16Hey, it'd a OWAW update that's been a long time coming. Cinderella's been killing me, and it's looking to be excessively long, so this is only the first part. I don't know how many there will be. I don't really know anything, honestly. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain! Yeah. This is set in the same universe/land/setting as The Nude Knight, and it will continue to be so throughout the oneshot-fairytale-retelling process. Enjoy!
Once upon a when, there was a pig farmer's daughter in a small village on the outskirts of the land controlled by His Most Honorable King Dunsted. This girl was not particularly lovely, nor particularly good-hearted, nor particularly musically-inclined. Mainly she worked hard and thought quickly, though to hear Princess Cinderella tell it she was the biggest-
What's that?
Yes, I know you've heard of Cinderella, everybody's heard of Cinderella, you think that's something to brag about?
Well, of course you don't want to hear another sordid tale about a beautiful, kind, perfect princess with a manicure and a perm.
We're sick to death of Cinderella, you say.
Who ever said this story was about Cinderella?
Got you there, you jabber box. Maybe if you wouldn't interrupt people...
Anyway. As I was saying. Taryn lived in the town of-
Yes, I know you've never heard of Taryn before. That's the beauty of it.
That's the whole point.
Now shut up.
Anyway...
She was not the angel everyone said. A decent girl, of course, and she did work hard, but nothing extraordinary. She wasn't victimized by her parents (at least, no more than any teenager is), she wasn't forced to bear the burden of all the household chores. She'd never had a fairy godmother, and never spoken a word to charming woodland creatures.
She was actually rather drab. The butcher's son, of whom she'd been fond for quiet some time, got her confused with her sisters, both of whom were ten years younger than her. Perhaps that's why she had the makings of a perfect fairy tale.
Whoever came up with that title, fairy tale? This story may be defined a fairy tale, but it's completely absent of fairies, of the godmother sort or otherwise. I really can't understand all this blather about fairy godmothers. I mean, honestly, where did that woman get these ideas? There is no such thing as a fairy godmother. Nor are there talking forest creatures with sweet little furniture and dishware set up for the easy use of claws and paws. It is ridiculous to think that anyone's social standing was increased through the aid of talking mice and birds. Even if they could speak, what on earth would they say? Their brains are literally the size of a pea.
A splash of ice cold water and suds jerks me out of my inner rant. I've been narrating this in my head as I scrub out the flimsy skirt Her Highness insisted on buying from the last gypsy cart that rode through here.
But where are my manners? I've forgotten the introductions.
I'm Taryn (the aforementioned farmer's daughter). I'm Princess Cinderella's personal maidservant.
I'm also the one who originally met Prince Charming (yes, that is his real name, I've no clue what his parents where thinking. They jinxed whatever positive aspects his character may have developed).
And... (here's the kicker)
I'm the one he fell in love with.
Like any of you would believe it! I don't half believe it myself. But there it is. There's nothing for it but to tell the truth, as it happened, and maybe repair some of the damage done by this whole catastrophe. Maybe then I can get out of here. Although, really, that beginning wouldn't do at all. This particular tale will not open with the same overused line as every other. It's necessary, I've found, to start with much greater details than simply 'once upon a time.' And what does that even mean, anyway? I refuse to start at 'a time'. Instead, my story begins 'once upon the stroke of twelve, on a hot summer evening, in a cottage that reeked of blood and dirt.' This evening was not the night I was born, because that is rather irrelevant at this point. This is the night of my half-sisters' birth. They are rather key in everything that transpires afterward, just like that blasted cat, and even Cinderella herself. I'm really rather inconsequential.
Of course, the step mother is always evil. Rather unoriginal of her, I must say. A bit disappointing. Step mothers get a bad rap, in my opinion. As do scullery maids. If I were to write a story, I'd make the heroin a chimney sweep, and the adversary a queen; a beautiful, good queen, that only shows her dark side in secret. None of this evil queen business. I'd want it to sneak up on the listeners. That would show them. I wonder why they always tell it like that? For dramatic effect, I'd wager. Powerfully influential antagonist, and all that.
