#sapphic fairy tale

[super-ion]

Undine

(next chapter)

Chapter 1

Alda drummed her fingers listlessly on the arm of her chair. Her chin rested in her other hand as she surveyed the grounds before her.

She was bored. Before her was an entire festival in her honor, with performers and acrobats and dueling knights and she was bored. Only a year prior, she would have been anything but.

But then, in years prior, she had been a child on the cusp of womanhood. The problem now was that all of her friends had grown up and left her behind: Johannes was busy being the duke's son, preparing to one day take their father's place; Huldbrand was a knight errant, living out childhood fantasies of being a hero in shining armor; Gerda was…

She and Gerda hadn't spoken more than a few strained words over the past year.

No, a few years prior, the four of them would have snuck away to steal pastries and watch the jousting from ground level until royal guards were sent to fetch them. Gone were the days of their adventures. No more skinned knees or stick fights or pilfered sweets.

They were all living their lives without her and she didn't know what she was supposed to be without them. She was just Alda, the duke's foster daughter. She was nobility by adoption, but she had no land, no titles of any significance, no destiny except to become someone's wife and then someone else's mother.

She leaned back in her seat with a sigh and looked across the booth at Gerda. Her sister-in-law was laughing, probably at one of her brother's jokes. Alda found herself smiling reflexively at that infectious tinkling laughter.

Gerda noticed her staring and for the briefest moment as their eyes met, Alda felt an echo of what had existed between them. Then Gerda's face shuttered and the laughter faded.

Alda looked away miserably. She wished she could go back and do everything over. Growing up, it was nearly certain that Gerda and Johannes would marry. It hadn't been arranged or foreordained, just accepted as inevitable… but Alda, curse her fool heart, had fallen in love. Growing up, they had been the closest of friends, and for one glorious summer, they had become something more.

It all came to a disastrous end when Johannes proposed. Alda pleaded with Gerda to stay with her, to run away together, but Gerda declined. It had been a mistake, Gerda told her, they had responsibilities, expectations. Whatever the reason, the fact was Gerda hadn't felt as Alda did and Alda's heart had been broken.

Now Gerda was nine months married and six months pregnant. Gerda and Johannes were the perfect royal couple, beloved throughout the duchy. Alda was cordial, but things could never go back to how they had been before.

The crowd suddenly roared as a new competitor entered the arena. Alda swept her gaze over the grounds and there was Huldbrand, the errant fourth member of their gang.

"Oh," her mother gasped. "I wasn't aware that he was in this part of the country."

It took every ounce of Alda's self restraint not to roll her eyes. Of course Huldbrand would make an appearance at a tournament held in her honor. Just as the union between Gerda and Johannes had been all but certain, Alda had been dogged by similar gossip about herself and Huldbrand throughout her teenage years.

In some ways, such rumors had been a shield, a convenient lie that distracted from the impropriety of her true romantic preferences. She was content enough to let the rumors persist for that reason alone.

He of course remained blissfully oblivious to her true nature and had made several subtle romantic overtures towards her that she bore with increasing guilt.

She watched him as he waved to the crowd. She supposed he was beautiful, in the same way a painting could be beautiful, something she could appreciate from a detached distance.

He greeted his jousting opponent with a grin and a handshake. That was Huldbrand, affable and honorable, a paragon of chivalry. There was part of her that resented him for that. He was too perfect. There was no legitimate reason for her to turn him down.

"He would make a fine husband," her mother said softly, giving voice to what had thus far been unsaid.

Alda swallowed and nodded, forcing a smile to hide the miserable twist in her stomach. She wished, not for the first time, that she were someone else, that she had lived some other life, that she could love as she pleased without concern for how she might be judged.

She wondered, also not for the first time, about her birth parents. What kind of life might she have lived if she hadn't been snatched from them in a storm only to be discovered by the duke? Who were they? Did they still think about her?

