Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
Meanwhile, the young shepherd up the lane was in over his head with his duties. He had lambs to sell ahead of the holidays—at least, the farmer on the hill did, though he carried out the arrangements—and ewes to breed. He also had the painstaking and painful job of trimming the flock’s hooves. The wet autumn weather threatened to inflict hoof rot if not for his careful maintenance. When he was a boy, he would help by flipping the sheep and holding them down while his father trimmed and examined each hoof. Now, both responsibilities fell on him. It was exhausting, and despite his best efforts, his prize ewe’s feet grew infected.
It is a labor of love, the shepherd repeated to himself, cradling the turtled sheep between his legs. It bleated and thrashed as the cold shears came in contact with its hoof.
The weather went from bad to worse. The nights were bitterly cold, and the days were dark and damp. Each morning, ice crystals coated the pastures. The harvest season came to an unsatisfactory close. The young woman found herself staring out the window for long hours, watching raindrops pool on the sash. When the skies were a light gray, she would wrap a quilt around her shoulders and venture outside. Some afternoons, she wandered through pale green pastures, weaving in and out of clusters of sheep until she found a tree trunk to rest her back against. From her perch in the hills, she could observe the village bustling beneath her. She tried to guess who was walking down the street based on the splotches of color peeking under people’s coats and hats, and she liked to imagine what they were buying or who they were calling on and why.
Other times, her feet took her up the lane, past the little cottage with its mismatched shingles, to the farm on the hill where she watched the shepherd working away. She often found him bare-headed, a knee resting against a sheep’s sternum, bent intently over a hoof. He wouldn’t notice her arrival unless she made noise, but then he’d put on his hat and meet her at the fence—a welcome break from work. If they talked, it would be about the price of crops or the weather or one of the sheep. Mostly, they stood in soft silence.
During these days, the young man could not always escape from his work to leave a bundle of love on her doorstep. When he missed a day, he left twice as many orbs the next time, but when she came to visit, he would deliver them straight from his chest. She accepted them without comment and placed all but one—which she kept to warm her hands—in the linen sack she brought along.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
The young lady did not follow through with selling everything, but she did sell all that was in the granary in preparation for harvest. It was a good thing, too, because no sooner had the apple trees been picked bare than an autumn squall ripped through the area. It battered the walls of the little cottage on the north end of the lane, ripping off shingles and rattling the windowpane. The young man moved his bed against the cottage door and hid in the corner with his arms around his dog until the storm passed. At the south end of the lane, the gusts tore out fence lines and flattened the vegetable patch. The rose hedge, blessedly, remained intact. However, field upon field was decimated. The harvest, forecasted to be plentiful, would be very poor, and the family needed the extra money more than ever.
Nothing brings a village together quite like a shared disaster. The following days were filled with a flurry of activity—repairing roofs, mending fence rows, replacing windowpanes, and hauling off broken limbs to be burned. In times like this, the constraints of class momentarily lift, so the young man and woman worked side by side. When he climbed onto his roof with a hammer and nails, she was there to hold the ladder and pass up shingles. When she raked over her dead garden, he was there with a wheelbarrow to cart the compost away. Neither one said much to the other (not that they had before), but it was a small comfort to share in one’s trials.
Sometimes, when the sun cast an orange glow over the pastures, they would pause in their work and gaze into the great beyond, both floating elsewhere into a different time. Then the younger sister would call for supper, and the dusky spell would melt away. He would tip his hat and bid her adieu. She would watch him wander back to the pastures to gather his flock, and she’d wait until he was but a distant speck before turning to the house, one hand tucked in a glowing apron pocket.
Though the harvest was poor, there was no rest for the weary. The young woman, her brother, and her father spent long days threshing in the fields. Her hands grew red and calloused from the repetitive labor. Either the sun burned her neck, or the drizzle—ever a nuisance since the squall—soaked her to the bone. Her brief moments of rest were spent hunting for the last of the wildflowers to hang in the cellar, her own having been crushed. She liked to take dried flowers to the cemetery during the cold months; hardy, weedy blooms were better than nothing.
Her brother, on the other hand, used his spare time in the evenings to visit the pub. Shortly after the storm, his suitor decided it was in her best interests to part ways. The demolition of his livelihood was one thing, but the loss of his future happiness—the light at the end of his tunnel—was another. He would never admit it, but he liked the girl, almost as much as her money. Now he drowned his sorrows till the wee hours of the morning, returned home in a clumsy stupor, and could hardly be trusted to work the next day. His father berated him for his negligence on more than one occasion, to no effect.
The final straw, though, was when he broke the butcher’s window coming home one night. The butcher, a burly, middle-aged gentleman with a short fuse, barreled out the front door and into the brother—fists first. The brother put up a good fight but ultimately found himself lying face-down in a puddle. He crawled back to the cottage, where his sister pieced him back together.
“You are a wretch,” she told him. “A miserable wretch.” She dabbed at a cut on his face, none too gently. “I have half the mind to wake Father and let him finish the job.”
Instead, she took one of the glowing balls from her knitting basket. She stretched and pulled at it until it was as thin as a sheet and as wide as her arms could reach, and she draped it around her brother’s shoulders. Then, as he slept, cocooned in the heated blanket, she pinched a strand of love from another orb, winding it round and round her finger until she had a bobbin’s worth. With it, she closed up the rip in his sleeve and the new hole in his trousers.
In the morning, the brother found his clothes folded neatly beside him. The seams glowed.
He was in no shape to return to the field, and his sister stayed behind to look after him. She reached into her purse for the money from the last load of love she sold and instructed her brother to pay for the butcher’s window.
Her brother withered. “Don’t make me go back.”
“I am not your mother, so I cannot make you do anything,” the young woman said. “But as your sister, I would love you all the more if you set aside this bravado and cleaned up your own mess.”
“That brute will thrash me again.”
“And you will turn the other cheek,” she replied relentlessly.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he made it back home. He met his sister on the front step, sullen but resolute, and the money was gone.
“I’ve done it,” her brother said, and a breath later—“I’m sorry.”
The young woman’s heart, true to her word, glimmered.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
The end of summer heralded in a new school year. The youngest child at the south cottage resumed her daily trek into town to the schoolhouse. She was at that age when one is caught betwixt adolescence and adulthood, making one feel akin to a half-fledged chick. This young girl felt about as pretty as a fledgling, too. She had suddenly become aware of the pretty frocks her classmates wore, the unscuffed boots laced in neat little bows below their skirts. She was also acutely aware of her own gently-worn dresses, made by her deceased mother ages ago, worn by her sister nearly as long ago, and passed on to her. It was a relic of times past—10 years is a lifetime for a child, mind you—and it was embarrassing.
The young woman had every intention of altering the dress to suit her sister’s desires, but when the little girl came home from school one day and expressed her ingratitude for the clothes on her back, the young woman changed her mind.
“With a temper like that, you’re lucky you have any clothes at all,” the young woman had said hotly, wholly out of her league. She was not prepared to raise this child in her mother’s stead. “Mama made a perfectly good dress for you to wear. If Father were here…”
“If Father were here, I’d tell him Peg Daniels, who lives over the pub, has a newer dress than I do, and she never even had a mother!” her sister replied.
The young woman admitted defeat.
The next week, it was more of the same. The girl discovered her older sister had three new dresses hanging in the dresser, all bought during the spring courtship—one for church, one for going out, and one for dancing. They were in the latest style and of the finest fabric. Their father had spared no expense. However, the young woman hadn’t worn any of them since her not-so-rich lover’s departure. They were not practical for baking meat pies or digging in the garden. Nonetheless, the younger sister took this as a personal affront.
“How come you get silks and satins when all I get is this horrid wincey?” The girls were preparing supper together, but with all the knocking about, the girl was a greater hindrance than help. “I’m always the one neglected in this family—you with your fine dresses and stringing along men, our brother going to town every night to woo his lady, and our father going to the pub till who-knows-how-late. But here I am in my wincey, no one paying me any mind—”
“Count your blessings, dear,” said her sister. “What I would give to go unnoticed.”
“What, indeed.” The girl narrowed her eyes. “You are a great curmudgeon, and I think it’s no wonder you can’t find a husband when you’re the meanest sister—”
Her speech was cut short by a ball of love wedged between her teeth, like an apple in a roast hog. A jar full of orbs sat conveniently on the kitchen shelf, and it was the first thing within reach. The younger sister, caught by surprise, bit down and swallowed a chunk. She held quite still as it slipped down her throat and into her stomach like hot bread.
Oh, dear, the young woman thought, I am not sure love is edible, but the sister returned to trimming beans without another word.
In the evening, the young woman sorted through her wardrobe and found one of her older dresses, a lovely hazel pattern that stood out nicely against her tanned skin, which no longer fit her. She presented it to her sister.
“It is a few seasons old,” she conceded, “but it’s made from good material, and Mama always loved its color.”
Her sister held the dress up against her frame. The skirt hem dragged on the ground. “You are too kind, sister,” she said. “I remember it looking so lovely on you. I can only hope it looks equally nice on me.”
The young woman blinked in surprise. Well, this wasn’t the reaction she was expecting! Where was the disgust at handed-down clothing? Why didn’t she point out the frayed hem? But if her sister noticed the hem, she said nothing of it. Instead, she set to work shortening the skirt and dreaming about which ribbon for her hair would match best.
The girl loved that dress more than anyone could anticipate. She wore it to school, feeling very grown up compared to her peers, and even on weekends around the farm. The young woman worried her sister would wear out the dress before spring, but she was secretly pleased. She knew their mother would appreciate her little girl using the skirt to catch falling apples or to carry eggs inside.
The sisters spent many afternoons plucking ripe red apples from the orchard behind the house and hauling them to the grocer to sell. There were too many for the family alone to eat, despite the copious quantities of apple butter and applesauce they canned. The only issue was that the young woman had used the bushel baskets to store love in the cellar, but now she needed them to carry apples to town.
“My father will knock me senseless if I fill up the house with any more love,” she said, weighing the scales, “but the grocer only pays in bushels.”
The winter was forecasted to be a harsh one, and the family needed all the money they could get. So, she began the long process of dumping love onto the kitchen floor and filling the bushel baskets back up with apples. However, somewhere along the way, she lost track of which was which—apples and love look so similar in dusk’s dim light—and she mixed them all up. She did not realize her mistake until she took a bite of what she thought was an apple and instead felt a warm softness trickle down her throat.