And was it necessary to add all of that idiotic nonsense about pixies and pumpkin carriages? I don't even have a human godmother, much less a winged one. Leave it to Cindy to-
Oh, I'm sorry. I'm rambling again. From the beginning it is, then, or at least from the point where things get interesting.
I grew up with my father and twin sisters at the edge of the town of Shepherd's Burrow. He was a humble pork farmer, who seemed consistently amazed by the fact that he had managed to become the single father of three girls. My sisters Basil and Hazel (uncreative, I know, but he is a simple man) and I pretty much raised ourselves, since our inept but well-meaning father often traumatized us instead of guiding us along the pathway to stable adulthood. Inept being the kindest adjective available (let's just say that when Basil started asking questions about men and women and what that involved, daddy-dearest decided to get the local butcher to lend him a pair of ducks to illustrate the message. You can imagine how well that turned out. Especially when she was asked to clean and cook the ducks later that evening).
In light of this, it is perfectly understandable that I took on the raising of my baby sisters. And yes, they are my stepsisters (well, half sisters, if you're being technical), though not evil in the slightest. At least, no more evil then any pair of nine-year-old twins is. My own mother fell ill and died shortly after my sixth birthday, of some grave condition I've never learned the details of.
Oh, dragon's flame, lets not get into the sympathetic cooing. It's not as though I grew up abused and neglected, despite what Princess Melodrama may say.
The twins' mother died in childbirth (not an uncommon occurrence for dual births) almost four years after that. It wasn't as though he was disgracing Mother's memory, or anything, by marrying this woman. And I myself quite liked Mother Two. She was soft-spoken and, if I'm completely honest, rather slow, but she had a big heart, and treated me with the utmost kindness. Why her Highness threw in the 'evil' bit I'll never know, for as you can see, the step family in this tale is hardly a threat. However, it might be noted that they are a strong component of the events that follow.
Anyway. Many years later, several months after my nineteenth birthday, and several months before the twins' ninth, the cheerful sunshine beamed with unrelenting mockery on our despondent household. It was, in dutifully depressing fashion, the anniversary of my stepmother's death, and the whole lot of us were lost in memories. Or, more accurately, my father was lost in memories, and the girls and I tip-toed around him.
Have you ever been around a truly miserable person? And you can't leave, so it comes to the point where every sigh and wistful shake of the head make you grit your teeth in aggravation? I sincerely hope you have not. Well, finally unable to stand the tense silence anymore, I proposed that Father take the twins to the branch of the Gorgon Festival being celebrated by our small community. It would get everyone's mind off of the dark occasion, I explained brightly as I all but pushed him toward the door.
"But what about all the chores?" He mumbled piteously. "The cellar needs a good scrubbing, and neither of my precious peas have done their washing for days. It's all starting to pile up, and I still need to put the squash to seed, and feed the sows..."
"I'll finish all that, don't you worry!" I exclaimed quickly, throwing a change of clean clothes at his face and bustling around the room. "You three deserve a good time, and I'll not let measly housework stand in the way of that!"
"Oh, thank you, Taryn," my weary father returned. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Ever since my two young brides abandoned me, you're all I've had to count on-"
"Yes, yes, of course, up you get." I tuned out his heartsick rambling and focused on lacing up his boots. It's not that I don't sympathize, because in a way I do, immensely, but for mercy's sake. It was quite a while ago, and life goes on, no matter how unwilling the participants.
I might take a moment to clarify what might be perceived as excessive goodness of character on my part. I did not volunteer to do the housekeeping out of sincere willingness to serve, nor did I let my 'lazy' sisters take unfair advantage of my complacent nature. In fact, I selfishly abandoned them to hours of bittersweet nostalgia. In my humble opinion, her Ladyship Cinderella emphasized her selflessness overly much in the relaying of her version of my story. No one is that good of a person, my apologies to the innocents of the world who were fooled.