This of course led her down the path to one of her recurring fantasies. She daydreamed a beautiful and mysterious traveler arriving in the dead of night to reveal that she was the heir to a magical fairy kingdom and the time for her return was at hand. The two of them would embark on an epic adventure in distant lands. There would be trials that Alda, armed only with her wits, would need to overcome. And of course, she would find herself falling for her brave and alluring companion. At some point a disaster would befall them and only the power of true love would be enough to save the kingdom…

Expectant silence shook her out of her reverie. The joust was over and Huldbrand was trotting his horse towards the ducal booth. Alda realized too late that she had been absently staring in his direction with an expression that could be mistaken for wistfulness. To make matters worse, the attention of the entire crowd was now focused on the two of them.

"Oh gods…" she murmured as dread settled into her stomach. "Please don't do something foolish."

Huldbrand opened his mouth and did something foolish.

"Lady Bertalda!" he called. "This humble knight begs for the grace of your favor."

She felt her face redden. Luckily (or unluckily) the onlookers seemed to interpret her embarrassment and shyness. Tittering whispers spread across the stadium like wildfire and all eyes and ears were solely on her now.

She was panicking now. She needed something, anything to get out of this without making a scene.

Her mother cleared her throat softly and nudged Alda.

There was a half formed idea in her mind, some chivalric nonsenseb leftover from her daydreamed fantasy. She grasped at it like she was drowning.

"Um…" she began haltingly. "Sir Huldbrand, I am… flattered by your request… and I shall grant you my favor if you complete a noble quest"

The crowd erupted in hushed gossip. It took every ounce of self control for her not to cringe at her own brashness.

She glanced at her family, desperate for some assistance. Her father and brother were looking at her with something like awe. Her own grandfather had slain a dragon to win the favor of her grandmother, after all. Her mother looked composed as ever, but there was a thinness to her lips, a tightness to her eyes that spoke of shocked disapproval that she would certainly hear about later. And Gerda… Gerda arched a questioning eyebrow, but her expression was otherwise unreadable.

Alda looked back down at the knight who was watching her expectantly with something sickeningly close to adoration. Oh no... she had misjudged the depth of his feelings towards her. The fool would march into hell if she asked for the head of a demon on a platter.

She would never ask that of him. She shouldn't be asking anything of him of that nature, but she had blundered too far into her own trap to backtrack now.

"I… um… I bid there, go forth, into the darkwood. At its far edge near the sea, they say there are spirits that dwell in the swamps and jealously guard untold treasures. Return with a water spirit's treasure and you shall have my favor."

It seemed challenging enough to buy her time, not fantastical enough to be truly impossible, and most importantly, not so dangerous that he would get himself killed doing it.

He grinned at her and bowed deeply.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Just read a West African Sleeping Beauty tale in which the heroine is awakened by another maiden and they fall in love. Her lover's father marries the Sleeping Beauty and then the two women are "companions" for the rest of their lives.

Lesbian happily ever after!

[vulpes-aestatis]

Reblogging for Werewolf Wednesday!

I finished a fic!

It's gay and it has werewolves!

[patheticbatman]

Last day of my 53rd Win A Commission contest! Guess the (Norwegian) fairy tale upon which this (Alaskan) story is based, and win a commission! Contest ends September 14th at midnight EST.

As this picture is not super related to the original fairy tale, here is a BIG hint: it’s the same type of story as Cupid & Psyche, Beauty and the Beast and The Black Bull of Norroway. But there’s a polar bear.

Day One • Day Two • Day Three

EDIT: Answeringmysister won! This story is based on East of the Sun, West of the Moon. I named it West of the Sun, East of the Moon. Kind of confusing but yeah.

[arcanaebbe-theartisticwithery]

New Patreon post!!💖💖 PAGE PREVIEW FOR 'A KNIGHT AND HER PRINCESS - A SAPPHIC FAIRYTALE' ZINE - EARLY ACCESS FOR PATRONS ONLY

There are 4 of the finished pages and 2 outlines for my Fairytale Zine! I am so excited to share them and I've posted them to my Patreon as of now! They are available to all tiers! 🥰

All Patrons will also be able to pre-order a week earlier than others.