“Oh, dear,” she muttered. “I will have to sort them out all over again. Unless…” The love did taste sweet, and it left a warm feeling in her stomach similar to a hot bite of cobbler. “If the grocer tasted the love, maybe he would take an assorted basket.”
She threw the remaining assortment of red balls into the baskets and hauled them into town the next day for the grocer to appraise. The grocer, however, refused the load on sight.
“If my customers come in here for apples,” said the grocer, “and I hand them this… this love, you say? Well, they’d never let me hear the end of it. I guarantee my customers’ satisfaction.”
“But, sir,” said she, “they taste so similar. No one will mind. In fact, I believe they taste better than apples. Here, do try one.”
She pulled love from the basket, shone it on her skirt, and offered it to the grocer. He flinched away when the heat touched his palm, but his curiosity got the best of him. He held it up to his nose to sniff, then carefully examined the skin.
“You are right,” he said. “It does closely resemble an apple.”
“Taste it,” she insisted.
He did, and she watched as the love hit his tongue with its sugary goodness, and elation crossed his features. He held it in his mouth for a moment, just savoring.
“I’ll take all the bushels you can bring me,” the grocer said as he took another bite. He reached into his register and pulled out a handful of uncreased bills. “Here, it is double what I’d give for the regular apples. If I set up taste-testing at the counter, this love—that is what you call it?—will fly off the shelf.”
She assured the grocer she would bring in as many bushels of love as she could afford. Of course, she had more than enough love stored away to feed her family for weeks, but she wouldn’t admit that. After all, man cannot live on love alone.
The sun rose once again, and with it came more love, hand-delivered by the shepherd. That morning, she was in her kitchen, wondering how many cobblers she could make with six orbs and four apples. Her ingredients were spread across the wooden dining table, and her arms were already elbow-deep in flour. When she heard the knock on the door, she scrambled to wipe off her hands enough to throw the latch.
As love fell from the young man’s heart into his waiting hands, he said, “I noticed the general store is selling love at the counter. Is that mine?”
Heat bloomed on her face. “Yes…” Her eyes flickered to the fresh, rosy ball he held out to her. “I didn’t mean anything by it, really. I had some I could spare, and I did not intend to sell them. I confused them with the—And the grocer was so pleased, and, well—” She grabbed the love and shoved it in her apron pocket with a groan, dragging her eyes back to the young man’s face. “I am sorry.”
The young man shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I gave it to you, so it is yours to do what you wish. As you said, there is plenty to go around.” As if to prove his point, he reached into his heart and pulled out another. He smiled impishly. “For the grocer, sent with my love.”
She snatched the love out of his hands and closed the door in his face.
Her conscience had not bothered her until he appeared on her doorstep. Seeing him face-to-face made her regret selling his gifts, yet he did not care! Well, then! I’ll sell the whole bunch just to show him, she thought. Maybe he’ll finally stop this nonsense, and I’ll get my shelf space back.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
The young man’s gifts did not go unnoticed, despite her attempts to keep his love away from prying eyes. As her family sat down for breakfast, her father glanced out the window facing the lane.
“Are we to expect a visitor again this morning?” he asked her.
“Sir?”
“I noticed that boy who works for Old Man Simmons has been stopping by for a chat every morning. What is it he wants?”
“Nothing, sir,” she replied honestly. “I have given him flowers for his mother’s grave—you know this—and he wished to pay me back. That is all.”
That was not all, as she well knew, but that was neither here nor there.
“I hope your… generosity does not give him the wrong idea,” her father said. “I have seen that hovel he lives in. ’Tisn’t fit for a dog.”
“Sir?” She thought of the sheepdog, who looked quite happy living under its roof.
“God knows he can hardly afford a new shirt. No, if he thinks he can court my daughter, I will give him a piece of my mind.
“Father!” Her gaze, normally lowered in her father’s presence, turned full force in his direction.
He glared right back. (It is from him that she inherited such a look, after all.) “And don’t you get any ideas in that head of yours. You already look like a fool after that gold-tooth dandy nearly cheated you out of house and home. At least he tried to act the part.”
She slammed a bread loaf pan on the table and stormed out the side door into the garden. She was unsure why she was mad, particularly on the young man’s behalf. Father hasn’t been himself, not since Mama died, she reminded herself, though it did not comfort her. She looked up to see the flock of sheep ambling down the lane, the sheepdog on their heels, the young man close behind. When she met him at the hedge, he already had an orb in his palm. She could feel her father’s eyes on her as she shoved it in her apron pocket.
“Thank you,” she said primly, “but my father would rather you did not come around so often. It gives the wrong impression, you see.”
The young man smiled faintly. “Ah. Next time, I will drop it off here under the hedge, where you left the bluebells. Good day, miss.”
That night, she made up her mind to pick a handful of roses. They were beginning to bloom, and she liked to take the first blossoms to the graveyard. She nearly clipped flowers for the young man’s mother as well, but her father’s words stayed her hand. Then she dreaded meeting him on the lane or at the gravestones; blessedly, the roads were empty and the churchyard silent. When she left, her conscience got the better of her, and she took two stems from her mother’s grave and placed them against the small headstone of the couple buried nearby.
The next morning, she found an orb nestled beneath the rose branches, just as he promised.
Another week passed. When the young woman entered the barn to store away the daily delivery, she noticed the cow’s udder bulging with milk. How can this be? she wondered, calling for her brother to relieve the poor beast. The cow has been dry since autumn! But from then on, her brother had to milk the cow three times a day, and they drank the whitest, sweetest milk ever tasted by man.
July faded into August. The heather coated the distant hills in a soft magenta, and the noon sun blinked off the gurgling creek. The young man kept busy arranging lamb sales and selecting ewes for the next breeding season. In brief moments of respite, when the sheep sprawled out in the afternoon to chew their cud, he would lie down in the grass with the dog resting its head on his chest. Just for that moment, he could pretend he was a little boy again, with his father standing guard over the hill and his mother down in the valley, sitting on the doorstep patching the knee of his trousers. And then a cow in the next pasture would bellow, and the spell would break. The man would sit up, disoriented, looking about him like a lamb seeing the world for the first time. The dog would lick his chin, and he would slowly rise to his feet, returning to the real world.
After such a moment, his eyes often lingered on his little stone cottage, silhouetted against the hill, as if staring hard enough could bring his mother into focus. He’d trace the lane down to where the young lady lived—a small comfort when the yard showed signs of life. Sometimes, the farrier was shoeing a horse outside the stables. Other days, the youngest child could be seen frolicking with other schoolchildren behind the house. Once in a great while, though, he would find the young lady toiling amongst the vegetables. From this great distance, she looked just like her mother all those years ago, and his childish recollections came rushing back.
While they did not walk together to the graveyard anymore—he knew better than to interfere with the father—he often found flowers left on his parents’ grave. The following day, he would leave more love under the hedge, one extra orb for each flower.
Eventually, he moved the love from under the hedge, where any passersby could find and take it, to behind a staddle stone under the granary. It was a risky move, he knew—entering the property without the young lady’s permission, let alone her father’s. He hoped that, so long as he kept his distance, neither would mind.
The father did mind, however, and grumbled about the overflowing pile of orbs every night at supper. (With multiple pieces of love arriving daily, the young lady had moved the stockpile of love to the granary. It was becoming cumbersome, but she suspected the lack of space would not deter the young man’s deliveries.) He either complained there would be no place for crops come harvest, or he relayed some snide remark overheard in town. She took it all in stride, and when her father went too far, she trained a haughty look on him.
Her older brother also took to scorning her “suitor”, as he liked to call the shepherd. The brother was courting the innkeeper’s daughter, and he took pleasure in reminding his sister of her failed courtship earlier that year.
“If you take up with that farmhand, I’ll have to find me an heiress,” he would tell her.
He was in the yard with his sister when the shepherd passed by one morning, and the brother made a crude comment—under his breath, yet loud enough for the young man to hear. The young man smiled placidly, but his sister grabbed a nearby metal pail and swung it at his head. Primarily, she was embarrassed by her brother’s childish antics, but she also found herself furious. Her brother ducked away and laughed it off, which only made her madder. While the young man appeared unperturbed, he walked away without leaving anything behind.
That afternoon, the young woman heard a knock on the front door. By the time she wiped flour off her hands and unlatched the door, no one was in sight except for the retreating figure of the shepherd down the lane, trailed by his sheepdog. At her feet, bundled together in a handkerchief, were six glowing spheres.
He is persistent, she allowed.
From that day forward, the young man placed the love at the front door. He was rewarded with more pointed remarks from the brother, though he turned a deaf ear. He was only afraid that the young woman was on the receiving end of this attention behind closed doors. On the other hand, if that was how her family treated her, she deserved all the love and care in the world.
Selfishly, he enjoyed riling up her brother. He did not love the young woman in the way her brother assumed—he admired, empathized with, and respected her—but the brother did not love his suitor at all.
The young woman continued keeping love in the granary, but even she had to admit the storage situation was dire. Love stacked up to the roof and trickled out the door whenever it opened. Much to her father’s disdain, she brought some inside the house to make more space. She hid some in the spud box behind the turnips and squeezed a few more into empty milk jugs, but she ran out of inconspicuous places by the end of the week. She conceded to stacking orbs on the counter and on top of the wood pile by the fireplace. Her father and siblings sent disgruntled looks her way, but she was too preoccupied with keeping the love from rolling across the floor to notice.
Even her knitting basket became a storage space for love. When she pulled out her current project—a scarf for the coming winter—it was warm to the touch from being cradled amongst the orbs. The late-summer nights chilled her, so she held the scarf to her cheek and relished it.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
Morning crept over the sprawling hills, casting the village in a warm glow. The young man rose with the sun, dressed in his finest linen shirt, and cleaned his nicest boots. To thank her properly, he felt he had to dress the part. It was easier to be out of character when he did not feel like himself in the first place. He took great care to keep his clothes clean while doing the morning chores.
He knew she would be working in her garden at this hour before the sun got too hot. Sure enough, when he passed the cottage, she was watering her roses along the lane. He nodded to her, she smiled in recognition, and he stopped. His sheepdog pressed against his leg.
“Good day, miss,” he said.