Still, I suppose I should give her some credit. Intentionally or not, Princess Cinderella did include members of the animal kingdom, and one such member had a very important role in the progression of this particular tale. For you see, dear reader, whilefairy godmothersdo not exist (where do you people get these ideas?) , angry and vindictive cats do.
And that, reader, is a fact that should frighten you to your very core.
The cat I speak of, whom I despise with a loathing rivaled by no other, was adopted by my sister Hazel after a lightening storm sent it scurrying for refuge in our barn. Try as I might, I could not convince her that the mangy thing would have run into any barn, and that it was not, in fact, destined to find us in our hour of need. The little romantic inside her heart, which insisted in believing in fate and magical cats, would not be deterred. So the beast, who I came to fondly call Demon, stayed (his official name was Strawberry, because of the 'lovely strawberry shade of his fur', according to Hazel.)
Honestly. Hazel, Basil, and a cat named Strawberry. It was a good thing no one in the world cared we existed, because we'd be nothing but a bunch of fools if we were. The cat was most readily identifiable by the frequency he was dressed in dolls outfits the twin's had procured from their toy-chests.
I do not like this cat. I cannot stand him. If he were to, heaven forbid, be run over by a coach-and-four tomorrow, I would not weep. I would not even feel guilty for wishing him dead. That is how much I hate him. And in true dramatic fashion, the cat hates me. He has to. There is no other explanation for the series of ills which has befallen me since that blasted creature took up residence in my home. He's plotting against me.
I suppose you don't believe it? Not long after the miserable wretch imposed upon my life, I decided to have a heart-to-heart with my new arch-nemesis. Politely settling down in front of him, I began my calm and respectful lecture. "Alright, cat, listen here," I put myself on eye-level with the miniature feline and stared unblinkingly into it's mismatched eyes. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. This is evident. However, the best thing for us to do is simply put our differences aside and learn to live with one another. Do we have a deal?" In response, the monster snaked out a claw and scratched a fine scarlet ribbon of blood across the arc of my nose.
I didn't even cry out. All I could do was stare in horror as the ghoulish image in front of my eyes yawned lazily. "Why you little-." I murmured in amazement, cutting myself off when I realized young ears were present.
Our relationship pretty much proceeded in that manner, with minor injuries on both sides.
I tell you this because that damn feline is the cause of this whole mess, though Cinderella left that bit out.
Oh, that's right. You still think Cindy is the one who did all the work. You don't even know. There's no way the dainty thing would have made it out of that disaster alive!
And as for her unearthly beauty, well, that may be accurate, in her case, but it certainly wasn't why the Prince stopped to talk to me that afternoon. I was covered in pig slop and dust. Not quite the romantic scene you'd imagined, or had painted into your heads?
But I'm jumping ahead. After convincing my father that a trip to the Festival was in order, I helped dress my younger sisters in their finest cotton shifts and pushed their giggling pair out onto the street. They'd never before been this excited to attend the festival, though we went every year. The reason for their enthusiasm was the guest of honor, the eldest Prince himself, the next in line for the throne.
Our town is one of many in our poor kingdom, though I'm sure they all look the same. Since his crowning was drawing closer and closer, our future monarch had taken it upon himself to rouse the guards and shine the swords and trumpets, so that he may honor us with our very own Royal Visitation. Can't you sense my enthusiasm?
Well, that wasn't quite fair. Royalty is all well and good, in it's place. But it's place is certainly not down here in the trenches, riling up certain farmer's daughters who seem to think they'll be whisked away to live in the palace (I mean honestly, they're eight years old. I'd beat the prince who tried to marry them, the creeper.)
So, that bright afternoon, when all was still and silent except the humming of the last of the insects, That Cat launched the offensive. I was alone in the small cottage our humble family shares, trying desperately to live up to my word and complete all the chores that had been neglected as the anticipation of the Festival distracted my younger siblings.