Website Link: aknightandherprinces.carrd.co/ Patreon Post: www.patreon.com/posts/page-pre…

STORY BY ARCANA EBBE. ART BY KARLA LUNA (LINKS BELOW). TWITTER: TWITTER.COM/TAIGAUNIVERSE FACEBOOK: WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/TAIGAUNIVERSE INSTAGRAM: INSTAGRAM.COM/TAIGAUNIVERSE

DA LINKS ~~~~~~~~~~ Portfolio: artisticwitchery-portfolio.car… Patreon: www.patreon.com/theartistic_wi… Ko-Fi: ko-fi.com/artisticwitchery_sho… Twitter: twitter.com/poeslilraven13 Insta: www.instagram.com/artworkby_ar… DA: www.deviantart.com/poeslittler… Contact Me: t.me/theartisticwitchery Linktree: linktr.ee/arcanaebbeswitchery

[insomniac-arrest]

Once upon a time . . . there was a wicked queen. A hungry wolf. A thing in the dark. A dragon thief. A falling star, crooked in the sky. The lines between heroine and Other, fair and wicked, are illuminated in five transformative stories.

Five fairy tales, five perilous journeys, five star-crossed romances. A Snow White retelling that focuses on the wicked-queen-to-be and her mirror. A take on the classic parable of a deer pursued by wolves. A powerless maid making a deal with Shadows. A wishing star pursued to the ends of the earth and the knight sworn to return her to the sky. A princess trapped by a dragon with her only visitor a burglar.

The Crooked Stars is a collection of sapphic stories that shows there are many ways to read the stars and many ways for love to find a way into places it never was before. If you enjoy enchanting tales of adventure and magic, you'll fall in love with this mesmerizing collection that contends with the cruelty and beauty in fairy tales.

Official release date April 16th, 2024.

eBooks ✨ Paperback ✨ Goodreads

-----------

It's here, IT'S HERE!!! My next new collection is on it's way and features two of my all-time favorite stories I've written. I am so excited. Please be sure to boost and leave reviews if you can. I am a small-time author and don't spend any money on advertising so word of mouth is how I get my stories to the world.

Gorgeous cover art by Megan O'Donell.

Website 🌸 Previous Work

[theartofmadeline]

me, waking up in a cold sweat: selkie and swan maiden girlfriends

[hidekomoon]

I did it again (my other edits here)

1. Godward’s A Fair Reflection (1915) and Waterhouse’s The Soul of the Rose (1908)

2. Frank Cadogan Cowper’s Damsel of the Lake (1924) kissing the lady in Auguste Toulmouche’s The Kiss (c.1870)

3. Waterhouse’s A Song of Springtime (1913) and Auguste Toulmouche’s Woman and Roses (1879)

4. Evelyn De Morgan’s Ariadne in Naxos (1877) with Waterhouse’s Sweet Summer (1912)

5. A woman from Charles Perugini’s Dolce Far Niente (1882) about to wake up Victor Gilbert’s Sleeping Beauty (date unknown)

please reblog if you save! (except terfs, “gender critical” radfems and general transphobes, y’all can block me please)

[ethanmaldridge]

Midnight gathering.

This is a sneak peek from my new dark fantasy graphic novel The Pale Queen! The book will be on shelves next month, help it succeed by preordering now wherever you get books!

[laurasimonsdaughter]

The Singing Princess

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[li-vermin-il]

“ I’m sorry beast, but I cannot”

Um… yea I’ve been wanting to maybe draw a sapphic beauty and the beast as a graphic novel for a while now. Done as a warm up sketch… maybe I’ll do more, anyway happy pride 🏳️‍🌈

[super-ion]

Undine

(previous chapter, next chapter)

Chapter 2

Undine swam upward, finally breaking the shimmering curtain that separated the sea from the sky. For a moment she was content to simply tread water, relishing the feel of cool air in her burning lungs. She tilted her head back in the warm sunlight and smiled as her limbs circled lazily in the water.