“Good day.”
“A quiet morning,” he said.
“Thank goodness,” she replied.
She worked her way down the hedgerow, and he pushed the sheep along.
“I wanted to thank you, miss,” he said. “For the flowers. For my mother.”
She paused in her work. “I am sorry I could not clip them earlier. There were more last week, but I lacked the time…” She shifted the watering pail between her hands and walked on.
“That’s all right,” the young man said. “You’ve had a guest.” Her pail was nearing empty, but there was another full bucket at the end of the edge. He went to fetch it, the sheep ambling along with him. “Do you expect him back again soon?” he asked as he exchanged the bucket for the empty one.
“Not likely,” she said, “if the only riches he has to offer are a gold band.” Her serious eyes settled upon him. “My father speaks loudly, I believe.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he admitted. The sheepdog guided the sheep towards the edge of the lawn where the hedge met the pasture. He took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. “What need he offer to deserve you?”
“Only the grandest riches could please my father,” she said as she emptied the new pail, “though now nothing will suffice after that display...”
“And if he loved you?”
“What use is that? It cannot warm the house, nor can it feed the children. I would rather the gold band to sell than love.”
The sun hit her uplifted, stern face, and he was struck by her augustness. She was not lovely, yet despite the dirt smeared across her cheek, she was queenly.
“I do not believe you,” he said. “I think love is far more priceless than the most precious gold band. I… I would sell everything I own to feel my mother’s love again.”
Their eyes met briefly, silent understanding passing between them.
Then, returning his hat to his head, he called to his sheepdog and continued down the lane. “Perhaps the difference is being in love,” he said over his shoulder.
“I would not know,” she replied shortly, “nor do I plan to.”
He paused at the end of the lane and looked back to where she stood by the roses. She gazed steadily at him, chin held high, as he cupped his hands to his chest, just below the heart. A moment later, his outstretched hands cradled a small, silky red orb glowing softly in the sunlight. He offered it to her.
“Maybe you’ll change your mind one day,” he said. “Here, take my love.”
“Why? I do not love you.”
“I know. Take it—that is all I ask—and perhaps someday you will return it in kind.”
She eyed the love warily. She was not so rude as to deny such a gift, but she did not wish to be encumbered by it. He did not mean it, she knew, in the same way a man offers love to his lover; nonetheless, she felt awkwardly cornered.
“I will take your love and store it in the barn,” she finally decided and picked it up between two fingers. “Maybe the cow will have some use for it that I do not.”
“As you wish,” he said, tipping his hat.
For a while, she remained next to the roses and rolled the small bit of love between her fingertips—it was curiously warm and enticing—but eventually, she did as she said and stored it in the hay mound next to the cow. The cow was curious and brushed its nose against it, but she pushed the animal away.
“That love is just as useless as you are,” she told the cow. “You bear no milk, and it bears no riches. Yet I am stuck with both.”
The cow nibbled at her sleeve, but it left the love alone.
The next morning, as the sheep wandered out to pasture, the young man stopped again by the hedge where the young woman was trimming the rose bushes. She paused in her work as he once more put his hands to his heart, offering another piece of love. She received it silently, placing it in her apron pocket. He tipped his hat and moved on. She turned back to the roses, but she watched his retreating figure out of the corner of her eye.
Another! she thought to herself. Just yesterday, I said I had no use for love, but here I am with two pieces in my possession, useless things that they are. I will put it in the barn next to the other.
The following day, the young man handed his love to her in passing as she weeded the vegetable patch. She frowned as she tucked it into her apron, but he took no heed and tipped his hat in farewell.
“Even more!” she grumbled when he was gone, her hand still tingly with warmth. “This is most inconvenient. If he is to do this every day, I will soon run out of room for all this love.”
She placed it next to the cow, but it took her a few moments to hollow out a divot in the hay so the three little balls would not roll off the bale.
Within two weeks, she gave up keeping the love contained, and it overflowed onto the cow’s bedding. In the mornings, she swept the orbs into a pile in the corner of the stall, but the cow enjoyed the warmth and spent each night nestled amongst them. Never had the cow looked happier or healthier—its hair shiner and its eyes brighter—but the young woman attributed this change to the new batch of hay from the fields.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
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—
Spring sprang once more—plants have sprouted and birds have migrated back north for time eternal, yet it is always a small miracle. The men and their pipes returned to the rocking chairs, and the ladies swapped stories over tea or around sewing circles. The village bustled with all the latest gossip, and this spring, the young woman found herself at the center of conversation. The consensus was that she was a beauty, especially when her black tresses were pulled back into a tight knot, and that she was a capable cook, gardener, seamstress, and the like. She would make some man a good wife, the villagers said, if she weren’t so sharp and cold. (That very winter, the young woman had slighted the grocer’s wife by declining an invitation to the church’s sewing circle. The grocer’s wife reported that the young lady thought herself too high and mighty to join them. Subsequently, every time she entered the store, the grocer’s wife turned up her nose and bustled away to the back rooms—that will show her.)
Furthermore, there was speculation as to why she hadn’t married yet. The younger daughter was old enough to care for herself, and her father could hire someone to run the house in her stead. She would be better off running her own household than being stuck under her father’s thumb forever, the villagers said.
Then word came through the grapevine that her father wouldn’t let her marry for anything less than a hefty dower because he was neck-deep in debts and could not support two daughters for much longer. Time and yields had not been kind to him.
The young man was also of the marrying age, but he was too practical to make any plans. His shepherding wages could not support a family, as they barely supported himself. The farmer on the hill hinted at leaving him some land and sheep in his will, but the farmer was still very much alive and healthy. Nothing was guaranteed, in any case. Yet after hearing the chatter in the village, the young man counted his blessings because, while money was a concern, he was not forced to marry for it. His father was a drayman’s son, and his mother was the daughter of a carpenter. His mother and father, equals in station, married for love. He expected to follow their example and someday—when he had the means to do so—marry a tradesman’s daughter as well.
He could not help but feel sorry for the young woman, though he knew she disliked being pitied.
By April, there was a frequent visitor to the cottage at the south end of the lane—a man wearing an embroidered waistcoat who rode on a saddle buffed so clean one could use the leather as a mirror. He was not a resident of the village, so naturally, his appearance caused much speculation. On dry afternoons, the man and the young woman took a stroll through her garden, her arm looped through his, and the father’s chest would puff with pride.
When the man in the fancy waistcoat was in town, the young man at the other end of the lane gave the south cottage a wide berth. It was one thing to converse as neighbors who knew each other their whole lives. It was quite another to interfere in personal business, and he did not think the man in the waistcoat would appreciate a shepherd interrupting his rendezvous. When he saw the shiny saddle hanging over the barn door, he walked right past the rose bushes along the lane, opting instead for the wildflowers that grew behind his cottage before making the pilgrimage to the graveyard.
It was late in May when the young man went against his better judgment and stopped by her cottage on the way back from the pasture—he wanted a handful of the last of spring’s bluebells because they were his mother’s favorites. Surely the man in the waistcoat will not be offended by that, he thought as he made his way up the stone path to her front door, the sheep milling in the lane behind him. However, as he lifted his fist to knock on the door, he heard raised voices floating out of an open window. He peered into the glass-paned door and glimpsed, through the lace curtain, the silhouette of the young woman pacing in the foyer. The voices came closer to the window, and the young man held his breath as the conversation became clearer.
What the young man made out was this: The gentleman in the waistcoat had deceived the family into thinking he possessed a greater fortune than he truly had. He inherited a large sum not long before, but he spent most of it on frivolous things, like embroidered waistcoats and a copious amount of saddle soap. Now there was hardly anything left to support his estate, let alone bolster the young woman’s. There would be no pretty dresses or country houses or grand parties like the gentleman promised. Her father was rightfully incensed.
The young man slipped away silently. There would still be some flowers left tomorrow.
The next day, the polished saddle was still seen glistening in the morning sunlight, but by noon, it was back on its horse, ready for its owner to depart once and for all. The young man could hear the unpleasantries exchanged all the way from the pasture, followed by slamming doors. As the gentleman rode down the lane for the last time, the sheep glanced up to watch his cloud of dust settle.
In the evening, the young man passed the south cottage and thought to himself, Maybe it’d be best to leave the flowers for one more day. Mama won’t mind pansies instead.
But he stopped in his tracks when he reached the stone path. Lying on the ground, tucked beneath the rose hedge, was a bundle of bluebells neatly tied with a black ribbon. He gathered them carefully under his arm and continued down the lane. He knew he needed to thank her, though he was unsure he possessed the words to describe his gratitude. He could not remember telling her of his mother’s favorite flowers, but he must have—long ago—and she remembered. It was a wonderful thing to be known.
Hi here is my @inklings-challenge story. It is based on the story "Our Lady's Child" which is a lesser known story I think. It also is not accurate theologically but I still find things about it beautiful.
This is my submission for @inklings-challenge 's four love fairytale challenge. I illustrated the story of The Star Money. It tells the story of self sacrifice and being rewarded at the end. Therefore my love was Agape.
"And as she was thus forsaken by all the world, she went forth into the open country, trusting in the good God." -The Star Money, Grimm Brothers
Mark 12:43-44 NLT
"Jesus called his disciples to him and said, “I tell you the truth, this poor widow has given more than all the others who are making contributions. For they gave a tiny part of their surplus, but she, poor as she is, has given everything she had to live on.”
"
Today is the official last day of the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge, but if there's anyone out there who was still planning on writing/making/posting something, we could consider extending the deadline (especially since we posted this Challenge four days into the month). Does anyone have any interest?
Based on feedback, I'm not going to set an official extended deadline date, but if people post things a few days or weeks from now, I'll still count it for the Challenge, and reblog it here. I'll wait until after Easter to put together the Archive for this year's Four Loves Challenge.
My submission, right under the wire, for this year's @inklings-challenge Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge. I actually got the idea for this a year ago, but it took me until halfway through February of this year to finally figure out the best way to tell it. See, the problem is that I really think this story would work best as a series of four-panel comics, but unfortunately I don't think stick figures would cut it (which is about where my skill level lies). But I finally hit on this format instead, so I hope you enjoy.
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a beautiful princess who had everything her heart could desire. Every night, after a warm meal and a hot bath, she went quickly and quietly to bed, where servants would tuck her in bed and sing lullabies to send her off to sleep.
