragic fate even in the womb, was there ever any escape for her? And yet she chose, again and again, to turn away from the path laid out for her. Again and again, she chose the son of Uisliu.

Perhaps that had always been her fate. Or perhaps not. Prophecies are fickle things.

Years passed. Ulster and Connacht went to war. Cúchulainn stood alone against Medb’s invading army, and was later betrayed; death, winged raven, perched on his shoulder. Conchobar heard of the death of Christ and became so angry at the injustice that blood sprang from his head and he died. His eldest son Cormac was invited out of exile to be king of Ulster, and swearing friendship with Aillil and Medb, returned—only to meet death at the hands of men of Connacht. Fergus met death at the hands of Ailill, who met death through the plotting of Medb, who met death by the patient vengeance of one of Conchobar’s sons. Emain Macha was abandoned for Ard Macha close by, which became Armagh, where Saint Patrick built his church.

Two yew trees grew from the stakes in the graves. They grew and grew, until they became so tall that they could entwine with each other at last, centuries later, over the cathedral at Armagh.

Sources: “The Tragical Death of the Sons of Usnach,” The Cuchullin saga in Irish literature, Eleanor Hull (p. 22-53) and “Exile of the Sons of Uisliu,” The Táin, translated by Thomas Kinsella (p. 8-20).

Additional Notes: Because this was meant to make the medieval tales more approachable, in parts of my retelling there may be dialogue and such that read like simplified/altered versions of the original sources. I highly recommend reading the originals, linked below, for a fuller appreciation of the tale, especially Kinsella’s, as in my opinion his translations are the most readable and beautiful of any I’ve read. I’m happy to provide more detail about the adaptation process, the history behind the literature, and the wider context of the Ulster Cycle if anybody has questions. 

[inklings-challenge]

This list (and the notes) might be helpful for anyone looking for inspiration for a storge-focused fairy tale retelling.

A lot of fairy tales feature terrible siblings–jealous sisters or stepsisters who ruin the happiness of the heroine, elder brothers who compete with and put down the youngest.

So I want to list some fairy tales that feature strong and loving (or at least friendly/not antagonistic) sibling relationships.

The Wild Swans

Snow White and Rose Red

Brother and Sister

Hansel and Gretel

Kate Crackernuts

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

The Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh

Maria Morevna

The Little Mermaid

Bluebeard

Swan Maidens