Something tugged at her consciousness, some subtle shift in the wind or in the currents. The feeling was gone before she could even scan the horizon for anything out of place. She frowned briefly and made her way back to shore with a kick of her legs.

As always, the sea felt almost reluctant to let her go as she stepped out of the surf, but the warm yellow-white sand was simply too inviting. She sprawled out in the sun and opened her bag to examine her morning's haul. In moments, she had lustrous seashells and glittering bits of sea glass in perfect rows on the sand, neatly divided between when she would sell and what she would keep.

The prize though was the piece of vermillion coral that was larger than her hand. She idly watched the brilliant color fade as it dried. It was almost as if the water had imparted some essential vitality to it and removed from its element and exposed to the air and sunlight, it was deprived of that.

Still… a bit of cutting and polishing would restore its brilliance. The piece would fetch a decent amount of coin if she were to sell it to the bead maker… Or she could keep it for her own projects. The tedious, precise work of jewelry making suited her and the bead maker himself had made invitations for her to apprentice with him.

She set the coral in the group of treasures she would keep for herself and laid back on the sand to bask in the sun. Another soft smile spread on her lips, she had the entire stretch of beach in this particular cove to herself, with no company except for the shore birds circling high overhead.

The same something from before snagged at her attention once more. She levered herself onto her elbows and squinted at the horizon.

A storm was coming.

There were no black clouds, no rising winds, just the warm sun and gentle lapping of the waves. But it was there, somewhere beyond sight. She felt it in her core. This storm would be fierce and terrible.

She scooped her treasures into respective pockets in her bag for keep or sell and threw on her dress over her swimming clothes. Urgency drove her and for once, she paid no mind to the grit of sand between the cloth and her skin. She hurriedly laced her boots and set off on a jog towards home.

At the edge of town, she rounded a corner and nearly careened into a wizened old fisherman making his way to the harbor. She skidded to a halt on the gravel path, stopping inches away from him. He raised his hands to catch her, but had the good grace not to when she flinched away from his grasp.

"Goodness, lass! Where're ye off to in such a big hurry?"

"There's a squall coming, a big one," she said breathlessly, forcing herself to look roughly in the direction of his face in an attempt to convey the seriousness of the matter.

He looked at the sky dubious and scratched his chin.

He finally shrugged and said,"Ye've never been wrong before. How big are we talking?"

"Big," she replied. "Bigger than I've ever seen. Remember four years ago, when that cargo ship ran aground? Worse than that. It'll be here tonight… I think. I don't know, there's something strange about this one…"

She trailed off, not entirely sure how to explain why this particular storm felt different than others. It was strange enough that she could predict the weather with such uncanny accuracy. It wasn't something she could ever hope to explain with words, it would be like describing a color that only she could see.

"Can you let the harbormaster know?" she asked. "Here, for your troubles."

She reached into one of the pockets of her bag and drew out a handful of berries which she shoved into his hands.

She bobbed a quick curtsey and hurried on her way as the fisherman watched in bewilderment. As she disappeared down the path, he shrugged and popped one of the berries into his mouth. His expression transformed into one of soft delight and wonder as the perfect sweetness of the berry burst in his tongue. He relished the flavor and felt himself momentarily lost in some nostalgic boyhood memory.

That was Undine's way.

Everyone in town agreed that there was something just a little off about her. Her whole life had been shadowed by whispered rumor of "changeling". Indeed, she had been discovered alone and squalling on the doorstep of a bereft couple who had lost their own baby daughter in a storm that very day. Her moods shifted suddenly with the weather, to the extent that rumor had it that it was her moods that controlled the weather and not the other way around.

But she found the best bits of coral and driftwood and sea glass from the shore and the best berries and mushrooms from the forest. She always knew where the most bountiful fishing shoals and mussel beds would be. Most uncannily, she could predict the weather with greater accuracy and more advance notice than any cloud reader.