No, Papa! I said I want you to tell me a story about me!
Unfortunately, that well-behaved princess has nothing to do with our story. Our story is about a little girl, the daughter of a rich merchant. The merchant was very well-to-do and lived in the city with his seven children. The youngest of these was a little girl named Beauty, so named by her mother who had died in childbirth.
One day, the merchant received terrible news: His entire fleet of merchant ships had been caught in a storm and sunk to the bottom of the sea. He had ventured much capital on this shipment, and overnight, they had lost everything. The merchant was forced to leave the city and take his seven children to live in the country, all of them crowding into a small cottage in a small village at the edge of the forest.
And they were so very poor they could only eat nasty porridge every day and always went to bed without cake.
It is in adversity that a person's true nature is revealed. While they had lived in the city, the merchant and his children had eaten the best food and wore the most sumptuous of clothing, attended magnificent balls and mingled with the highest circles of society. Now reduced to poverty, the merchant's children complained bitterly and often bickered with one another as the girls struggled to take care of the house without servants and the merchant and his sons fought with the land to yield a livelihood.
What about Beauty?
Beauty was a mere babe, and neither knew nor cared how far her family had fallen in society. All she knew was that now she was washed and fed by the clumsy hands of her sisters, rather than the experienced nannies and nurses they employed in the city. But Beauty was aptly named, not only for the sparkle in her eyes or the dark brown curls resting on her cheek. For true beauty comes from within, and even as an infant, her beauty was seen by all. It was rare indeed for her to cry, as though she knew her sisters were harried and at their wits' end, and she wished to cause as little trouble for them as possible.
And her laugh! Oh, when Beauty laughed, it seemed the sun shone a little brighter, and for a moment her brothers and sisters would cease their complaining and set to their work with a will.
Hee hee. Tell about the ships now, Papa.
After they had been in the country some time, word reached the merchant that one of his ships had been found, wrecked upon a distant shore. Perhaps some of the goods could be retrieved, and at least some small portion of their wealth could be restored, to be invested in further merchant ventures.
“We are rich again!” his children cried. As the merchant set out for the city, his children begged him to return with gifts of the fine clothes and rich delicacies they had been used to. Only Beauty asked for nothing.
“And what should I bring you, Beauty?” the merchant asked her as he kissed her goodbye. For in this moment of joy, everyone looked fondly on her, rather than thinking of her as a nuisance.
Beauty was so young, she could only speak a few words. But to her father's question, she replied....
Flower!
And so the merchant set off on the long road back to the city. And for a time, his children's labors seemed light, and they sang as they worked, for they thought that soon they would leave this hard life behind. Soon, they would return to the city and its comforts and balls and parties.
But when the merchant arrived in the city, it was only to discover that the ship that had been found belonged to another merchant. The messenger who had passed the word along had been mistaken, and they were no wealthier than they had been.
With heavy heart, the merchant returned home, dreading how his children would react to this terrible news. On the way back, a blizzard picked up around him, and he lost his way. Before he realized what was happening, he realized he had left the path and now fought his way through the forest.
At last, the winds died down and the snow fell more softly, and the merchant stepped into a clearing only to find himself before a great house.
And it wasn't just a house, it was a CASTLE with TOWERS and DRAWBRIDGES and a DRAGON ON TOP!
Or so it seemed to the merchant, who was so weak he was about to fall over from exhaustion. In truth, it was a mansion, and the dragon was a weather vane. But it seemed a mighty and forbidding place to him, and he trembled from fear as much as the cold. Yet he knew he must find shelter, or he would die. And so he raised a trembling hand to knock on the front door.
To his surprise, the door opened at his touch. He stepped inside, expecting to be greeted by a servant, but the entrance hall was dark and empty. He called out, but upon hearing no answer, he thought perhaps this house was abandoned. Still, it provided shelter from the storm, so he decided to stay the night.
Once he had closed the heavy front door behind him, he turned and discovered the flickering light of a fire in another room. He approached the light cautiously, thinking to beg forgiveness for intruding and ask for shelter. But when he stepped through the door, he found a small sitting room with a comfortable chair drawn close to a blazing fire, with a warm meal on a table next to it...but the room was empty.
Again, the merchant called out to whoever must have built the fire and prepared the food, but received no answer. And so, because he was very cold and wet and hungry, he sat down and ate the hot meal before him.
As often happens when one has been through a dreadful ordeal and a cold walk, then sits down to a meal and a fire, the merchant soon drifted off in the comfortable chair.
When I go out walking in the snow and I get reeeeeaaaaally cold, I like to come back inside and drink hot chocolate and then snuggle up all tight and cozy in front of the fire, and then have you read to me, Papa. And then you carry me up to bed. Did the merchant get carried up to bed?
When the merchant awoke the next morning, he was still in the chair before the fire, which had died down to embers. It seemed someone—perhaps one of the invisible servants who had prepared the room for him—had draped a blanket over him to keep him from catching cold. Fearing he had overstayed his welcome, the merchant prepared to leave.
He saw, when he opened the door, that the storm had passed in the night. Now the sun shone bright, sparkling on the mounds of snow covering what seemed to be a garden with a hedge maze. In truth, now that the storm was gone, the merchant was not particularly eager to return home and have to tell his children that he brought with him neither presents nor future prospects of a life any better than what they currently suffered. So he decided to walk through the garden on his way out of this strange place.
As he walked under the archway into the garden, suddenly the snow seemed to vanish, and instead of a garden lying dormant in the winter, he found a lush garden filled with every plant imaginable, all flowering and green like a day in midsummer.
And there were orange trees and apple blossoms and highdangelas and daisies and tulips and snapdragons that were actually dragons that would snap at you!
And in the middle of the maze of hedges, there was a profusion of rose bushes. The merchant had never seen such huge bushes, rising up past his head and nodding over him as if bidding him welcome. They came in all colors—red, pink, yellow, orange....
And purple and blue and rainbow-colored!
And there, in the very center, a single black rose. Now, the merchant was no botanist, but he had heard of the legendary black rose, the rarest kind. Emperors and sultans from distant lands were known to pay enough gold to buy a kingdom, just for a single seed to plant in their gardens. And now he saw one with his own eyes.
At once, the seed of greed was planted in the merchant's heart, beginning to blossom into a plan. If he could take a cutting of this rose bush with him, he could return to the city and sell it. With the money he could obtain from it, they would be rich again. No longer would he have to suffer the shame and disappointment of returning to his children to tell them they would be poor for the rest of their lives. All their worries would be ended.
So the merchant reached out his hand to pluck the rose from the bush....
When out came the Beast! RAAAAAAWWWWRRRR!!!
A hideous beast straightened up from behind the rose bush, towering above the merchant. He was covered from head to toe in thick brown fur, and his hands curled in fearsome claws. His fangs were sharp and pointed, and horns sprouted from his head. A deep growl rumbled in his chest as his long tail lashed the ground.
Hee hee! Stop, Papa, that tickles!
“How dare you presume to pick my roses,” the Beast thundered, “after the kindness I showed you by giving you shelter from the storm!”
The merchant fell to the ground cowered at the Beast's feet. “Please, have mercy!” he cried. “I meant no harm! I did not know anyone was home....”
“You should know better than to take what is not lawfully yours,” the Beast growled. “For the offense of touching my black rose, my greatest treasure, your life is forfeit.”
At this, the merchant wept and begged for his life, trembling all over in fear. And finally, despite the Beast's perfectly justified anger, he relented. “Very well,” he said. “I will grant you your life. But in recompense for threatening my greatest treasure, you must give me yours.”
Trembling, the merchant said, “I am afraid I am very poor, my lord. I am a merchant, but every last one of my shipments has been lost. I have no riches to equal anything of yours.”
After thinking for a moment, the Beast asked, “Have you any daughters?”
The merchant was too terrified to lie, so he said, “Yes, my lord. I have four.”
“Then send one here in your stead, and I will spare your life.”
For a moment, the merchant could only stare up at the Beast in horror.
But the Beast snarled, “Leave now, before I change my mind. And if your daughter is not on my doorstep in three days' time, I will find you.”
The merchant scrambled to his feet and ran away as fast as he could run, sure at every moment that he would feel the Beast's cruel claws at his back. But nothing followed him, and it seemed as though the trees parted before him, making an easy exit from the bewildering forest.
Papa? Why did the Beast want one of the merchant's daughters?
So the merchant wondered, even as he made his way home as swiftly as he could manage. But what he did not know was that the Beast and his entire household was under a curse. He had been a human once, but a fairy came to him in the guise of an old woman, seeking shelter from a storm. But he turned aside the fairy, scorning her pleas for shelter. And so she cursed him, turning him into a hideous monster until he could learn the meaning of mercy and selfless love. If he could find someone that he loved and who loved him in return, the curse would be broken. If not, he would live as a Beast forever.
But the merchant knew none of this. For all he knew, the Beast wanted to devour one of his daughters whole. As he traveled through the forest, he thought of each one of his daughters, all of them pretty even in their poor rags—pretty enough that they had already attracted the attention of everyone in the small village that was now their home. They kept house for him, and there was still hope that perhaps they would marry once they were a little older.
All except for Beauty. She was lovely as well—perhaps the loveliest of them all—but she was still a mere babe in arms. It would be a long time indeed before she would marry, or even be able to cook or clean or care for him in his old age.
And so a terrible idea began to form in the merchant's mind, an idea a thousand times worse than his dreams of what could be done with a single stolen rose.
When he returned home, all of his children were dismayed to learn that he brought no riches home with him, nor news of any. Nor had he even brought a flower home for Beauty. But that night, the merchant told the oldest of his children the full story of what had happened to him on his journey, of the Beast and the terrible promise he had made to him. And in their fear, his children agreed to the plan.
They would do as the Beast had demanded, and send one of the merchant's daughters to him on the third day. They would give him Beauty.
At first, the merchant's daughters wept and his sons trembled at the thought of what they must do to save their own skins. But soon they reasoned that without Beauty, they would have one less mouth to feed, and they would no longer have to care for a baby too young to help with chores or be of any use to them. So they soothed their consciences.
But I don't think...I don't think they were bad, Papa. They were just scared. The Beast was pretty scary, Papa.
