#the farmer's clever daughter

[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.

[fairytalesreusedcostumes]

This red and golden gown is worn on Queen Mother in The Clever Farmer's Daughter 2010 (Die Kluge Bauerntochter) and worn again on Princess Larissa in Allerleirauh (2012)

[draculastits]

Hey does anyone have any good obscure fairytales I can tell my 6 yo niece please it’s been three days and I’ve already told her all my favorites and she just wants more and more

[fictionalslvr]

SYNOPSIS: The farmer who's growing head over heels for you.

PAIRING: Farmer¡Simon Riley x F¡Reader

WORD COUNT: 1.128k

WARNINGS: NSFW/SMUT, literally porn written down. Simon is a pervert man. Older¡Simon. Stealing panties. Cumming in your stealed panties. Dacryphilia.Kinda creepy man, ect. Not proofreaded!

NOTES: I'm just OBSESSED with Farmer¡Simon and might explore him better in a most detailed work.•́⁠ ⁠ ⁠‿⁠ ⁠,⁠•̀

RUMINATE: (v.) To think deeply about something.

Farmer¡Simon, who's renting a ranch for a good old fashioned family, who is sweet and gentle to everyone quickly as they get there.

Farmer¡Simon, who's informed that the family has a daughter, the only daughter of the couple and who's their pride. Once she got there, he could see the reason behind it.

Farmer¡Simon, with his body flaming under the sun, a lot of drops of sweat coming down from his forehead and doing a path in between his hairy chest. He can't bear the heat anymore, and grunts under his breath, pulling his shirt to the top of his head, letting it rest on his shoulders.

Farmer¡Simon, who feels a dedicated pair of fingertips touching his back on that scorching sun and turns to see a perfect young lady, asking for information and immediately making the corners of his lips turn into a smirk. The sun was not a problem, not when he has an eye drop as you are.

Farmer¡Simon, after finding out you're the new couple's daughter, is way more willing to show you around than every other person around.

Farmer¡Simon, who never thought that such an elegant lady could catch his attention so quickly. He's a mess of sweat and not elegant at the minimum of his persona, why would you even listen to him?

Farmer¡Simon, who's always bragging about being hot, but that suddenly becomes more insecure about his dad body. That's all because you're younger than him, you wouldn't want a man with a body like his.

Farmer¡Simon, that has a good pair of strong arms that carried trunks, metals and any other heavy materials you could think of.

Farmer¡Simon, who has hair all over his body, not even caring about shaving them because he thinks he's too "masculine" to do so. Nor he wants to shave them.

Farmer¡Simon, who's hair is greasy at the end of the day, after so much work he does all day at the ranch. The last thing he does is sprays his legs at the little table and reads the newspaper, eventually falling asleep on the couch that way.

Farmer¡Simon, who finds out you're staying for one month to visit your parents and is smiling from the inside out. The usually grumpy man is more receptive than he wants to admit it next to you.

Farmer¡Simon, that sees you riding on a horse from the window of his house and can't help but stop everything he's doing to watch closely. He leans his forearms on the window frame and just licks his own lips, making them moist as his eyes are glued on you, like you're his prey and he's ready to attack.

Farmer¡Simon, who's growing more and more pervert as he sees you often. The bare sight of you makes his mind run per miles and he can't really stop those thoughts.

Farmer¡Simon that can't help but be worried about the slight things he never worried about before. Like his usual masculine smell, all covered in sweat and stinking like a drunken leaving a saloon. But when he sees you, he immediately runs to a cold quick bath, even worrying more about perfume too, that he used to think it was "bullshit" if he's "going to get dirty anyways at the end of the day."

Farmer¡Simon, that is not the most clean man ever, but that will try to be unconsciously because you're the most graceful and sophisticated woman he ever saw and deep inside, wants to impress you.

Farmer¡Simon, who was once told by you, that you liked his natural scent. Since you're a clever lady, you noticed he's been using more perfume than when you met him.

Farmer¡Simon, who doesn't care about using perfumes anymore after what you said. And he's thankful for that, because he can't bear that strong scent on his nostrils.

Farmer¡Simon, that is getting bolder and bolder each moment you two share. He got a new habit that he's not proud of, but that helps him a lot.

Farmer¡Simon, who's been stealing your cute little rosy laced panties to have material to jerk off with. Visiting your parents way more to "discuss with your father", when he sneaks into your room and his hands "unconsciously" find his way to your panties drawer.

Farmer¡Simon, that in the deep pit of the night, with the company of himself and the longitude sounds of the crickets and the water of the lake closer, that is hard because of you.

Farmer¡Simon, who's hands traveled down to his crotch and without noticing, was already touching himself with your underwear on his hands.

Farmer¡Simon, who's with a problem, a big one. His hips are jerking forward as he holds your panties on his calloused hands, those same panties who's already with a white stain from his previous uses, but he can't stop himself.

Farmer¡Simon, who imagines you pinned down under him, seeing your face ruined with all that makeup you wear in tears, tears of the pleasure he would give you. He would love to see your petite body squirming on his hands, a slobbering mess, you would be so easy to mess with, it would be easy-peasy to make you reach your climax with only his fingers.

Farmer¡Simon, who keeps fucking his hands, sweating hard as ever, but this time not because of the sun or his hard work, no. It's because of you, because you're so beautiful he can't stop himself from being delusional, fantasizing about your body in every position ever created, just the way he imagines you to be in bed.

Farmer¡Simon, that's been pounding on your panties for what seems like hours, but it's only his mind. In reality, he just cums too fast with only thinking of you and fucking your tiny virgin holes on his mind.

Farmer¡Simon, that feels like a virgin college boy because of you, you turned him on the worst version of him. You messed up with his mind and turned him into that perverted huge man.

Farmer¡Simon, who's panting and biting his lower lip to hold some groans as he watches his pitiful state. His pants are lowered to his knees, he has your underwear on the palm of his fists, seeing how much he cummed on that delicate piece of cloth, already ruined.