At worst, the townsfolk tolerated the strangeness of her, and whispered gossip followed her constantly. For the most part though, they were grateful for her presence. As she hurried through town, people waved and smiled at her. She made a point to deliver small acknowledging waves, but the urgency of the phantom storm drove her on.

Her parents' house was at the far end of town, right near the edge of the forest. She had nearly made it when the harbormaster's bell began to ring. A sudden wind whipped at her dress and her hair and she paused to blink at dark clouds that were mysteriously appearing on the horizon. Even as she watched, they were advancing as if some unseen hand were goading them on.

She resumed her trek home, starting at a jog that quickly became a sprint. She slid to a halt at the gate that led to her house. She stood there, out of breath from the running as her brain tried to make sense of the creature before her.

The white horse that was idly munching on the grass was more well bred than any she had ever seen in town, built more for speed than strength as far as she could tell. And the saddle and bridle were finely crafted, she had only seen such fine gear in the horses that bore tax collectors and official couriers from the distant capital. What on earth was such a magnificent creature doing on her doorstep?

The horse flicked its ears in her direction and raised its head to regard her curiously.

"H-hello?" she stammered. "Where did you come from?"

The horse snorted and she briefly perceived a flicker of sensation in her mind. High towers and close buildings and all manner of strange noises and smells.

Before she could think too long about the strangeness of the experience, the door to the house opened and her father stepped out, looking more pensive than usual. He nodded to her in acknowledgement and moved to take the reins of the horse.

"We have company," he told her. "A knight on a quest. He's injured. Not bad, but he'll be staying here for a few nights. Would you please assist your mother in seeing to him?"

Undine stared after her father as he led the horse into the barn. The uneasy feeling in her chest became a vague sense of dread. Between the mysterious oncoming storm and this stranger arriving at their house, she suddenly felt as if she was on the precipice of something, as if the story of her life would be neatly divided between everything that came before and everything that came after this moment.

A shadow passed in front of the sun ominously and the first raindrops began to fall.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Wolves at the Door

In a tidy well-built home on the outskirts of a village on the outskirts of the world, lives a doe in homespun skirts. MaryAnne lives in her ancestral home with antlers nailed to the mantle. Aged enough to be an old maid but not old enough for it to be charming, a howling comes for her. 

Oh, the Beast Folk of the north know better than to live alone. Lighting candles in the darkest months. Hanging Evil Eye charms in their windows to ward off wickedness. MaryAnne, all the same, cuts her own firewood and pickles her own vegetables. She survives the winter.

That is until that howling comes. Wolves are at her door. 

Claws scratch at the wood. A long snout snuffles at the windowsill. A voice croons, as they always do, in a plaintive song. In those long months, the villagers and MaryAnne bury their faces in their arms. Stuff their ears with wax. Cluster together if they can. That is how you made it through a winter in the north.

Yet, a howling comes.

That year, MaryAnne forgot to restock her wax. Too late to go out, she curls into a ball on the hard floor, buries her face, and refuses to look up. A voice floats through the cracks.

“Little doe.” A growl. “Why do you hide inside your nest?”

Mustn’t answer. A female wolf casts a long shadow through the window. Backlit by a yellow moon. She has a voice for turning wine to honey. MaryAnne squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

“You’ll turn to dust within these walls. Nothing left but bones.” The voice laughs, guttural and wind-rough. Heavy steps sound from outside, crunching in the snow. “The breeze is fresh. The snow is young. A night for running.”

Mustn't answer to the night.

“They have marked your door with Juniper. Tell me, what makes you so unlucky?”

A whine escapes from deep within MaryAnne’s chest. There is no escaping rumors it seems– even among wolves. A gentle sun-tanned face flashes through her mind’s eye. He is smiling there. The memory frays at the edges in an instant, like crumpling paper by the fire. He is frozen in that eternal melancholy look. Like he knew what was coming.

MaryAnne lets out a second hiccup of sound.

