Once upon a time there was a princess who fell into an enchanted, eternal sleep, a sleep that could only be broken by love's kiss.
This is a story told countless times through countless generations, changed by time and perceptions. Stripped to its bare bones of a beautiful girl, her handsome prince, a wicked witch, and the power of magic. Naturally, the storytellers left out the finer details that might have went over the heads of their audiences, such as the politics behind the curse of the wicked witch, or what truly drove the handsome prince to such great lengths to save a princess whom he barely knew, save through the legends and myth he was told. Most lamentably of all, the storytellers forgot the princess, the most important character of their tale. Her body is always present in the stories, true, her form. But as the years passed, and the roles of women dwindled down to little more than mother and housewife, the princess became little more than a beautiful, empty shell.
What the storytellers never fail to forget is the happy ending. Happily ever after, for the princess and the prince and their faithful fairies. An easy ending, a way to glean coins from an audience in order to buy bread and ale before a storyteller goes on to entertain the next village or castle.
Much easier of an ending than the true one.
Once upon a time there was a headstrong prince, a second son behind a dazzling older brother, who was compelled to achieve fame and glory through the most dangerous path open to him.
Once upon a time there was a fairy girl, a guardian of a sleeping princess, and her loyalty to her was such that she would sacrifice everything she had, or did not have, for the safety of her charge.
Once upon a time there was a princess, the sole heir to her kingdom, a kingdom she would do anything to protect. It was this, the witch foresaw, that would make her such a difficult enemy.
This is the tale of three very different people, for all that they shared the same destiny, and the same adversary.
I believe we shall start with the witch, the queen of a nation in her own right, for without her, this story would be over before it even started.
…..
Queen Melanthe of Althredra was quite an unusual height for a fairy. When standing up straight, as she usually did, even very tall men had to look up to her. Not that any man, no matter how tall, imposing, or courageous, would dare to ever look Melanthe in the eye.
The witch-queen knew her height would draw unwanted attention to her, so as she wormed her way through the throng of peasants and noblemen alike, she hunched her back over, so as to appear merely to be an old crone, hoping for just one glance of the baby princess. Of course, there were spells for such a thing, but, presently, magic was a precious commodity to Melanthe.
She had not used even the most simple explosion charm, storing up every tiny bit of magic within her, just for this day. It was threatening to brim over with every step she took, though one would only know it by glancing at her eyes, which glimmered an inky black. Melanthe kept her eyes downcast as she continued to the front of the enormous entrance hall.
There was magic in the very air she breathed in this room. No doubt, she thought, fairies from all across the realm of Dalthian had been recruited for the task of weaving spells for the new princess' name day. Some of the spells were based on notions of pure aesthetics, Melanthe noted, such as expanding the room to such a size that half of the subjects of the realm could fit into it easily, and still find ample space to breathe. Wide windows lined the marble walls, and through them streamed both sunlight and fresh air. It was a sweltering summer day, yet the palace was kept at a pleasantly cool temperature, again by magic.
Then there were the spells that were not so innocent, harder to detect, but there. Strong protective wards against any sort of black magic, or those who might wield it. Namely, those practitioners of the art of dark spells, Melanthe's own small army of witch-fairies.
Melanthe herself smirked. Naturally, the foolish rulers of Dalthian and their protectors would expect such an attack, and know how to defend against it. A quick assassination of Dalthian's only heir would be an easy victory for Althredra, a victory that would cripple the Dalthian monarchs and people alike, and make them vastly more conquerable. That was what Melanthe wanted more than anything else in the world: to eradicate the nation of Dalthian altogether, and then the isle that the two countries had always shared, split right down the middle, would be all one Althredra. A strong Althredra, presided over by Queen Melanthe, would soon be a threat to all those other kingdoms on the mainland that she had her eyes upon taking.
These fantastical dreams ran through Melanthe's head as she pushed past the dark magic wards with ease, ignoring them as if they were no different than any other bit of air within the hall. And to her, indeed, they were not. The spells had obviously been created by fairies that were skilled in performing defensive magic, and they would have repelled even the general of Melanthe's army of witch-fairies. However, none had been prepared for one of Melanthe's level of power. Why would they? There was no reason that the queen of Althredra herself should come to attempt an assassination, for she was busy running her own country's affairs, wasn't she? Sending an assassin was a certainty, but never the queen. Such a possibility had not even passed through any of the minds of Dalthian, had it?
Even if it had, there was nothing to be done. A spell to stop a fairy, or outwit any of that fairy's magic, must be created by a fairy stronger than the fairy one wants to ward against. And no fairy, on the isle or the mainland, was more powerful than Melanthe. After all, did it not take a master of magic to defeat an entire nation, and then to assume rule over it? That was why nations were run by mortal kings and queens and their councils. A fairy might advise a ruling family, but never have a throne for themselves. Except for Althredra, which had been conquered by Melanthe's ancestors centuries long ago. She was descended from the most powerful witch-fairies ever known, and she was just as strong as they had been. No one could match her.
Her smirk grew wider, in equal parts pride and evil intent. Thinking about her considerable prowess always made her happy, as did plotting against those she detested. The expression on her face darkened as she let her mind wander back to this same day, one year ago exactly, when Melanthe had the premonition that led her to this task.
There was a beautiful woman on a white horse. Curls of a dark golden hue fell below her shoulders, and her smile was the epitome of graciousness. A glittering silver tiara that sat atop her head denoted her as royalty, although that was perhaps the last clue that Melanthe noticed. What made it truly obvious was the way the people gravitated toward her, reaching out their hands for a single touch, or if they were lucky, a blessing, from their wonderful new queen. And this queen welcomed her new subjects with equal fervor, touching their hands as they wished, murmuring a few words of prayer over the head of a infant in its mother's arms.