Farmer¡Simon, that can only imagine you walking around with your laced rosy underwear on, all stained with his cum and so ready to finally take him inside you, the first man of his life. And with only that thought, he's shaking on the couch…hard again.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

I'm musing on how most riddles in folktales really do not behave like what we consider riddles today. Because they usually fall into one of these categories:

● A cryptic question referring to something that actually happened and only the asker could know the answer to. Like in the Grimms' "The Riddle", where a prince asks a princess this: "What killed none, and yet killed twelve." The answer is a particular raven, which ingested poisoned meat and was then cooked into soup, eaten by twelve robbers who immediately died from it. (This is also called a "neck riddle" because it often shows up in stories where winning the riddle contest saves the protagonist's neck.)

● A cryptic question that has a metaphorical answer, but which could technically have many correct answers, not just one. Like the riddles posed in the ballad "Riddles Wisely Expounded", one of which is "What is louder than the horn?" with the answer "Thunder is louder than the horn."

● An apparently "impossible task" instead of a question. Like in Joseph Jacobs' "The Clever Lass" in which the king orders a clever farmer's daughter to "come to him clothed, yet unclothed, neither walking, nor driving, nor riding, neither in shadow nor in sun." So she undresses and wraps herself in her long hair, attaches a net to the tail of a hose and lets herself be dragged to the castle while holding a sieve over her head to shield her from the sun. (This type of contradiction riddle even shows up in the Mabinogi.)

Of course it matters what role the riddles play in the tale. Usually it's not about the riddle at all, it's just about the protagonist proving how clever and/or witty they are. And in case of the neck riddles, the audience usually also knows the answer, because they know what happened to the protagonist earlier in the story, so the audience gets the pleasure of being smarter than the antagonist.

In the originally Persian tale "Turandot" cryptic questions with (I would say) multiple answers are mixed with something that feels more like a riddle with one "proper answer". For example: "What mother resides on earth, who swallows all her children." The answer is: "The sea, she swallows every stream and river that has ever sprung from her." But I feel like whenever I encounter a "classic" riddle with one proper answer, that usually rhymes, it's either from Greek Mythology (boy did they love a riddling verse), or it a modern riddle added in the retelling...

[fictionadventurer]

Surprise self-rec time! Pick 3 of your favorite things you’ve written and share them here, then put this in the inbox (anonymously or not) of your fellow writers to spread the positivity and help celebrate already written fics 💞

These are probably too obvious, but here's the first three that came to mind.

More Than All the Gems on Earth: The story that started my journey into short fiction, and still one of my favorites I've written. It's one of my only retellings that feels like the definitive version of the fairy tale for me. All the other retellings of "Diamonds and Toads" I've seen assume that the good sister gets stuck with a man who marries her for her jewels, and this was my chance to reclaim the story and give this abused girl the happy ending she deserves. After a couple days of brainstorming and one glorious day of writing, I was pretty happy with the story that resulted, and it's stood the test of time for me.

The True Story: A story that felt kind of like a miracle. After two years of failing to write an epistolary story for the Inklings Challenge, I decided to focus on a simpler idea for the third year--only to wind up writing a 10,000-word epistolary story in 3.5 days. My homage to 84, Charing Cross Road and the Imaginary Book Recs, this was an amazing writing experience that started a whole new chapter in my creative life. It was so much fun to just let these characters talk about Imaginary Books I loved and let the story unfold from there. It wound up going deeper than I expected--it let me explore some themes about the wider reality beyond our visible world that have long fascinated me, and I find myself thinking about the spiritual discussion in this story surprisingly often. Between the philosophical discussion, the character voices, and the format, this story gave me a new understanding of what I could do with my writing, and I'll always treasure it for that alone.

A Wise Pair of Fools: Combining my retelling genre of "fairy tale character talking about their spouse" with my interest in character voice that developed while writing "The True Story" gave me this version of "The Farmer's Clever Daughter." This was just pure fun to write--Faith just showed up and started talking about her husband, and then Alistair chimed in, and they started interacting with each other and the audience, and it was just a blast. It may be too wordy and self-indulgent, but personally, I just love what resulted.

[crazylittlejester]

I started typing and it got out of control...

I don't know if you've watched Ever After High or not, but I've been re-watching the entire show on account of not having much to do and I've come to the conclusion that an LU crossover with EAH would be absolutely awesome. The general idea is that characters from fairytales grow up and have kids that re-enact their parents' stories and this happens over and over again to the point that their entire society is built around this. Since they have a magic book that kind of seals your fate if you sign it, this is where the conflict of the show comes from.

Obviously there are a few different ways a person could go about setting this up but I'm just going to pick out fairy tale parents and backstories for them because I think that's the most fun.

Warriors: I'm thinking that he'd be best as Helen of Troy. Greek mythology is canon in EAH because of Cupid, so it works. The same themes of lust and infatuation are present. Also war.

Wild: He fits Sleeping Beauty's story the most, but that's already taken so the next best thing is Rip Van Winkle. It's only 20 years compared to 100, but I think it's the closest I'm getting for now, and the point is that he wakes up as an old man.

Sky: I think he should be the guy from the jabberwocky poem that uses the vorpal sword to defeat it. The jabberwocky is supposed to be the most powerful monster in EAH last I checked, so it would be the closest equivalent to Demise other than the Evil Queen.

Legend: Given that wizards are supposed to live a long time, Merlin would be a good fit for Legend because he'd have a few centuries to finish growing up into a mature wizard. He could still be a veteran of adventures this way without sacrificing his magical abilities.

Twilight: Unfortunately there aren't really any stories about wolves that aren't villains so he's tragically stuck being a non-descript farmer. I'm so sorry. Under other circumstances he'd get to be one the guy from "East of the Sun and West of the Moon" except that guy is a bear and not a wolf.