“There you are.” The voice laughs long and harrowed. A scratch drags down her door, rattling the hinges. “Why don’t you come out?”

“Leave me alone!” Her voice is hoarse from disuse. “Leave before I, before I. . . Leave!"

Oh no. She had answered. What a silly girl she was. The beast outside throws her head back and howls. And howls still.

—--------

Days pass in which MaryAnne doesn't hear the howling. She sweeps and mends and peels peas. Sometimes, the doe wakes in the predawn hours, half-frozen and shivering. She stokes the dead embers and looks out. Faded stars and quilted black look back at her. The night is quiet then, peeled to its barest layers and forgiving. An exhale. 

But those aren’t most days. A howling comes at her door. MaryAnne's ears begin to ring with it. She dreams of fangs and rust-colored waters. In the light of day, MaryAnne rubs at her eyes until she sees spots and some curling grin remains. I won’t survive the winter, she thinks. My time has come.

MaryAnne goes to the village Wise Woman. 

She trudges through the glittering snow and ducks behind trees when strangers pass. Mother Grace lived near the outskirts of town too. Though unlike MaryAnne, footprints ring her squat home– deep grooves of movement. MaryAnne follows the grooves and creeps forward like she might fade into her own shadow. 

The house is dark evergreen and churns enormous plumes of smoke. Charms for luck hang in the window and MaryAnne averts her gaze. Some of them look like pawed feet. She hunches her shoulders, tugs at her sleeves, and lifts a hand to the entrance. A door thick as slabs of good brown bread swings open at her touch. 

“Hello?” she calls into the gloom. “I am MaryAnne. Daughter of . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. If there was one thing to know of Mother Grace, it is that she hates tedious things. “Mother Grace, I have come to ask you of the world. I’ve come to ask you what wolves fear.”

“Questions, questions.” A grumbling answers her. “For yourself, child? Or some grand cougar king. Conquering their enemies.”

“For me. Yes. Myself. I am, I’m a doe.” MaryAnne stumbles forward and eyes adjust to the dimness.

“I can smell that.”

An old woman sits before a stone shelf, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by books. An iron stove dominates the living space and the air shimmers with heat. Mother Grace rocks back and forth in her chair. She is entombed in pillows, waiting to remind the young that the winter is long. And bound to grow longer.

MaryAnne repeats her question. “Do you know how to rid yourself of wolves?” How to escape being hunted? She dare not speak those words into existence though. Hunted. Cursed anew.

The woman grumbles under her breath once more. Grey-haired and petite, her rabbit ears hang long and limp down her shoulders. Her milky eyes were unseeing and body bent forward. Yet, her bearing is steady and unflinching. MaryAnne wishes in some distant way she could embody the same self-assured air. A knowledge of herself, good or bad.

Unable to bear it any longer, she repeats herself. “Please. Wolves are at my door. You are the most learned Folk. What do they fear?”

Mother Grace doesn't look at MaryAnne as she speaks. Her voice creaks. “I cannot say. Fear is a shifting thing. Wolves, too, shifting creatures." The Wise Woman grunts a dry laugh. “Hard to separate the two.”

"Ah,” MaryAnne says like she understands, heart sinking to the bottom of her shoes. 

Mother Grace sets her jaw and looks past her. "Go to the mulberry tree at sunset and bow your head. Speak true and earnestly.” The Wise Woman gnashed her gums. “It will show you how to greet a wolf.”

MaryAnne swallows. “Will that save me?” 

The wisewoman does not answer.

—-------

The sun sets in in a purpling line, sending the towns folk scurrying behind their locked doors. The Beast Folk know better than to linger alone after dark. But MaryAnne is Juniper-marked and given a task. She approaches the Mulberry tree in the shadow of a hill. Red ribbons tied in its bare branches and framed by twilight.

MaryAnne bows her head and kneels on the snowy earth, her cheeks pinched with cold. The knees of her pants soaking through.

“How do you escape a wolf?”