Efficient as always, I was attempting to balance a basket of clean laundry in one hand and a bucket of pig feed in the other. This was stupid. What was even more stupid was the attitude of complete trust and tranquility I had adopted. That's what gave him the edge.
With a yowl Demon raced underneath my feet, knocking me to the ground and launching the laundry on top of me, and the slops on top of that. I just caught sight of the monster racing away with a pair of my under things in it's ghastly teeth before it was gone. Or, at least, it would have been, had I not propelled myself off the ground and after it, trailing rotten vegetables and newly-bemired clothing in my wake.
I had been chasing that horrific fiend for ages, shouting various obscenities and curses upon his furry head, when another figure popped up alongside me.
"Ah, I see you have a bit of trouble there. Is there anything I can help you with?"
My voice hoarse from the strain of my salacity, I managed only a raw-sounding "Yes. Trample that damn cat," before wheezing with exhaustion and bending over to brace myself against my knees.
The man on horseback next to me stared, eyes wide in shock. I don't think he'd ever heard a woman curse before. But to my immense surprise he pulled the horse to a halt and dismounted, cautiously approaching the diabolical feline, who naturally stayed perfectly still and... purred.
The damned thing just sat there and purred, making me look like a complete moron.
Gingerly retrieving my knickers (he held them at a distance the whole time, only allowing one or two fingers to come into contact with the fabric's surface), the stranger returned to my side and handed them over, never once looking in my face, as his own was turning a brilliant scarlet.
Oh, please.
Though I suppose it was understandable. In that one transaction he probably got farther than he had with any of the other young ladies in town. We were a modest bunch, in Shepherd's Burrow.
"Thank you," I finally said, after waiting several moments for him to begin conversation. He kept clearing his throat and taking a breath as though he intended to say something, but then he'd lose his nerve.
My response only seemed to embarrass him further, as he completely lost the ability to look anywhere above my feet.
"Okay, then, well, I should be heading back-"
Finding his voice, the man's face jerked abruptly upward and he stammered, "W-wait, allow me to give you a ride back to your home. You appear strained."
Um, yes, I do appear strained, as I just ran half a league.
"Thank you, I appreciate it, but I really shouldn't."
He blinked at me in bewilderment, as though he hadn't expected me to refuse him.
"Please, won't you allow me-" he faltered as I tossed a rather large rock at Demon, "Won't you allow me to give you a ride back to your place of residence?"
I was about to refuse again, but I took a moment to take stock of my situation. I really was a ways from home, and if Father and the girls got back before me there would be trouble. Not to mention all the chores I still had to get done, plus the clothing that would have to be rewashed and the pigs that still had to be fed...
With a put-upon sigh and a few more murmured curses, I relented. "Yes, fine, alright."
Without giving the man a chance to respond I made my way over to the horses side and prepared to mount, my simple chore slippers giving me a great deal of difficulty.
"Ah, um, here, let me," He stumbled over himself as he hurried to my side, timidly placing his hands on either side of my waist.
'Any day now,' I rolled my eyes at his hesitance, and settled myself onto the saddle. Then there was this really awkward few moments where he couldn't seem to decide whether he was going to sit in front of me or behind me. Finally I let out an exasperated sigh, "Shall I just hop down and let you get on first?"
This did nothing to help his anxious condition and, blushing furiously, he swung himself over so that he had easy reach of the reins, and I had the option of grabbing hold of his waist, should I so desire.
Ha.
"Um, should we fetch your cat?" He cleared his throat a few times prior, and his voice was all wavering. I began to feel a bit bad for how rudely I'd treated him. After all, out here at the edge of the wilderness he could easily have taken advantage of me in some way. The highwaymen that rode these parts would hardly have cared about the fate of my cat. So, striving to make my voice a bit more gentle, I answered. "No, better to let the beast shrivel and die."