Wind: I'm torn between picking an infamous pirate or a story from mythology. Either one would probably work, to be honest, but it would probably work better if Tetra was a pirate's daughter and he's related to a deity in charge of ocean storms.

Hyrule: Ended up picking Jack the Giant Killer for him because that story's about surviving because you're clever, and Hyrule's games are supposed to be ridiculously hard. Also there's a magic sword involved.

Four: With the Minish he could totally fit into the story about the little elves that help the tailor/cobbler. But there's a story called "The Four Skillful Brothers" and I can't say no because it literally ends with them rescuing the princess via teamwork and splitting the reward.

Time: I feel like he'd fit in best as some kind of forest spirit or changeling, but as the Hero's Shade he could also be Godfather Death. I've been thinking about it and I really can't come up with a good placement for him.

Spirit Tracks Link gets an honorary mention because he is canon in my heart. Since New Hyrule is in the middle of the industrial revolution he's probably more of an urban legend. Either the ghost of a train conductor's kid or a guy cursed to see ghosts like his Zelda.

I know nothing about ever after high but im obsessed with what you’ve just said to me oh my god

first of all anytime someone draws the connection between Wars and Helen of Troy I loose my mind a bit, one day when I have the proper brain capacity and time I’m going to write a whole ass analysis paper on the comparison between the two of them because its so important to me

ALSO JABBERWOCKY MENTION??? I’M OBSESSED. AND JACK THE GIANT KILLER FOR HYRULE?? dude I can see you spent sooo much time thinking about this and oh my god I am so obsessed this is really cool, you ate

[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

[bookcub]

spinning silver by naomi novik is definitely my favorite rumplestilskin but a close second is the picture book that introduced me to the tale, rumplestilskin's daughter.

basically, the miller's daughter is like umm nooo i dont want to marry the king, you seem far better marriage material and they run away together and get married and have a daughter. the king finds the daughter and is like, spin me gold!!! and shes like hmmmm i cant but i think you grow it and tricks the king into giving money to all the farmers to grow successful farms, and then does the same for knitting wool into lots of clothes.

anyways it is so much fun and quite clever, love the ideology behind it, 10/10 recommend

[littleobelia]

Offspring and the Arahura, please!! And if you wanted to throw in one more, vampire??

You clever clogs! sapphically intuiting which of my wips are f/f :D

Offspring belongs to my ikea verse, and I originally started writing it for your dirty thirty fic fest (best fest ever btw) but it just ran away from me and now its more than ten thousand words long - it'll be my longest one shot i've written so far. I'm pretty close to posting it --- definitely before Harry's 31st haha

here's a snippet of it !

The Arahura : when people ask my what my hobbies are I tell them I'm writing a lesbian historical romance novel about a shearer and a farmer's daughter but I'm really just talking about this WIP hahaha

It's set in Aotearoa during WWII when due to a shortage of manpower a lot of women were recruited to work on the farms. Louis emigrated a few years ago and has been drifting around the country labouring in various industries, until she's picked up by a shearing gang. Harry emigrated with her family to the Canterbury region where they took over a sheep farm. Harry's kinda sheltered and innocent and completely obsessed with tough, worldly Louis, who quickly charms the pants off her. I spend so much time thinking about it and fantasising and researching but not actually writing because the setting is so beyond my realm of understanding! As they say, the past is a foreign country. Also Aotearoa is a foreign country so it's doubly difficult lmao

As for Vampire, it's still in very early stages and only has about a thousand words so far, but I think it's a promising concept! Vampire!Louis is Orthodontist!Harry's private after-hours patient and the subject of some of his papers on vampire dentition. To celebrate getting one of his papers published in an important journal, Harry invites Louis around to his place for dinner. Let's say that Louis makes a real meal out of it lol

again I've stalled working on this one because of some of the ideas I had for the worldbuilding demand considerable thought and research, such as the idea that vampirism is a condition acquired through a bloodborne disease and so bears the stigma that accompanies suchlike diseases in our society. where I perhaps depart from genre convention in this fic is that vampires don't hold any sort of power in this universe, instead they're marginalised, which makes the character of Louis highly complex and interesting to write and the dynamic between practioner and patient (and predator and prey) more dicey. idk, there's obviously a lot of vampire media out there and I've barely looked at any of it cause I actually don't care for the fantasy or supernatural genres, maybe this has been done before a thousand times over! but i'm gonna give it a go anyway

Thank you for asking about my wips!!! I can't wait for you to read them one day <33

[amenders93]

Ginger in Trouble!!!

Ginger had heard enough of this evil plan. She saw a hatch marked "Waste Disposal" and guided Molly towards it, but the younger chick pulled back, telling her mom that they can't go without Frizzle. Ginger was confused on who that was; Molly explained that Frizzle is her friend and that she can't just leave her behind for she promised to come back for her friend. Ginger tries to plead with her daughter that they need to leave, but Molly reminds her mother of what they just saw and that Frizzle will die if they leave her there. Our island queen starts to get mad, telling her daughter that they don't leave now, then they'll die too. Our island princess gets just as angry, telling her mother that she doesn't care about that, for that she's not leaving her friend here. Ginger finally loses her temper, telling Molly that she is just a child and that she has no idea who she's dealing with.

Unfortunately, Ginger shouted loudly when she said that. She sensed a shadow falling over her and she looked up to see her worst nightmare come true. Mrs. Tweedy had spotted her, flashbacks of everything Ginger had done to her during their dramatic escape from her old farm came flooding back to her. Ginger knew she had to protect Molly, who was hidden behind the console. Thank heavens that Mrs. Tweedy still doesn't know she exists 😮‍💨. Our island queen did the only sensible thing - she ran for her life. She tries to hide, but Mrs. Tweedy swooped down and grabbed her. The evil witch remembers Ginger as the little escape artist who ruined her old life as a chicken farmer, telling her prisoner that she won't ruin her plans again. Molly was watching this happen, getting confused on how this woman knew her mother. Mrs. Tweedy called to Dr. Fry on an intercom to come back into the lab and to bring a collar for they have an unexpected guest.