The Mulberry bush sways in the wind. The ribbons turn a dull navy in the light and MaryAnne shivers.

Two knotted eyes blink and the nymph bows back. Her hair sticks straight in the air– naked branches reaching for sky. She considers MaryAnne for a long moment. 

“Your father came to me once. Asking questions.” A pause follows that could suck the marrow out of bones. “He could not deter his fate. You may not be able to either."

“Please.” MaryAnne swallows over and over, suppressing the stinging in her eyes. “There is a wolf at my door. She will not leave. She has my scent.”

“Ah,” the Nymph says, pity trapped in her wispy vowels. “A Stray perhaps of their terrible rituals. The Bone Cities are far and often cruel. Come closer, girl. I may teach you to greet a wolf and thus defer her task a while longer.”

—-------

The wind whips against MaryAnne’s walls, battering the sides of her home. The dark wood was tightly joined and held. A syrupy silver light bathed the snow outside and MaryAnne’s eyelids grew heavy. She had been watching her door since she returned from the Mulberry tree.

And it had not ceased since the moon arose. A long cry mixed with the violent gusts of wind. A howling. MaryAnne’s shoulders set in a hard line, back aching and mood even more dour. Let it be over, she prays to the Great Mother Doe. Though, who knew if the starry mother listened. Let the wolf go home empty-handed.

MaryAnne’s head nods to her chest, jerking upright at the first sound. A scratch peels down her front door. Claws against wood. 

“Little doe, why do you hide?” the wolf sings in that beseeching tone. 

MaryAnne does not bother to curl into a ball. She straightens to her full height, nubby horns facing the door as if she might charge. Fangs flash in her mind’s eye and she takes deep breaths. MaryAnne forces her legs to work.

"Good evening," she booms. An imitation of how she imagines governesses speak to future kings. MaryAnne bows before the door, taking her time falling to her knees. Her chest tightens-- a thrum of terrible life. “I am pleased to meet you."

“Pleased?” The wolf sounds amused. Perhaps wolves can always afford that.

“Yes.” In slow increments, MaryAnne brings her wrists near the crack under the door. Bile rises in her throat and she pushes closer. “I see you've come to call on me. Perhaps I may have you over for tea. Do you take it with cream or sugar?”

The laugh is thunderous. A long snuffling follows and MaryAnne thinks she imagines whiskers under the crack.

“You smell like fear. Are you afraid?”

“Always,” MaryAnne says bitterly. “Is that not our nature? You, at our doors. Me inside my home. But you could knock.”

“I have a home too, you know,” the voice purrs. “Many leagues away and by the sea. Perhaps you might enjoy running to it.”

“You may have me over for tea,” she keeps her tone even. “Come back in the morning to exchange invitations. I have stationary you might borrow.”

Hot air blows against her wrist. The wolf audibly inhales. “You think yourself clever. Juniper-marked and clever.”

“What else could I be?” Her voice trembled and she didn’t like the way it broke on the last words.

“I can make a few suggestions.” The crunch of heavy paws against the snow. “Open up the door and I will show you.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” MaryAnne grits out despite herself. Run, run, run. her mind says. Her feet say. But the Mother Doe isn’t there to light her way. “My name is MaryAnne. I would like to invite you to tea.”

The door gives a violent shake, a weight thrown against it. Dust rains from the rafters. The hinges shrieks and the wolf lets out a howl to match. The door holds– as it was meant to.

Life spikes in her chest this time and fills her belly with warmth. MaryAnne holds herself perfectly still, wrists shoved to the crack in the door. 

“I am Shier of the Northern Pack,” the wolf spit out the words. “You may keep your twice-damned tea.”

-----------------

Part 1 of 3

[vulpes-aestatis]

I did it! I actually finished a fic!

[fuedalreesespieces]

little demi inuyasha i drew for pride month (and my birthday!)

[lily-s-world]

With the recent confirmations of Raven and Cupid bisexuality, I think someone should reboot Ever After High and make it as queer as possible. We even have lesbian Apple and Darling already.