Fear ruled them. Fear and selfishness. Unbeknownst to them, the merchant and his children bore a strong similarity to the Beast himself. Perhaps, in the days that followed, they would regret their decision and begin to change, just as...well. We will come to that in a moment.
On the third day, the merchant wrapped up Beauty and put her in a basket, then set off into the forest. He worried at first that he would not be able to find his way back to the Beast's house, but just as before, the trees seemed to make way before him, creating a path that led him easily to his destination and closed behind him.
Much sooner than he had expected to, the merchant found himself approaching the large, forbidding house he had fled in terror three days before. He wondered, as he looked up at the dark windows, whether the Beast stood looking down at him, and whether he realized what the merchant's plan was. So he hurried as fast as he could to set the basket down before the front door, then turned on his heel and fled the way he had come.
Sure enough, the Beast had been watching, and he was filled with anger for what he saw as the merchant's attempt to cheat his way out of their deal. The Beast flung open the front door, prepared to chase down the merchant and strike him down. But then he saw the basket, and what was inside it.
Me!
It took the Beast a moment to understand. And when he realized the merchant had bought his own life with the life of his infant daughter, not knowing what would become of her, he burned with rage. He bristled and opened his mouth to roar after the merchant—but just then, Beauty woke.
And when Beauty opened those lovely brown eyes and looked upon the hideous face of the Beast, she did not scream or cry. She knew nothing of the merchant's terrible plan, nor of the curse the Beast suffered under. She saw the Beast, and she smiled up at him.
And she clapped her hands and said, “Papa!”
...Papa, are you crying?
Beasts do not cry. Beasts know nothing of softness or warmth. They do not know how to love.
But something changed in that moment. When he looked into Beauty's eyes, he no longer thought of his own misery or his schemes to break the curse. He only saw someone he wanted to care for and protect, someone so helpless yet so trusting, and he longed to be worthy of that trust.
So the Beast took Beauty into his home—not as the bride he had hoped to woo, but as the daughter he had never dreamed of. He knew very little of how to care for a baby, but...he learned. And every day, his heart softened a little further.
What about the curse?
As for the curse...why, that was broken within the first week. One night, as the Beast clumsily rocked Beauty to sleep, she murmured a phrase she must have heard in the merchant's home: “Night-night, love you.”
Those words pierced the Beast's heart, and it was all he could do to whisper back, “I love you too, Beauty.”
And in that moment, the curse was lifted, and he became a man again. No more horns, no more tail, no more claws. And Beauty never even seemed to notice, for in her eyes...he had never been a Beast at all.
Please don't cry, Papa. You're almost at the end of the story! And they lived....
And Beauty and the Beast lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.
Today is the official last day of the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge, but if there's anyone out there who was still planning on writing/making/posting something, we could consider extending the deadline (especially since we posted this Challenge four days into the month). Does anyone have any interest?
For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge
Silence reigned in Princess Sophia's bedchamber. Soft carpets muffled footsteps. Thick curtains kept out the sounds of the outside world. The maids whispered as they led Prince Corbin to the princess' bedside, as if afraid to wake their mistress.
There was no need to worry about waking her. Princess Sophia would never wake again.
Sophia lay beneath rose-colored blankets, her golden hair splayed across her silken pillow. Her sapphire-blue eyes hid behind closed lids. Her chest rose and fell in gentle sleep. Her face stayed still and serene, her songs and laughter forever silenced.
Corbin took her hand—soft, small, still—between both of his. He'd held that hand as they'd danced at her birthday ball last night. If she'd lived beyond her sixteenth birthday, he might have—
"It could have been true love," he murmured.
"The princess needs a true love," a sweet voice said.
Corbin looked around in surprise. The maids had disappeared. The outside sounds had fallen silent. The curtains were no longer rustled by the breeze. Corbin was alone with Sophia—and a fairy hovered over her bed.
The fairy appeared as the faint shape of a woman in a glow of purple light above Sophia's bed. Her gaze floated across Corbin, wandered around the room, as if she were seeing things far outside Corbin's perception.
"The curse can only be broken by true love," the fairy said.
Corbin laid Sophia's hand across her covers. "The princess will sleep for a hundred years. Her true love is a man not yet born."
The fairy said, "That would not be true love. Princess Sophia will only be woken by the man whose love remains true through her years of sleep.”
"You believe I can be that man?"
"What I believe does not matter. You must choose. That is what makes it love."
Corbin brushed a finger against Sophia's hair. As children, they'd chased each other through the castle gardens, shared jokes and games. As they'd grown, they'd danced together and shared glances in crowded rooms. He hadn't called it love—but he hadn't objected to the idea that it could be.
Could it be enough for a lifetime of love?
If it was not, Sophia would be lost to eternal sleep.
"I choose," Corbin said, falling to one knee. "Sophia, I will stay true."
=
Corbin stepped beyond the castle wall. The moment the gate closed behind him, thorny branches sprouted from the ground, covering the castle in red roses.
Two fairies, blue and green, appeared in the corners of his vision, disappearing when he tried to see them straight on.
"We will care for the princess," a sweet voice said. "The roses will guard her, and keep out all but you."
Corbin bowed his thanks. He turned away from the castle, feeling as though his heart was being torn from him. Faithful love seemed to demand he stay with Sophia. Yet he was a prince, with duties to his own nation. He would love her from afar, until life allowed him to return.
=
Corbin stood before his parents in his father's study. The king and queen both wore pensive expressions, staring at the prince's right arm, wrapped with a band of pink and black fabric.
"It is for the Princess Sophia," Corbin said. "I intend to remain true to our love."
King Dunstan's brow furrowed, but the queen put a comforting hand on his arm.
She told Corbin, "It is only right that you should mourn for her."
"I do not mourn her," Corbin said. "She lives."
The king opened his mouth, but the queen silenced him with another squeeze of his arm.
"It is very sad, this half-life she lingers in," the queen said, "but you do not need to remain faithful forever."
"I'm afraid," Corbin said, "that is just what I intend to do."
=
Corbin bowed to the princess of Robania. She was small and dark-haired, and fluttered her long lashes up at him.
"I see you are one of the admirers of the Sleeping Princess," she said, glancing at the five other men who wore armbands like Corbin's.
"I am."
"Yet they dance, and you do not."
"I am her true love," he said.
=
Corbin sank into a soft chair by Sophia's bed. She had not moved since he'd last seen her. He told her about the ball his parents had hosted for Midsummer, about the diplomatic meetings of the fall, about the harvest and the country festivals.
"I wish you could have seen it," Corbin said.
Sophia slept.
=
King Dunstan told Corbin, "The treaty with Robania requires a marriage alliance."
Corbin said, "I can enter no marriage. I am true to the Princess Sophia."
The king turned red. "It has been five years! You've indulged your boyish fancy long enough! You must consider the good of your nation!"
That moment with the fairies felt long ago and far away. What if he was abandoning his duty for an imaginary quest?
What if it was real, and Sophia slept forever?
"There are other men who can serve the nation," Corbin said. "I serve Sophia."
=
Travel dust covered Corbin's skin and clothes. The dirt that came off his boots disappeared the moment it touched the carpet of Sophia's chambers. He ran his hands over his face, which only turned it into thin mud.
Sophia was clean. Perfect. Silent. Still. Unaware of the worries, fears, and exhaustion of life.
"My father can't force me to marry," Corbin told her, "but he can make me pay for my defiance. I've crossed the kingdom dozens of times, always on errands for him—delivering messages that could be taken by courier, negotiating with lords he doesn't like. If the tensions at the border erupt, I'm sure he'll order me to join the troops."
Sophia breathed softly.
"Do you care, Sophia?" Corbin asked, his voice breaking.
Sophia remained still.
=
Corbin collapsed onto the bunk in his tent. No officer's quarters for the wayward prince—a mere soldier's tent. When he closed his eyes, he saw blood and smokes, heard screams and breaking bones.
The fighting this month was the most intense he'd seen in three years. Other men drowned their sorrows in drink, or distracted themselves with the women who followed the camp. Corbin had no desire for that kind of companionship. Yet there were also men who had wives and children at home, who had sweethearts waiting for them. They had letters that reminded them of the love they were fighting for. They had the hope of returning to smiling faces and warm hearts to pull them through the misery of battle.
Corbin had only a sleeping princess.
He'd had enough narrow escapes on the battlefield to suspect that the fae who guarded Sophia's sleep also kept him alive to love her. It gave a man courage—but today, it brought something closer to terror. For him, there was no escape from this misery, not even the hope of a heroic death. When he survived, he'd have a long life to live with the memories of battle, and not even the smile of a wife to soothe him.
Sophia had been asleep when he'd left, and she'd be asleep when he returned, and would stay sleeping for long, long, long, long years.
If ten years had held this much misery, how could he endure ninety more?
=
The atmosphere at the ball was electric. Victory at last! After five years of battle, Eldania had defeated her enemies and even expanded her borders. Prince Corbin had led the charge that turned the tide in the final battle, had returned home a war hero, and returned to his father's good graces.
The men at the ball wanted to hear the battle stories. The women admired his crisp uniform and his newly awarded medals.
A little princess with dark hair curtsied to Corbin. "Do war heroes dance?" she asked.
Corbin joined her in a reel. After battle, blood, and death, here was light, joy, peace, life. The princess was beautiful in a gown of blue. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as her wit made Corbin laugh for the first time in months. When the dance ended, they went together to the refreshment table, eventually wandered out onto the terrace of the moonlit gardens.
The princess spoke of music, the moon, and memories. To Corbin, it didn't matter what she said—he just liked to hear her speak. It was such a relief to be in a world with women again. One could almost forget the past five years as a bad dream, start over in a civilized world.
The moonlight on her dark hair was enchanting. The glint of silver at the base of her neck drew his eye to the hollow at her throat, and up to the kissable—
Corbin drew back in horror.
The princess frowned. "Your highness, what is wrong?"
Corbin turned back to the great glass doors. Unseeing, he strode through the ballroom and fled the ball, ignoring the protests of the princess.
=
Corbin knelt with his head on Sophia's bed, weeping in the moonlight.
"Forgive me, Sophia," he sobbed. "Forgive me."
=
In the blackness of Corbin's dream, a blue glow appeared.
"Take heart," a soft voice said. "You were tested and remained true."