Meanwhile, up in the vents, Rocky pushes on to reach his wife and daughter to rescue them. Nick and Fetcher stagger behind him, tired and out of breath. Nick pleads with him to slow down for he's pushing them too hard. Fetcher adds that he hasn't been this tired since he took a hamster wheel for a test drive. Our island king then hears a voice he thought he recognized. He, Nick and Fetcher peer down through a grate and saw a terrible sight. Ginger was strapped to a bench - with Mrs. Tweedy towering over. Now Rocky, Nick and Fetcher know about Mrs. Tweedy - and they're scared too.

Back at the reception area in the security booth, Mac, Bunty and Babs were still looking at the CCTV screens searching for Molly. They suddenly hear an evil laugh they had remembered from years ago. They slowly look up to see Mrs. Tweedy's evil laughing face come up on all the screens one by one. Mac, Bunty and Babs scream in fright at the sight of their old nemesis, then Babs faints for the second time. Babs notices the security guard loosening his yarn bondages with Mac and Bunty looking behind them to see the guard look at them, growling. The girls then run for their lives, with the guard hopping behind them in pursuit.

Back in the lab, Mrs. Tweedy snarled at Ginger that she gave the miserable, malcontented chicken, who escaped from Tweedy's Farm and ruined her life, all a hen could want. A warm hut, all the feed she could eat, but the chicken still wasn't happy. But she's going to make her prisoner happy now. Dr. Fry snapped a collar around Ginger's neck and switched it on. Still hidden behind the console, Molly watched what was happening to Ginger, growing worried about her mother. Up in the vents, Rocky was in a panic. He had to get in there to rescue his beloved wife! Nick looked around and spotted an old fan in the vent, getting an idea. The clever rat reminded Rocky that he's the Lone-Free Ranger and how he used to get shot out of a cannon. Maybe they could use the fan to shoot Rocky into the room to save Ginger.

In the room below, Ginger was trying her hardest to resist the power of the collar. She would never give in to Mrs. Tweedy! It was a battle of wills between Woman and Hen. The pair stared at each other directly in the eyes, without blinking. Dr. Fry was amazed by this, for he had never seen a chicken so strong-willed. He doesn't know the half of it. Mrs. Tweedy told her husband through gritted teeth to turn the collar up to full power. Dr. Fry grew nervous about that request, for the collar has never been tested at that level. Mrs. Tweedy snatched the controls from Dr. Fry, screeching that she has to do everything herself. Husbands and chickens - the bane of her life! The evil woman turn the dial to the maximum, but to her surprise, Ginger still stayed strong. Our determined island queen is just as strong as ever! 👊

Up in the vents, the fan was broken so Fetcher was tasked with fixing it. Rocky was growing nervous about this. Nick assures our island king that Fetcher knows a lot about electrics - he could chew through wiring before he could walk. Fetcher announces the fan's ready, holding up two bare wires. Rocky was all limbered up, ready to fly. Fetcher touched the wires together and BLAMM! There was a flash, sending the rats flying back down the vent behind the fan. The fan ramped up to full speed. Rocky the Flying Rooster was blasted into the room like a cannonball, straight into Mrs. Tweedy, Dr. Fry and two of their guards. The power to the collar had died down as a result of this. Rocky the Flying Rooster has come back for one last performance.

Molly was watching everything from behind the console, but had no idea what happened to the humans. All she saw was what looked like a speeding missile had just knocked them to the floor. She only knew that this was her chance to rescue her mom. She quickly ran over and released Ginger. Molly tried to pull Ginger over to the Waste Disposal hatch, but Ginger halted, smiling big. Our island queen was now under the same trance as the others, saying that she loves it here and she's so happy. Molly realized it was too late - the collar had done its work! This is really not good! 😱

A dazed Rocky got up from the floor and looked up to see his daughter. Molly began to drag her mom over to the waste disposal chute, the only way out that she could see. She turned around, amazed to see her dad. Molly and Rocky were happy to see each other again. But this briefly ended when Rocky saw Mrs. Tweedy, Dr. Fry and the guards get up from the floor and see him. Our island king had to think fast. He had to get them away from Ginger and Molly. So what does he do to get their attention? He began to dance. Oh, how Rocky danced! He did the Funky Chicken, the Robot, the Moonwalk - every groovy move he knew. It was the best dad-dancing ever, especially for a rooster 🕺🏼🤣.

For a moment, everyone was transfixed by his antic. Dr. Fry was impressed. Molly was surprised. She had never seen her father acting like this. Behind her, Ginger was wandering off and dove down the chute; Molly followed after her. Once Rocky saw that his girls had escaped, he finished his dance moves and bowed. Mrs. Tweedy called her guards to seize the rooster. Rocky ran with the two guards behind him and then two more guards entered the room through the elevator. Our island kind headed for the lift and slid between the guards' legs, causing them to crash into each other. Rocky made it into the elevator, just as the doors closed. Mrs. Tweedy then noticed that Ginger was missing and smashed her fist on an alarm button. Lights flashed and a screeching alarm sounded as the evil witch screamed, "FIND THOSE CHICKENS!"

Now things just got really bad! Ginger, Rocky, Mac, Babs and Bunty know that their archnemesis is back and is worse than ever!! And on top of that, Mrs. Tweedy knows that Ginger is back and is out for revenge!!! Luckily the evil woman doesn't know that Ginger is a mother now or that Molly even exists. Let's just hope it stays that way. Can Rocky, Ginger and Molly escape before they're nuggets? And where are the others?!

Happy 1st Anniversary to Chicken Run: Dawn of the Nugget!!!!

[mairos-comet]

First a foremost I don’t hate the fandom or the game itself I’m just been convinced I couldn’t play it and enjoy it.