He didn't ask me any more questions until we reached my house. The ride was a bit of an experience, to say the least. Every few yards we would come upon an article of clothing and we would have to dismount and fetch it. No, it wasn't a two-person job, but Mr. Man was simply too polite to let me do it on my own. He was also too polite to actually touch the delicates of my sisters and myself. So every time a pair of bloomers was spotted in the distance the following events would occur:
1. The stranger would blush. I could tell because the back of his neck began to resemble a strip of uncooked bacon.
2. The horse would be stopped alongside said bloomers, but only after a really painful process where the rider would try to get as close as possible to the clothing without actually trampling it.
3. Rider would dismount.
4. Rider would help me dismount, alternatively staring at my torso and my face, since he couldn't seem to decide which was less inappropriate.
5. I would retrieve the troublesome belonging.
6. Rider would aid me in the remounting of the horse, stoutly refusing to look at or touch the item of clothing, and indeed attempting to pretend it didn't exist.
7. Rider would remount.
8. We'd continue on our way.
The process got more and more difficult with each stop, as the pile of clothing I was holding grew larger and larger. This clothing was also dusty and, in some cases, soaked through with pig feed, so I tried to hold it so that it touched nothing except my arms. The stranger didn't appear to appreciate my efforts, however, as he was making a very effective effort to bend his spine in on itself, as far away from me as possible.
When we finally arrived at our destination I was so grateful to get away from both the smell of rotten vegetables and the uncomfortable silence that I practically flew off of the horses haunches.
"Thank you, I appreciate it, it was wonderful meeting you, so long." Any one, take your pick. I beamed in a horribly strained, insincere way, the way my sisters smile at the small-town folk that coo over them, and wrestled with the pile of clothing to perform what was possibly the most pitiful excuse for a curtsey, ever attempted, since the beginning of recorded knowledge.
The man on horseback just stared for a moment, completely nonplused. Then he sort of coughed or sneezed or something, as he dismounted, so the result was he appeared as thought he'd been forcibly expelled from the saddle. Oh, dear. I suppose this was when he became all charming and asked for a bit of nourishment for the road...
"I was wondering- I mean to say, that is, if it is appropriate for me to inquire..."
I stood there, rancid clothing becoming more fragrant in the arcing sun, willing him with my mind to speed things along.
"...shall I make the proper introductions?"
He waited tensely, eyes latched firmly onto the doorway behind me. For the love of-
Was he asking me for my name? What a complete fop. I mean, honestly. All of that trouble, just to ask my name?
Hissing a sigh through my clenched jaws I managed to proffer one dirty paw.
"Taryn." I said after a moment, watching with amusement as propriety battled with utter disgust, and he finally decided to shake my hand.
"Charming."
I waited, resisting the urge to say 'It's charmed, you great buffoon.' I waited several minutes, eyebrows raised, until this master conversationalist finally cleared his throat for the umpteenth time and said "Um, that's my name. Charming."
Oh.
Oh.
"How wretched! Oh, you poor dear. Your parents must have really wanted to give you a rough time of it, hm? Is that what you went by, as a boy? I can't even imagine..."
I continued chuckling to myself as I deposited the clothing near our well, and began drawing up fresh wash-water.
"Actually, the name was never an issue, really."
Well, I'll be. He can speak without stumbling over himself.
"Well, that's good, then." I responded after a moment. Scintillating as the discussion was, I had a great amount of work to do, and I really couldn't see why he was still hanging around. Unfortunately he didn't seem to sense my dismissal, as he had now settled himself near the well. Suppose I'll just have to be rude about it, then.
"It was lovely meeting you," I managed, though the bucket I was toting made speech difficult. He made no move to help. "I don't suppose your horse needs any water before you go?"
Staring pointedly at the beast, I all but shooed him toward his mount. Luckily he wasn't so dense as to miss my tactless farewell.
"O-of course. It's been a pleasure, Lady Taryn." Cue the overly-dramatic bow. Must withhold maniacal laughter at the title of 'lady.'