=
Corbin brought Sophia an armload of flowers—not roses, but daisies, lilies, larkspur. He told her about the pink-and-orange sunrise that had accompanied his ride here, and laughed himself breathless as he told a story of falling in the creek as he watered his horse.
In her sleep, Sophia faintly smiled.
=
Corbin traveled, and brought the world to Sophia. He brought her water from crystal mountain springs. Spices from sun-baked deserts. Soft white sand from southern beaches and stones from caves at the heart of the earth. He put all these presents in her hands and near her face so she could feel them, touch them, hear them. He told her story after story of his travels, and never had to worry that he was boring her with his tales.
"Wherever I go," Corbin told her, "I take heart knowing that you are here waiting for me."
Corbin squeezed her hand and felt the faintest pressure in return.
=
The sunset shone just beyond the village. A handful of farmers stared at Corbin's travel-worn clothes.
"Where do you go, wanderer?" the farmer asked.
Corbin didn't travel with horses, carriage, entourage. These villagers couldn't know they spoke with a prince.
"Wherever the road takes me," Corbin said, shifting his weight off of his sore hip and knee.
"Do you have a place to lay your head?"
Corbin accepted the farmer's invitation and took supper with his boisterous family—a rosy wife, six rambunctious children, two dogs and five cats. Corbin laughed, talked and ate with them, letting the rosy glow of home life settle in his heart.
A golden-haired little girl clambered onto Corbin's knee, examining the buttons on his coat and begging for stories. She made him think of Sophia at that age.
If Sophia hadn't slept, they might have had a daughter like this by now. Corbin's heart ached.
He played games with the child, told stories to all, and shared songs as the moon rose. His hosts offered him a bed in the straw in the barn.
In the morning, breakfast was served by a flaxen-haired young maiden.
"If you're looking to settle down," the farmer's wife teased, "my Bella would make any man a fine wife."
Twenty years of sleep gone. Eighty more to go. If Corbin chose, he could have a wife, children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, by the time Sophia opened her eyes. He could have a life, a legacy of love. Yet they were out of reach for Sophia.
"I'm sure she will someday," Corbin told his hostess, with a good-natured laugh, "but my journey takes me down a much different road."
=
Corbin brought a small flute to Sophia's bedside.
"A shepherd in the mountains taught me how to play," Corbin said. "Helped me make the flute myself."
He trilled a few notes, then launched into a sprightly folk tune. After a few bars, the flute squeaked an ear-piercing note that brought the song to a halt.
Corbin put the flute in his lap and laughed. "Don't worry. I have plenty of time to improve."
=
After King Dunstan died, Corbin served the new king, his eldest brother. Elwin never minded if Corbin took detours to Sophia's castle for a week or two at a time.
Corbin's travels made him invaluable as a diplomat. Corbin often found himself responsible for entertaining foreign visitors to the court.
When the king of Urbanda visited, Corbin was the only person at the palace who spoke his native tongue fluently. The king's eldest daughter often walked with him in the gardens. The princess saw and heard much, and was glad to have someone to share her observations with.
One summer morning, when he rested in the shade of an arbor, the princess sat down beside him, with a look in her eyes that Corbin had learned to beware. At fifty-five, looking twenty years younger, Corbin was still considered a desirable marriage prospect.
"I have heard the story," the princess said, "of the sleeping princess."
"I have been devoted to her these forty years."
Her delicate hand covered his travel-worn one. "It is so sad," she said, "to see the life of one so vibrant and talented thrown away, tied to an invalid woman who does not wake."
Corbin moved the hand of the princess to her own lap, stood, and gave a respectful bow. After all these years, Corbin knew how to disappoint women gently. "It would be sadder still," he said, "to abandon her."
=
Time laid lightly on Corbin, keeping him in good health and younger than his years, but after sixty years, he began to slow. Gray began to appear in his hair. Old war wounds began to ache.
"Old Prince Corbin and the hidden castle" became a beloved eccentricity in the eyes of the court. How sweet it was that he remembered an old sweetheart. How quaint that he told those old stories of the fae—he could almost make you believe they were true!
Corbin only smiled at their ignorance. They were young. With time, they'd learn.
=
The trips to Sophia's castle became much harder on Corbin's aging bones. After arranging things with Elwin's son, Owen, Corbin entered into retirement, and moved permanently into the castle.
Sophia's sleeping face now held the lines of age. Her blonde hair had streaks of silver. She slept as peacefully as ever.
In the space outside the rose bushes, Corbin planted a small vegetable patch. He tended the garden in the mornings, and spent the afternoons and evenings with Sophia—telling stories in twelve different tongues, playing one of the dozens of instruments he'd learned to play over the years. He fed himself out of the castle stores, which seemed always to replenish themselves with whatever supplies he needed.
A quiet life. A happy life.
A lonely life.
Sometimes, Corbin wished to hear one human word.
=
Late one moonlit night, Corbin sat hunched over Sophia's bedside, tracing the veins in her aging hands.
"I always thought," Corbin said, his voice raspy with age, "that the enchantment would keep you young. If we live the hundred years, even if you wake, what kind of life will be left?"
Sophia had no answers.
=
Corbin rocked in the rocking chair he'd put at Sophia's bedside. These days, he barely left the room. The stairs were too hard to climb with his weak, stiff legs. He slept so often and so long. He would wake for an hour or two at a time, potter around the room a bit, then fall back into exhausted slumber.
Meals appeared for Corbin three times a day. The water pail was always full of fresh, cold water. The chamber pot emptied itself. The clothes he wore were, somehow, always clean.
How many years were left to Sophia's curse? It couldn't be long now. Ten years? Five? One?
He often dreamed of Sophia, seeing her and himself as they were in their youth, full of energy and life, with all their years before them. When he woke, he sometimes wept to see the deep wrinkles on her face. All those years, lost! Corbin had struggled to stay faithful through long years in a complicated, painful world, but he'd still worked, learned, traveled, lived.
She had only slept.
Would she ever have the chance to do anything more?
=
Corbin blinked open watery eyes. Daylight again. He should probably eat something, but standing was so much work.
A small table appeared beside his chair, holding a bowl of steaming oatmeal. Corbin fed himself slowly, his hands shaking. Half of the food landed on his clothing rather than in his mouth, but he didn't have much appetite, so he was full when the bowl was empty. He washed it down with water, but choked on his second swallow, coughing for several minutes. That happened often these days.
When he could finally breathe again, he fell back into his chair, exhausted. When he woke again, the light had changed to the golden color of late afternoon. His clothes were clean. Sophia slept.
Something about the afternoon made Corbin think of the first day of her curse. The air had been warm just like this. The light had been golden.
The light was in his eyes.
After several attempts, Corbin rose from the chair and stood on shaky legs. He intended to close the curtain, but after two steps, his legs buckled. He caught himself on the bed, then slowly, painfully, managed to sit next to Sophia.
This was all the life they had together, now. He never left the room—could barely leave the chair. He was as helpless as Sophia had always been.
What had the fairies been thinking with this curse? A hundred years of sleep, softer than death? It merely delayed the tragedy—gave them all the trouble of living without the comfort of death and heaven.
The afternoon light landed on Sophia's face. For a moment, she looked as golden as the sixteen-year-old who'd first fallen asleep. He remembered being the sixteen-year-old boy charged with the quest of a lifetime of love.
How simple—and how intimidating—it had seemed then. How difficult—and how simple—it had turned out to be.
The feeling that had seemed so faint at her birthday ball had grown and strengthened into something strong and real. Not merely emotion, but year upon year upon year upon year of choices. Day after day, moment after moment, for decades and decades, choosing her. Giving an entire life to her. What was that, if not love of the truest kind?
The fairies had given them unfair choices, but within those limits, Corbin had chosen as best he could.
Corbin kissed Sophia's withered hand. "I would do it again, my love."
Worn out by his exertions, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, and fell into a deep sleep.
=
Birdsong filled the air. Corbin woke to a bright dawn, feeling stronger than he had in years. His hands were not quite so gnarled. Breathing felt easier. He even felt that he could stand.
He stood up on two legs that felt strong enough to hold him upright. Sophia, in the light from the window, looked golden.
Corbin felt the years of age falling from him—limbs gaining flesh, skin growing smoother, the hair on his head turning dark rather than gray. Sophia underwent a similar transformation—wrinkles disappearing, hands becoming smooth and slender, hair becoming thick and golden.
Eyes, at last, opening.
Corbin had forgotten they were blue.
Sophia blinked, smiled, and sat up under her own power. "Corbin?" she said.
With limbs made strong and young again—so, so young!—Corbin gathered Sophia into his arms, crushed her in an embrace a hundred years in the making. Sophia returned it, nestling her head against his shoulder as Corbin kissed the top of her golden head.
"I did," Corbin said, feeling at last the joy that was worth waiting a century for. "And now that you're awake, I plan to stay true for another one."
=
The old castle had gardens more beautiful than any in the world. Flowers from far-off lands, common meadow flowers, and most of all, roses, larger and sweeter than any others that mortal eyes had ever seen.
Travelers, high and low-born, from foreign kingdoms and nearby villages, often stayed at the castle, enjoying the hospitality of a prince who told stories in nearly every tongue, and of a beautiful princess who seemed blessed with every gift of heaven. Travelers who stayed there remembered it to their dying day as the happiest time of their lives. In a world of unending toil, here was a place of perfect rest.
Few people knew which land had given the prince and princess their titles, which families they claimed connection to, but no one doubted them. They were rulers of this realm, tiny and happy, and which emperor on Earth would not trade his great nation for theirs?
The couple was remarkable in their devotion, each attentive to other's needs, giving a drink of water or adjusting a chair before the other had to ask. They moved with the easy familiarity of much older couples, their routines fitting together with the elegance of a ballet. They worked together, prayed together, laughed often. When troubles came--a traveler who broke a window, a supper running late--they looked to the other for help, and always received it. They were patient, and when they lost patience, they apologized. Often in the course of an ordinary day, one would see the other from across the room, across the garden, across the palace, and look at them with a golden look of devotion in their eyes, rejoicing in the presence of the one they loved.
That was what travelers remembered most of all when they came away from the castle, and what they told their children to treasure, generation after generation.
"That," they always said, "is what true love looks like."
Marissa thought, as she sat at her spinning wheel. She had had lots of time to think, since that fateful day three years past, when she had snapped at a child at the well. She did not speak anymore, forbidden to do so by the mother who had once doted upon her.