I have come to a conclusion that I can’t play Ikemen sengoku. I love seeing the post from the people I follow, but man I cant unsee it, or ignore the history part of it.

Now to those who follow me or see this are asking why.

I’m a huge samurai warriors girly, like Koei’s samurai warriors/dynasty warriors games.

When I see the characters all I can think of are these guys and the shifty questionable things they did in history.

I know I should look past it and enjoy the pretty men but I can’t. Just go in and see how close they follow history shit like that but I just can’t.

So here are some comparisons.

——————

Yoshimoto imagawa (you can make him look as handsome as you like I can’t unsee The Tamari playing idiot I just can’t)

Ieyasu Tokugawa (ban women from performing in theatrical arts, they were also banned from shrines and performing shrine ceremonies and could not play the bamboo flute. women samurai where restricted from traveling and he encouraged women to stick to staying at home to raise and educate children basically stay at home moms with no life)

I got nothing nice to say about him. I’m a Okuni fan she was a girl girl. she is the founding mother of Kabuki theatre and only women perform in it she would trained women in acting, dance from the red light district to give them a trade to work in, and a way out of sex work and he goes and bands women from it which never got reverse to this day. Nope don’t like him.

Hideyoshi Toyotomi (monkey. In SW he’s portrayed as pervert who couldn’t keep it in his pants, wanted to merry nobunagas sister Oichi, helped defeat and kill Oichis husband after a coo. married nobunaga niece (oichi daughter) as his second wife instead because oichi was like nope not today monkey and then her daughter was adopted by Nene Hideyoshi first wife which is just what the heck and ick)

I’ll give him this he started out as a poor farmers son and because Nobunaga habit of picking up and putting faith in the underdogs of society he rose up the ranks pretty fast even avenged his lords death by Mitsuhide.

There is also Kenshin and shingen who are portrayed as two old men fighting eachother all the time. Also Kenshin might of had a weird relationship with his sister. Or his sister might of had a weird relationship with him.

nobunaga was clever man though brutal. killed a bunch of iga ninja villages. Was a big fan of guns and he played everyone for fools pretty much all the time. but also had women samurai and people of other countries in his army so he didn’t discriminate.

Mistunari ishida. It’s a shame he didn’t win against Ieyasu.

Date was a badass in every interpretation I’ve seen

Yukimaru is yukimaru? He’s okay. He was the poster boy for samurai warriors for so long.

Ranmaru is nobunaga “squire” and bottom nothing more and nothing else.

Now if they put Kotaro Fuma or Keiji Maeda in the game… I’ll look past it all and try to play it. Haha

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Beneath the Surface

Requesting qpr Merlin, Gwen, Morgana, Arthur :) – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none!

Pairings: qpr gwen/morgana/merlin/arthur

Word Count: 3541

When most look at the King and Queen of Camelot, they see Arthur and Guinevere Pendragon, the beloved royals that have somehow managed to defy the odds. The nobles love them, the common people love them, and they embody the notion that they are just as much their people's servants as the people are theirs. Court has become far less the place of awestruck fear and iron will, morphing into a sanctuary of sorts where ills can be shared and conversations made. No more do the folk tremble at the thought of being summoned, no more do guard patrols storm through the lower town. Instead, the streets are filled with the merry sounds of everyday life, of market stalls and children playing and fat men watching from their windows as the oldest folk enjoy a walk with their grandchildren. Camelot's center thrives amidst the bounty of the harvest and not a mouth goes hungry as ale flows like rivers from table to table.

In short, they would see a King and Queen of a happy kingdom, and not think to wonder more.

Some would look a tad further, of course, as eyes are wont to wander, and see instead the Court Sorcerers. A pair of them, one that represents the Old Religion, and one that represents something closer to Magic itself. Morgana Pendragon, sister to Arthur Pendragon, the last High Priestess of the Old Religion. Born amidst secrecy and deception, she now uses her considerable talents both magical and nonmagical to offer a voice for those who would remain voiceless. Do not be fooled by her fine dresses and gleaming jewels; the majority of her finery is bestowed as gifts, from budding young sorcerers who wish to study at her side to the grateful tradesmen who can once more practice their religion without fear of persecution. Rumored for her sharp gaze and sharper tongue, her kind heart persists despite the late King's legacy of terror, a testament to her strength on its own. And the other, Merlin Emrys, the Last of the Dragonlords and the Greatest Sorcerer to Ever Walk the Earth. As with Morgana, you must not be fooled by his plain tunics and neckerchiefs—he has no need for fineries when his worth lies so far beyond what power they could hope to symbolize. Those who study magic speak of him with a hushed awe, the likes of which could be ascribed to a deity. He is Magic, they say, he is the very thing that weaves in and throughout the world itself, the way it is in and around us, always and forever. He needs scarcely a gesture or a word to perform incredible feats, and barely a smile or a laugh to improve even the most dour of situations.

You will see them at the feasts, at the table they sit at not out of pride, but out of ease—so that they may be found at a moment's notice. King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, Merlin to their left, Morgana to their right.

And that is as far as most deign to look, for why would they seek to know more if this is what they have?

What they will not necessarily see is this:

Merlin and Guinevere enjoy spending time in the castle's gardens. Walking amidst the carefully-tended blooms and cultivated bushes, they spend hours roaming and talking about everything, nothing, and absolutely something. The knights who have just finished their training, the farmer whose daughter has just been born, the clever lass at the tavern who's just gotten engaged. Merlin will pick a flower and make it so it would never wilt, weaving their stems deftly to create a flower crown to place upon his Queen's head. Gwen will laugh, saying that she cannot possibly be the only one adorned, and will do the same. They will both shed petals and stories alike as they wander through the gardens,

And perhaps, they will reminisce as to what it was like before.

Gwen still has calluses on her hands from where she used to work in her father's forge, and later in the castle as a servant for the then Lady Morgana and Prince Arthur. She rubs at one of them now, on the curve of her palm where it meets her fingers, thinking of the ropes and the brushes she used to use to draw the water to wash the floors.