"I feel the same." That's it, just keep walking towards the horse. Easy now, easy, good strange man.
"Perhaps we'll meet again in the future. Enjoy your day." I wasn't particularly enjoying that strange look in his eyes, but no matter. Another starched smile and he was riding away.
I let out an enormous sigh and sagged against the side of my clapboard home. Thank goodness that was over. Clicking my teeth slightly in thought, I finally shook my head and dismissed the whole affair as a complete waste of time. I mean, really.
Summoning my strength I made a beeline for the large tub we used for washing. It was going to be a long couple of hours.
The sun was setting behind the scrawny trees bordering the plot of land our small town inhabited. The sky had turned that peculiar dusky grey that marked evening, and I had just finished the last of my assignments. Thank the when-keepers Father and the twins were running late, or I would never had made it in time. And who should I see prancing jauntily over the hill, but our loving and obedient cat.
It took me all of an instant to decide to start lobbing things at his conniving little skull.
"You wretched little hellion! What devil has possessed you that you so effectively rip any composure I have to shreds, you worthless-!"
"Taryn?"
I froze mid-rant and turned slightly to see Hazel and Basil staring at me with identical looks of puzzlement on their pixie-like faces. Father was coming along behind them, toting the accumulated purchases of several hours about-town.
"I mean," I straightened my shoulders, cleared my throat, and guiltily dropped the large, rounded stone with which I had been about to bludgeon our family's feline. "What wonderful timing."
Father raised one wiry eyebrow in a look that said he knew exactly what I had been up to. Fortunately for me, the twins missed it. Had they not I would have been in for hours of lectures about defenseless animals and such (defenseless my arse; he has claws, doesn't he?)
"Help us with the bags, Taryn?" That was Hazel, though I noted in a moment of exhausted irritation that she and her sister weren't carrying so much as a hatbox. Ah, well.
"There's some stew indoors, if you'd like some. Cider's on the fire." The bubbly pair probably would have skipped past me, had my father not made one fatal mistake.
"Aren't you going to tell Taryn about your day?"
Immediately I was barraged with various accounts of vendors, outfits, and personalities.
"You should have seen the gypsies, Taryn. I wish I could have hair like that! All the way down to their waists-"
"And beads and scarves all over! They had these bracelets of tiny bells that-"
"Yes! And they rang and jingled just like the elves' workshops, I swear it, and-"
I laughed and hefted two sacks, pausing to nudge Basil with my elbow. "Just how would you know what the elves sound like, hm?" Her wide grey eyes blinked solemnly up at me, before she whispered, "The prophet Mariella says I'm a changeling, and that I'm destined to marry a prince."
"We both are!" Hazel piped up. "She was so wise, Taryn, she could've told us anything. Where we're to live, our trade, all of it!"
"I shall be a dancer in the kings court!" Basil declared, waving a new shawl about her like a streamer or ribbon.
"No, I shall be a dancer for the king! And the prince shall see my beauty and fall in love with me!" Hazel strikes what she probably thinks is a sultry pose but which is actually (thankfully) very cute and rather silly.
Their argument continues on its petty but expected way, and I fall back to walk alongside my father.
"So how costly were those fortunes?" I ask quietly, taking two more bags off of the tower he's trying not to topple.
"Oh, you know the gypsies," he manages, breathing heavily as he rearranges the stack of market goods. "It was reasonable enough."
"Mmhm." I roll my eyes as we step across the threshold into the cozy, firelit room. "Because the gypsies are known for their fairness of trade."
Father only shakes his head and smiles a bit, tucking his belongings in behind the wardrobe. Those will have to be packed away, later. Otherwise the girls will wear a new dress every day for as long as they can get away with it.
Well, the day appears to have been a success. Aside from my personal stint of abnormalcy, the family seems to have a great time, and maybe even have forgotten about the significant of today's date, if only for a little while.