So she sat and thought, and spun. She and her mother, furious and humiliated and proud, had refused her sister's offered charity. They had fled their home, traveling to another town and learning a trade to make their own way. It had been difficult, learning to do all the work that her stepsister had previously done, but Marissa had little choice. Now she was the one to knead the bread, and sweep the hearth, and fetch the water, and mend the clothes, and, when her chores were done, to sit and spin wool into yarn.
Her mother was the one who dealt with their customers, in the little room in the front of their shop. She did not enjoy it, and her mouth was always pursed in displeasure, but she spoke civilly no matter how much effort it took, for who knew which old crone or pert child might be a fairy in disguise?
A flutter of wings and a shadow at the window drew Marissa's attention. A robin sat upon the sill, fluffing its wings and surveying the room with a dark beady eye. Marissa could not speak to shoo it away, but she could, sometimes, if she were careful, make sounds in her throat if they were not recognizable words. She did so now, a scolding noise, and flapped her hand at the bird.
It did not startle and fly away, as she intended, but hopped sideways, tilting its head at her. Marissa stared back. It had been such a very long time since she had seen such a friendly face. What was it really hurting, anyway? Let it stay.
She bent for her distaff and spindle once more, resuming the steady treadling of her wheel. The wool fibers slipped through her fingers, twisting into sturdy, warm yarn. The robin on the windowsill hunkered and watched, as though wishing to learn to spin.
Marissa thought of the hunched, deaf and half-blind spinner who had taught her and her mother their craft. She wondered if, one day when she was quite old, a maiden would come to a hunched, mute old spinner, perhaps driven there by foolishness or a curse, and ask to be taught a skill.
The customers out front left, and Marissa's mother swept into the tiny back room. "Not done yet, you lazy girl?" she scolded, and then let out an angry cry when she caught sight of the robin on the sill. "Oh! What is that creature doing here? Why didn't you drive it off? Shoo! Go on!"
The robin, startled by her waving hands and strident tone, scattered away into the air, and vanished into the brush. Marissa's mother slammed the window shut, and Marissa bent once more to her spinning.
The next day, the robin returned. Marissa's mother was busy with customers once more, and Marissa stole a furtive glance at the door before looking back to the robin with a small smile. It was good company, whistling a merry greeting at her. Carefully, tentatively, she pursed up her lips and, ready to stop at her mother's step or the first hint of toad-slime or snake-scale on her lips, whistled cautiously back at the bird. No viper fell from her mouth and her mother did not storm in, demanding to know what all the racket was. Instead, the robin trilled, hopping with its wings slightly outspread.
Marissa smiled more broadly than before, delighted, and whistled at the robin again. It answered in kind once more. She did not dare to laugh with delight, as she should like to do, but picked up distaff and spindle and began her spinning, whistling back and forth to the robin until she heard her mother's step outside the door. She shut her lips upon the instant and as the door opened, the robin took to the air. Marissa, bolstered by her little visitor and the first conversation she had held in three years, endured her mother's scolding in meek silence, looking forward to the morrow.
The robin did not come on the morrow, perhaps chary of the spindly-tailed kitten who came sniffing at the kitchen stoop as Marissa swept it. She paused in her sweeping, so as to not startle the little creature, and crouched, offering it her hand to sniff. It butted its ears and head against her fingers, producing a purr that sounded entirely too large for that fragile little body. She scratched the orange ears, rubbing the hard little head, then stood, moving back to where the morning's milk still sat on the counter. It would be one more dish for her to wash, later, but she took a saucer and poured a tiny bit of the precious milk into the dish. This she set on the stoop.
The kitten stalked over stiff-legged to sniff suspiciously at the dish, then bent to lapping up the offering in good earnest. Marissa quietly finished her tasks around the kitchen, keeping an eye on the kitten. She had just dried the last dish - save the saucer on the stoop - to put away, when her mother came in, looking as bad-tempered as always. The kitten, curious about this newcomer, ventured indoors.
Marissa's mother gasped, drawing back her skirts. "Oh, ugh! Why are you letting that horrible creature in here? Take it and drown it at once!"
Marissa, appalled, reached silently for a basket, bending to scoop the kitten up in one hand. It immediately began purring again, vibrating against her palm. She set it in the basket and stepped out the door, setting off down the path towards the village. As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she paused and set down the basket carefully, pulling off her kerchief and tucking into the basket, petting the kitten's head carefully. It purred up at her and she gave it a sad, strained little smile, lifting the basket once more and carrying down the path.
The village was bustling and she drew many curious looks, a comparative stranger in their midst, a mute with her head down and her eyes on the dust below her feet, her hair bare in the sun. She set the basket carefully by the well and retreated into the shadows between two narrow buildings, watching. It did not take long for the purring kitten to draw a crowd of admiring children, and when one delighted little girl lifted the kitten and went running towards a house, Marissa slipped forward to collect kerchief and basket and trot rapidly back to the house.
Her mother scolded her, of course, but Marissa had been expecting it, and endured the scolding with bent head, and sat down to her distaff and spindle and wheel once more. No cheery robin came to bear her company today, but only her mother's sharp tongue. Marissa sat and spun, pensive, pondering the acute difference between kind words and cruel ones. The sun had long since sunk past the heavy trees out the window, the sky above dark and embroidered with stars, when Marissa's mother blew out the candle and curtly ordered her to bed.
The bells in the village chapel tolled their call to the service. Marissa sat at the window and listened, her shoulders slumped with weariness. There would be no customers today, and Marissa's mother slept late, as exhausted by her own toil as was Marissa. Outside the window, somewhere in the verdant forest, a robin chirped and whistled, but it did not come to the window. Marissa sat, watching the forest and listening, the week's burdens weighing on her.
Bake and mend and cook and draw water and sweep and dust, and then sit and spin spin spin spin spin. Voices from the shop in the front room, Marissa's mother with the forced note of pleasantry in her tone that Marissa was never judged worthy to receive, the cheerful jolly voices of matrons come to buy their yarn and their cloth. A robin whistled in the forest and Marissa whistled hopefully back, but her little friend did not come hopping or flying out to see her.
Instead a battered tom-cat slunk out of the forest, its ribs showing, ears tattered like old dish-cloths, one eye missing. It did not approach the house, but sat, watching Marissa through the open kitchen door as she bent over the fireplace and oven where their daily meals were cooking. Marissa straightened, pushing back a sweat-damp tendril of hair, and looked at the wary old tom with compassion. Chicken was dear, but a very little bit would not be missed if she was careful to take less for herself that evening. Only a bite, but she tossed it to the tom-cat, the morsel landing in the dust some halfway between the step and the stray.
The cat rose to its feet with wary grace, creeping forward to sniff at the half-cooked meat. A quick bite, and the chicken was gone. The cat turned round, melting back into the bushes on the eaves of the forest. Marissa hoped that he would not find robin for dinner.
Over the next few days, she could not help fearing that her little friend had ended his days as a cat's dinner, but she had but little time to think of the cheery robin that had brightened her days. Shearing time had come, and Marissa was hard at work from before dawn to after dusk. At the end of each exhausted day she would collapse onto her narrow cot, too tired even to think. After three years, the work was no longer clumsily unfamiliar, but it was still hard. She was beginning to feel as old as her mother, whose hair was increasingly streaked with grey, who had new lines around her hard-set mouth.
Marissa moved through her days in a fog of exhaustion, which was likely why it took her several hours to realize that her mother had not come even once to harangue her for being slow, or stupid, or lazy. Guilty relief warred with anxiety, and Marissa halted her wheel, standing to go in search of her mother. She found her, sprawled on the neatly swept floor of the kitchen, breathing labored. A sharp flare of alarm stabbed like fire through Marissa; with an effort, she lifted her mother to the bed where the older woman slept. Her face was an unhealthy grey and Marissa, after tucking her in warmly, tied on a kerchief and all but flew down the trail into the village.
It was difficult to convince the wise woman to follow her, without speaking betraying words, but pleading looks and tugged sleeves and the display of their few precious hoarded coins convinced her to come. The old lady gathered her herbs and her basket and followed Marissa back to the small cottage.
An attack of the heart, she pronounced. She left a tincture with Marissa, along with a stern instruction that her mother was to be allowed to sleep quietly for some several days. Marissa realized with sinking heart that she must need tend the shop herself, now, mute as she was, and there would be no abatement of her own workload. It was a daunting prospect, and her heart sank, but she firmed up her mouth and squared her shoulders. She would need to buy more candles, that was all.
Three days, of little food and less sleep, of spooning broth into the invalid's mouth, of smiling silently at customers and fetching their yarn for them and indicating through awkward gestures how much was owed, of sitting up late into the night shivering beside the banked fire, spinning by candlelight and moonlight until skilled fingers were too cold and numb to do their work. Three days, Marissa's mother slept, and woke only to eat, and said little, and slept once more. Three days, without even a robin's whistle to sustain her, and Marissa scarcely noticed.
On the fourth day, she was nodding off over the shop counter when her mother shuffled into the room. "Oh, there you are," she said peevishly, her voice little better than a croak. "Did you not hear me calling to you? Sleeping out here! I ought to have known!"
Marissa had sat up with a jerk, and now rubbed her stinging eyes. She could not answer back, but her mother was mercifully cut short by the door opening. Both women turned to help their customer, but stopped short in surprise.
A pert robin hopped across the floor towards the counter, halting halfway. It spread its wings and then a lady stood in its place, tall and grand, bright dark eyes and brown feathered cloak and crimson gown, feature elfin-fine and magnificent. Marissa and her mother gaped, Marissa shrinking back in alarm.
The fairy smiled kindly upon her. "Fear not, child. You have done nothing to merit punishment. Do you remember them?" She held out one elegant hand. Above it, a robin hopped, a kitten gamboled, an old tom cat winked its one eye. "You were kind to even the very least of these, when it would give you no gain, when it might cause you further trouble. Tell me, child, have you learned the value of kind words, and the pain of cruel ones?"
Tell her, she had said, and Marissa dared not disobey. She swallowed hard and said, very tentatively, only a single word. "Yes."