"Do you ever miss it?"

Merlin plucks a stray piece of stem from her curls. "Miss what?"

"Being a servant."

He huffs. "You think Arthur's let me stop being his manservant just because I'm Court Sorcerer now?"

She shoves him lightly and they both laugh. "I'm serious. It was—it wasn't fun, per se, but it was…simpler."

He quiets, then, idly tucking stems into place on his own crown. "I don't know about that. I mean—I definitely wasn't worried about everything the way I am now, but it was…it wasn't like I wasn't doing all the things I'm currently doing."

"Ah, yes," she says, a tinge of sorrow entering her voice, "I'd forgotten."

For Merlin had been doing his duties longer than most, under the nose of the tyrant Uther Pendragon, trying to cobble the magic of Albion back together as one man, alone. She tucks her arm through his, looping their elbows together.

"I get what you mean, though," he remarks as they go, "it definitely wasn't like this. Now I actually have to bother to learn some of the courtly procedures that Arthur always went on about."

"I mean, you don't have to."

"No, I'm pretty sure I do."

"Well, I'm the Queen," she says in her artificially haughty voice, "and I say you don't have to."

"Oh, well, if that's the case, then by all means, order me to not learn anything."

"I order you to be yourself, first and foremost, and that means that if you don't want to learn any of the nonsense that we supposedly 'have' to do, then you shan't."

Arthur and Morgana train with the knights. It was a common sight when the two were younger—or rather, when it was declared time for Arthur to begin to know how to use a sword and Morgana threatened to run anyone through who said she couldn't join—and now that it has returned, years later and hearts lighter, there are a few old knights who shed a tear in private. The knights too, have never been more certain of their rulers, not when they can knock their King on his arse and he'll laugh and congratulate them for it, not when Morgana Pendragon can take on three of the newly-minted squires and offer individual corrections for each as she fends off the other two. The Knights of the Round Table, the inner circle to the King, they too have grown and prospered under the Golden Age of Albion.

Percival, the one who only came to Camelot under the invitation of a friend, now a trusted member of a group so closely-knit they are brothers in all but name.

Elyan, the son of a blacksmith who earned his way to the pinnacle of Camelot's knights on his own merit, who now trades smiles with his sister, the Queen, as though they were born for this.

Gwaine, the noble who swore off his nobility, now accepting it back for people who would bestow him their own loyalty to show they are worthy of his.

Lancelot, the man who was never meant to be a knight of Camelot, who now is what most would consider the embodiment of chivalry, of honor, and of the innate goodness that was once thought to only exist in stories.

And Leon, the last of the old knights and the first to stand behind his brothers and sisters and proclaim that yes, this is what a knight should be.

It has become a spectacle, to watch the seven of them train. A tournament not meant for honor or coin, but for fun and comradery. The knights face off against each other, each in a bracket until the last two are left standing. Sometimes it is Gwaine and Leon, the two that are perhaps the farthest apart in their courtliness, who nonetheless trade blows as though they were still children. Sometimes it is Lancelot and Percival, who were friends before this and so fight in a dialogue all their own. And sometimes it is the Pendragon siblings themselves, who were pitted against each other by their childhoods, their father, the world, and who now spar together because they could not be separated, not when they have worked so hard to forge their relationship into something far, far stronger than steel.

You cheated, Arthur will say with a grin when Morgana knocks him prone.

Please, she laughs back as she pulls him to his feet, you're just not as good as you think you are.

It is a privilege, the knights and squires say alike, to have such people to train amongst, to serve amongst, to be amongst.

Merlin and Morgana go on long horse rides that wind through the forests and the fields. Their horses know them well enough by now that they could be approaching in the dead of night in bare feet, with nary a piece of tack to be seen, and they could ride as well as any horseman. For the convenience of the stable hands and the ease for their loved ones, however, they refrain from such daring nighttime exploits and ride during the daylight, tack and all. This is not the frenzied pace of an excited child, running at full gallop to see what it feels like to fly, nor is it the stately walk of the mounted patrols that see to the security at the borders of Camelot. No, this is the leisurely walk of two people who share a bond that most couldn't hope to aspire to, not when their magic has woven itself so finely that the fabric of it could be cut with a sword and refuse to fray.

Sometimes it is just in the pursuit of fresh air. The castle's walls can only be so flexible, after all, and the need to get out and just be grows to be an unbearable itch under the skin. And so they saddle up and ride through the hills until the sweet smell of blooming flowers and fresh dew washes away the musk of stone and long-dead wood. They bring a picnic with them and settle under the massive trees, enjoying the natural blankets of sunlight and not-quiet as the woods bustle around them.

Sometimes it is for a visit to the Druids. After many years of penance and forgiveness alike, the two of them are a welcome sight amidst their settlements. Children run and frolic about their horses, asking to see their magic, will they tell a story, can they stay for dinner? Merlin smiles and twists golden sparks amidst the leaves to create horses, dragons, beasts without names. Morgana will create dazzling patterns in their campfires and coax the warmth back to those whose bones can no longer hold it so easily. The elders will bow their heads and they will bow theirs in turn, speaking softly and with great import of what else the kingdom can do, what more they could need, how else they can help the people recover from their years of abuse at the hands of those who came before them.

Be here, they receive in turn, return the magic to the lands.

And so they shall.

Sometimes they ride to do just that—to practice their magic among themselves, where they can mess about as though they were children without fear of damaging anything but a few blades of grass. They will playfully hurl spells at each other, trading jinxes and hexes until the sun sets and their grins gleam in the moonlight.

And if they have to shed their tears over the fear, the pain, the ache that it was to have magic when such a thing could get you killed, well, the trees will keep their secrets.

Arthur and Guinevere rule. Perhaps on its own, that does not sound as though that is something that could be considered anything but a duty, but it necessitates spending hours upon hours alone, with only each other's counsel, and conversations that must spread so deep it's a wonder they can emerge again. The two of them could not be more different: the Crown Prince, raised from birth on a slowly rising pedestal with ruling a certainty, if not an inevitability, and a common woman whose highest hope was to one day serve as a maid to a Lady of the castle. Instead, here they sit as equals, each coloring the issues they tackle with their own views and experiences.

It can be a strange thing, to learn something so fundamental about somebody as you are in the middle of an intense conversation. More often than not, statecraft is paused as they discover that Gwen never knew that there could be more than one type of patrol, or Arthur has learned that sewing and embroidery are two different trades whose needs must be met accordingly. Or Arthur has revealed something that never made it past the private doors of the late King, or Gwen has revealed that no, not everyone in the castle understands that a person is a person, regardless of station or title. Conversations such as that end in private words and the softer side of sharing a kingdom, when the doors are closed to any and all who would disturb and they sit on the floor in front of the fireplace, their heads together with soft and murmuring words.

"It's cold tonight," Arthur says softly, reaching for a blanket slung over a nearby chair, "here…"

Gwen hums sleepily as he drapes it over her shoulders, adjusting it so it covers the worst of the chill. "What about you?"

"I've got the fire, I'll be alright."

She frowns, scooting forward instead so she can wrap part of the blanket around him with her arms. "There, is that better?"

He chuckles. "If you wanted a cuddle, my dear, all you had to do was ask."

"Would you give me a cuddle by the fire, then?"

He ducks to press a chaste kiss to her temple. "It would be my honor and my privilege, my Queen."

She laughs into the crook of his shoulder as he carefully frees the blanket from where it has become trapped between them, tucking it over both of their shoulders until they can both be wrapped in its warmth. He sets his chin upon the crown of her head and lets out a sigh. She echoes it, leaning against the strong line of his chest, gazing into the dancing flames.

It is a wonderful thing to be able to rule with someone else, and a greater wonder still to be able to take your crowns off together.

Gwen and Morgana walk through the town. It is their duty to be informed of the goings on, even more so when the market season comes and the traders and sellers travel great distances just to sell to those in Camelot's center. They greet the ones that they know, welcome the ones they don't, and spend their day amongst their people, talking and laughing and learning and sharing. This one's had their trade route intercepted by a flood destroying part of the road, better get on one of the patrols to find a solution. This one's village has become ransacked by bandits, the knights would do well to go and sort them out. This one's just learned a fantastic new dye that yields the most stunning color, does she have enough to satisfy the new demands? This one's apprentice has just begun to make and sell his own wares, best to spend some of the castle's coin on such a worthy venture.

Coin is meant to be spent, after all; it does no one any good to sit in massive vaults and accumulate, it must go to fixing the roads, to tending the fields, and to the skilled people that make the things that we all need to live our everyday lives. It must go to the bakers, when they make little sugar pastries that melt in your mouth. It must go to the potter, who fashions both the jugs and pots that store the basic necessities and the gorgeous works of art that are as admired as they are coveted. It must go to the blacksmith, who forges things that could save your life as much as they do enhance it, be it armor or silverware or a new bit for the horse's bridle. And, of course, it must go to the jeweler, the tailor, the apothecary, the—

"Alright," Gwen laughs as Morgana keeps pointing out different places, "you've made your point, we can go spend some more coin."

"Thank you, My Queen," Morgana lilts, sweeping into a curtsey that would make any noble envious, "for your generosity."

"Oh, stop."

"But My Queen—"

"Morgana!"

And Morgana laughs, sweeping Gwen's arm into hers as they walk down the street. "You make it so easy, my darling, I can't help it."

"Is this payback for all the times I would treat you—"

"Like a Queen?"

"Like a lady should be treated by her maid," Gwen retorts, and Morgana only laughs again, "oh, if I'd have known you'd be like this—"

"You'd never refuse Market Day, don't try to lie."

"I wasn't!"

"Of course you weren't, My Queen."

And if Gwen mutters some decidedly un-queenly things under her breath as they go, Morgana's peal of laughter can only be ascribed to how much she enjoys spending the day with not only her Queen, but her dear Gwen as well.

Arthur and Merlin…well.

If certain old dragons are to be believed, they are two sides of the same coin. Two halves of a story, two halves of a single soul, the story varies from telling to retelling. Of course, none would say this to their faces—sparing a few of the eldest druids and aforementioned old dragon—but the sentiment is the same. The two of them simply fit together.

Does that mean they are without their issues? Heavens no.

"Merlin!"

"You bellowed, sire?"

"Where is my belt?"

Merlin sighs, glancing at the belt hanging on its hook, where it always is, where he saw Arthur put it not two seconds ago, and sighs again. "I don't know, sire, why don't you think about it?"

"What the bloody hell does that mean, 'think about it?'"

"Well, thinking is commonly used to refer to using your brain—"

"Merlin."

"—which is this thing between your ears inside of your head that does this thing called understanding—"

"Merlin!"

"—and then what you do is you use your brain to think, which is this big fancy word for knowing things and understanding how those things affect the world around you—" He raises his hand to stop a flying boot. "See, now, that seems counterproductive."

"I'll show you counterproductive!"

Merlin squawks in surprise as Arthur lunges across the room to wrap him up in his arms, hefting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and throwing him onto the bed. Merlin bounces, laughing breathlessly, as Arthur puts him in a gentle headlock and scruffs his knuckles over his head.

"Ow! Ow!"

"What was all that about using the thing between your ears? Is that in here? Maybe if I do this hard enough, I'll find the thing you keep professing to use."

"Arthur!" Merlin waves his hand and a pillow flies up and smacks Arthur in the face. "Let me go!"

"I haven't found this thing you're talking about yet!" Merlin succeeds in somewhat squirming away and Arthur just goes after him, wrapping him up in his arms again and pinning him to the bedspread. "You would deny your King such knowledge?"