No slime or scales offended her lips, no venomous toad or adder fell to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she looked down at the wooden planks, and over at her pallid mother, and back at the fairy. The fairy met her gaze with compassion. "Speak freely, then, child. Do not forget the cost of cruelty, though," she cautioned. "If you revert back to your old ways, the curse will return, and you will be beset by the toads and snakes of your own making."
"Thank you," Marissa gasped. "Oh, milady, thank you! I will not!"
The fairy inclined her head. "It is well. The curse is lifted, and I would give you a gift. Do you wish for gold and jewels and wealth? Or a handsome man to fall in love with you?"
"Oh," Marissa said, dazed. "Oh, I do not know."
"Think a moment," the fairy advised. "And while you do, I will see to justice." She turned her gaze, heavy and piercing as a saber, on Marissa's mother, who had begun to tremble. "You, I deem, have not learned the lesson your daughter has learned. You treated these least of creatures with callous disregard, and your own daughter with cruelty. Would it not be a fitting punishment for your words to manifest?"
"Milady, please," Marissa's mother whimpered, and Marissa's heart was wrung with horror.
"Oh, milady, I beg you," she said quickly. "My mother has been ill, and she has grown worn with a work to which she was not raised. I beg you, please, milady, have mercy on her, and do not lay a curse upon her!"
The fairy looked at her, pointed brows tilted in surprise. "Do you, who have suffered the worst for her sharp tongue, interceded for her, then, child? Why?"
"Because..." Marissa faltered, and looked over at her mother, who was gazing at her with a strange expression. Quick as lightning, memories ran through Marissa's mind. A golden childhood, adored and doted upon, her younger sister bearing the brunt of their mother's displeasure, growing into a young lady, petted and pampered and flattered, an offended fae and a curse and a fall from grace. Always, Marissa's mother had been straight and regal and haughty as any queen. Now her hands were roughened with toil where once they were smooth and white, her silks and velvets had been replaced with rough homespun, her once-elegant hair was caught in a simple bun that would not stay smooth, her arrogant beauty lined and wrinkled and weary.
"Because she is my mother, and I love her," Marissa said simply. "You offered me a gift, milady. Let it be this, then: that my mother go free and unharmed, no curse meted out upon her."
The fairy regarded her. "Are you certain, child? Think what you are giving up. You could have aught that your heart desires; wealth untold, love, ease and luxury."
It was a tempting lure. It was. For a moment, Marissa thought longingly of never spinning again, never having to touch wool even once more in her life. She thought of a large home with many rooms, massive fireplaces and heaps of wood. She thought of silks and jewels.
Yet, having lived three years of her life in miserable silence, keeping every thought to herself and enduring everything mutely, she could not wish such a fate on her mother. "Nay, milady," Marissa said humbly. "I ask only that I may speak freely once more, and my mother the same. I would wish to converse, not speak to one who cannot answer back."
There was kindness and respect and surprise in equal measure as the fairy looked on her. "As you wish, child. Let it be so." She turned to Marissa's mother. "For the sake of your daughter's forgiveness towards you, I shall have mercy. I advise you to remember that."
"Y-yes, milady," Marissa's mother said unsteadily.
The fairy gave them a regal look. "I would not leave you without a gift, child. You will be the greatest spinner in the land, while you live, and your daughter shall surpass your skill: she will be able to spin straw into gold." With this pronouncement, she turned away, and dissipated into the sunbeam shining through the door, leaving both women silent and stunned.
Marissa put a hand to her lips and murmured wonderingly, "I can talk." Her words fell into empty air and dissolved there, and she said aloud and joyously, "I can talk!"
"Daughter." Her mother's voice was husky, and Marissa turned towards her. Tears stood in the older woman's eyes. "I am... sorry. Forgive me. Thank you."
A lump choked Marissa's own words. "Of course," she murmured, and lifted her arms, and stepped forward to embrace her mother.
That wasn't quite the end‚ of course. The fairy had said that Marissa would have a daughter‚ so it did not come as a complete surprise when the young miller from whom they bought their grain began making the trip to deliver it all the way out to their cottage himself. It was not a surprise when he began bringing bouquets of flowers when he came. It was not a surprise when‚ a year later‚ he asked for Marissa's hand in marriage. He was a good man‚ and a kind one‚ and she was pleased to accept. Their daughter was as beautiful as the sunrise‚ and even as an infant‚ loved to twist pieces of string into thread.
For the purposes of submitting this for the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge, I'm gathering the three parts of this recently-finished story into one post. This story is a retelling of "Alleleirauh" mixed with "Beauty and the Beast".
Summary: When the Princess Amandine refuses to marry a cruel king, he forces her into a fairy-made coat that turns her into a half-animal monster--a curse that can only be broken if she agrees to wed. She flees into the wilderness and finds refuge as a servant in the household of a kind, generous king. Amandine would gladly marry him, but a king won't look twice at a beast-girl and a lowly servant. When the king holds three New Year's balls, Amandine is given the chance to appear as a beautiful, mysterious princess. Will three nights be enough to bring about a marriage proposal and break the curse of the coat of furs?
On a whim, I decided to turn these peg people into rudimentary versions of the characters from the fairy tale "The Goose Girl" for the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.
Included in this set are the two royal families of the fairy tale, representing storge--familial love. From left to right, we have:
The princess-turned-goose-girl, with a straw hat, goose, and lots of ragged blond hair.
The queen, her mother, complete with black braid and golden crown, who sends her to another kingdom to marry a foreign prince.
The foreign prince who is betrothed to the princess (before her identity is stolen), wearing his own crown.
The old king, father to the prince, with white beard and golden crown, who is the one who figures out that the goose girl is actually the princess, and punishes the servant who stole her identity.
If one were to act out the entire fairy tale, the queen and prince, minus the crowns, could be used to represent the treacherous serving girl and Conrad the goose boy.
@inklings-challenge here is my story for the Four Loves story challenge this year. It's technically a story I wrote this past summer, and then semi regretted posting initially; only because I realized that I could have saved it for now. So here it is now. I've done some slight edits to it and have added all my previous thoughts to it down below instead of having them on a separate post.
The Princess and the Pea, and the Pea, and the Pea...
Her tears mingled with the rain hitting her face. By this point the route to the palace was second nature. There was no more second guessing which way to go or which way was the most direct. Though the fear that the bandits were following her instead of looting the remains of her carriage kept her running as fast as she could through the woods.
Over the log on the ground, under the one that was too high to get over. Mud clinging heavily in clumps to the bottom of her skirts where she couldn’t keep them from dragging on the ground.
As she broke out of the forest she could see the safety of the palace. Both so close and so far away at the same time. From here her run was a little easier, it was just a matter of keeping her footing in the grass and mud.
More than once she had felt her feet slip out from under her, landing her face first into the ground. She was so tired of all the running.
"Where are you from? Who are your parents? Where were you going when your carriage was attacked?"
She slowed as she neared the gate and sobbed out her story of the bandits attacking her carriage. The guard at the gate brought her into the palace and presented her to the Royal Family. She dripped water and mud from her hair and her clothes as the King, Queen and Prince studied her and her ragged appearance.
Once they had, she was sent off to get cleaned up. A quick bath and dry clothes later, she joined the Royal Family for their supper. Over supper the questions began.
Then the odder questions came.
"If this were to happen to someone else, how would you help them? What is most important to you?" And several more.
Eventually their questions would end and she’d be sent off to bed to rest. It was always the same room. One with the plushest bed she had seen. It had several mattresses and down covers, with a set of steps beside to help climb in. And though she had already done this countless times before, she still hadn’t managed to make it into the bed.
It left her exhausted when she joined the Royal Family for breakfast. They’d ask her how she slept, and her answer was that she hadn’t really, that she hadn’t even made it into the bed. Then, once again everything went dark.
Her mind continued to race as she prepared for bed. Tears started flowing again as she thought about the men who were her guards possibly having died trying to protect her as she fled from the carriage.
The tears were also from being so tired of living this evening over and over again. Her worry left her pacing, her mind wondering what she could do differently to try and change anything that happened. If she ever fell asleep, it was only if she managed to make herself sit in the chair in the room.
...
"Princess! Run! Go!" Isiah yelled, pushing her away from the carriage as her other guards were fighting against the bandits who had managed to damage the carriage badly enough to have had to stop to make repairs. Isiah gave her another gentle push to get moving, to start running.
Staying wouldn’t be of any benefit to her men, as they’d be more concerned about protecting her. Running at least gave them more of a chance to survive their fight. As much as she hated it.
She was so tired at this point. She always got a small energy boost when she started again. But it was never enough to make her feel refreshed. This was the most tired that she had been yet. Stumbling over her own feet over flat ground. It was a shame her path never stayed, but maybe that was for the best. The bandits couldn’t find her as easily if there wasn’t a clear trail that she was following.
When she got through the woods this time, she stumbled through the grass to the gate door, where she was once again presented to the Royal Family and was thoroughly questioned by them. After supper all she wanted to do was crawl into that plush bed and sleep. This time she finally did.
The Royal Family that the Princess comes across is aware of the time loop. But their staff isn’t.
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Other thoughts about this story!
The time loop is actually the fault of the Royal Family when the Princess first comes across them. As the King and Queen think that the Princess could be a potential match for their son and the time loop is their way of testing her. (And yes, there still is a pea under the mattresses, AND it plays a part of why the time loop is happening…)
After the first time the Princess makes it to the palace of the Royal Family, she gets lost the next few loops trying to find her way there and doesn’t make it to the palace before a new loop starts again.
The time loop always starts after the Princess’s carriage has been attacked, so there's no way for her to try and stop it.
The Princess has tried staying with the carriage a few times, but it never ends well for her men and sometimes not her either.
The Princess has been held captive by the bandits a few times and has even died by their hands once or twice.
Once the Princess learned the way to the palace she always goes to the palace because she knows that she's at least going to be safe there and be able to get out of the rain and warm up. Which leaves her feeling a little guilty because her men are still out there.
The time loop will potentially end once the Princess falls asleep in the bed.
Once the time loop ends, the Princess will learn that her men (her guards) are all safe and that the Royal Family had sent some of their own men out to help them.
The Royal Family often will have a look of disappointment when they hear that the Princess hasn’t even tried to sleep in the bed, because they know that once she does she’s at least a step closer to stopping the time loop, if not stopping it then. The Princess never notices these looks.
The Princess has tried asking some of the staff for help against the time loop, but they don’t know how to help.