"I would deny a prat the right to shove me around like a—hey!"

For Arthur had picked up the pillow and smacked Merlin's face lightly. "What was that?"

"Oh, you're in for it now—"

Feathers and dust alike fly across the room as the two swat each other with their brandished pillows, trading insults and laughs as they wrestle on the bed. Merlin manages to get the sheet wrapped around Arthur's main throwing arm but Arthur nearly shoves him off the bed in retaliation, Arthur gets his arms around Merlin again but Merlin throws another pillow to knock him just off balance enough to get away.

By the time Arthur does manage to get Merlin pinned again, the chambers are an absolute mess and his belt has been flung across the room to land on his desk with a loud clunk.

"Ah. There's my belt."

"It was on its hook the whole time."

"What? No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it—hey!"

Yes, the kingdom is in good hands. Those hands might not always be just for the kingdom, however, for they each have each other to hold onto as well.

[ginabiggs]

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Twenty-six complete fairy tales in all!

Maid Maleen

The Farmer’s Clever Daughter

A Tale with a Riddle

Maid Maleen

The Bird, the Mouse, & the Sausage

All Fur

The Little Shroud

The Old Man & his Grandson

The Sweet Porridge

Brother & Sister

Iron Hans

Snow White & Rose Red

Death of the Little Hen

Doctor Know-It-All

The Worn-out Dancing Shoes

The Singing Springing Lark

King Thrushbeard

The Wolf & the Man

The Twelve Huntsmen

Sweetheart Roland

The Ungrateful Son

The Leftovers

The Wolf & Seven Kids

Mother Holle

The Golden Key

[all-souls-matinee]

Quick-bite reviews: The Messengers (2007) dir. Danny and Oxide Pang

The Solomon family- overconfident dad, shrewish mom, troubled teen daughter, and goodboy baby son- move from Chicago to rural North Dakota for a fresh start in a rundown farmhouse.

No one sets out to make the world's most generic haunted house movie, so this sets itself apart with a focus on kids as the protagonists and a big twist at the end. Neither is very successful. Kind of fascinating to see a post-Zathura pre-Twilight Kristen Stewart (I wonder if this performance influenced that casting decision), but I don't think kids should be actors, and predicating so much on goodboy baby son- a literal toddler- is never a good move. The twist is seen coming a mile off, and while not uninteresting does nothing to subvert, or even comment on, the family values these movies are always so eager to impart (was actually cracking up when 'boy character the daughter's age' is brought into the fold with... underpaid farm labor?) Filming-wise, the excessive CG is dated, conversations are treated to lots of nauseating camera tricks and then end abruptly, or it suffers in the opposite direction by holding on silent reactions for minutes at a time. I, who like Tarkovsky movies, tired of seeing worried-looking eyebrow from nine different angles. That's a lot of words to say this thing sucks, so let me qualify that it's not uniquely awful or anything; by the goalposts its contemporaries were setting it's downright 'fine.' I like the specificity of being set on a sunflower farm (did not know it only takes sunflowers three months to grow- clever timeframe!), I like that there are actually reasonable explanations behind people's actions, and I even like that there are some unique moves being made with the scares (crows, sludge!!!), it's just that at the end of the day it's all in service of jumpscaring 00s teens, and it shows.

Buy a ticket? I usually watch movies all in one sitting but I turned this off for like four days because the dad flirted by saying "I've been reading the farmer-sutra."

[fictionadventurer]

Fairy tale asks: 12, 14, 15, 19, 20

12. Fairy tale retelling you wish more people would read

Exile by Loren G. Warnemunde is a Christian fantasy retelling of "Maid Maleen" that makes some excellent choices in adapting the fairy tale and has some pretty cool worldbuilding. The allegory's a touch too overt, and the beginning where Maleen refuses multiple excellent opportunities to avoid going in the tower is frustrating, but the stuff inside the tower is cool enough to make up for it. Unfortunately, it's book one of a trilogy, so I can't say how well it does with the rest of the fairy tale.

It's by an obscure small press, and the Kindle edition has significant formatting errors, so the best bet is buying a new paperback copy, which makes the series more difficult to obtain. But I wish it was easier for other (and me) to get their hands on the full story.

14. A retelling that twists the plot of the fairy tale

So This Is Love by Elizabeth Lim imagines what could happen if her stepmother kept her from trying the slipper on, and Cinderella left home to find work in the palace instead. It's supposed to be a retelling of the Disney movie, but everything's out of sync enough with the plot and characters there that it works better as a retelling of the fairy tale, and it works pretty well. It imagines that "Cinderella" is the backstory to a "Cap-O-Rushes" type of this fairy tale, which is a cool twist, and there's a lot of fun political intrigue and some solid side characters.

15. A retelling that changes the genre/setting of the fairy tale

"A Cinder's Tale" by Stephanie Ricker in the Five Glass Slippers anthology is my favorite sci-fi "Cinderella", and was such a huge inspiration for my own sci-fi fairy tales that I have to mention it here.

19. A fairy tale you'd like to retell

How about I list some fairy tales on my current retellings ideas list? (Several of these are active drafts).

East of the Sun West of the Moon

Thumbelina

Tattercoats

The Goose Girl

Jorinda and Joringel

Princess and the Pea

Cinderella

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

The Farmer's Clever Daughter

20. Talk about any retelling you want

The Beggar Prince by Kate Stradling was the rare Stradling I liked before rereading it. It gives us a Thrushbeard and princess who fall into this marriage situation, and a Thrushbeard who makes some significant mistakes (while making his actions entirely understandable). It also has a great explanation for several of the princess's behaviors throughout the fairy tale (such as her refusal to marry any of the men). Yet even though I like this and Maid and Minstrel, I still find myself wanting another "King Thrushbeard" retelling from her, because she always seems to assume that the princess is an innocent who's forced into this marriage market against her will, and I'd like to see a take where she acknowledges that the princess could have flaws that spark the need for a character arc.