The new queen was riding through the capital city of this nation, to the palace at its center. There was a king, or a prince, who rode beside the queen, but he was negligent compared to her. He smiled above the heads of his new subjects, but his thoughts were elsewhere. What did it matter anyway? He was merely an accessory to the new sovereign.
From the streets where the commoners were, and where the queen was being welcomed, one could see overtop the simple homes of the peasants, where the towers of the castle jutted into the sky, black against blue, spindly and twisted.
The sight of the castle, which was only hinted at by a mere outline, was what always shook Melanthe from the vision, howling in fury. For the castle, and the city and its people, they were all hers of course. It all belonged to her, except for the woman on the horse.
When ambassadors from Dalthian were sent to the furthest reaches of the world, and even next door to their deadliest enemy of Althredra, announcing that their most beloved queen had conceived of a child, Melanthe had known. It had been a feeling, nothing more than a shuddering jolt of knowledge, but a fairy's intuition should never be doubted.
Melanthe had finally squeezed through both crowd and wards alike, until she had reached the very front of the hall, though she took care to keep at least a few rows of people ahead of her, so that those upon the high terrace could not get a glimpse of her face. Until the time was right, she did not want to be recognized.
The murmurs and whispers of the swarm of Dalthian subjects fell to silence, as their king rose from his throne with his hands raised, and announced, "On our Princess Linnaea's name day, many of the fairies of the realm have been generous enough to present gifts to our daughter, and we request your patience as they do so. Afterwards, we may celebrate the birth of our heir with a feast!" He sat down again, a broad grin on his bearded face. He took the hand of his queen who sat in a matching throne beside him, and her smile mirrored his own. There was gray hair at both of their temples, betraying their age no matter how much youthful happiness they were filled with on this day. It had taken years of marriage to have an heir, and their subjects had all but given up on them to ever achieve it.
So Melanthe had already missed the official naming ceremony, but that was no great loss. It was a boring ritual; what everyone loved to see most was the gifts of the fairies, customary in all of the kingdoms ruled by mere mortals. The gifts were never objects, but bits of magic that lent towards the little prince or princess' future, and would mold them as they grew to adulthood.
A line of brightly clothed individuals lined the stage, dressed in all sorts of silks and finery enhanced by magic. The front of the line ended at the nondescript lace-covered cradle where the baby princess lay. From where she stood, Melanthe saw only a glimpse of pink within the cradle, though she knew it to be the princess' tiny face.
Beside the cradle sat a final fairy, and she kept one hand on it at all times, rocking the cradle back and forth gently. She was dressed in a plain gray gown with no magical properties whatsoever, and her brown hair was pulled up and away from a wan, pale face. There was a small smile there as well, but it could not mask her exhaustion.
The fairy pet of the royal family, Melanthe thought in disgust, although she also wondered what led the fairy to be so empty of magic. None of the spells Melanthe had come across so far belonged to her, that much she knew for certain. If they had been, Melanthe would have run into minor troubles, at the very least.
The tired fairy's other hand rested on the roundness of her own stomach, which caused Melanthe's sneer to turn into a frown. She is pregnant! For the first time in over nine months, Melanthe felt a shiver of self-doubt come over her. A female fairy wielded much more power if she was with child, although such a power was fleeting, and perhaps left its user weaker than before after giving birth. It was the one reason why Melanthe had as yet failed to give her kingdom an heir.
She shook herself out of her reverie. It was no matter. The pet fairy of Dalthian could have triplets in her belly for all Melanthe cared. She would always be stronger. With this thought giving her back her confidence, she refocused her attention onto the visiting fairies giving presents to their princess.
"I bestow upon the Princess Linnaea the gift of beauty," the first fairy proclaimed, waving her hands over the cradle in a demonstration of colorful sparks. A traditional gift for any offspring of royalty.
"I grant the Princess Linnaea the gift of fleetness of foot, so that she might be the most graceful dancer in the kingdom!"
And so they continued, the line of fairies dwindling down slowly, as each of them gave the most typical, superficial gifts any of them could imagine, coupled with a display of unnecessary magic for added effect. Spells could be cast invisibly, and this in fact took more consummate skill. However, every audience loves a show, and that was what the fairies would provide them.
Finally the last fairy gave his gift (musical talent with a lute, as nearly all the other good gifts had already been given), and the fairy sitting next to the cradle began to awkwardly get to her feet. Melanthe would not give her the chance to say whatever it was she was going to bequeath unto the princess, for now was finally her moment.
She flung her matted brown cloak off of her back and stood up straight, and suddenly Melanthe towered above everyone else in the audience. Her white-gold hair fell to her feet, shining brightly in the sunlight. The original plan was to create a thunderstorm outside at this very second, but, remembering the child in her rival's stomach, decided to conserve her magic.
Everyone in the audience turned to stare at her, the old crone who had seemed to simply morph into this thin-waisted enchantress. An overflow of dark magic made the air around her shimmer in a black fog matching her eyes. It was difficult to tell the difference between the magic that surrounded her and her own extravagant black gown that left little to the imagination.
The king and queen gasped when they recognized her, and the crowd followed suit, all gasping simultaneously. The queen started to stand, likely because of some protective mother instinct. Still weakened from childbirth though, it only took one step or her to faint into her husband's arms. The king glared at Melanthe, eyes wide with a combination of rage and horror, though she noted that he was still lost for words. Fear even flickered in the eyes of the solitary fairy, who was now standing protectively in front of the cradle.
"A party, and I wasn't invited?" Melanthe said, and her tone was delicate with mock surprise. Her voice was smooth and surprisingly deep for such a feminine figure. It echoed throughout the entire hall. She would not let anyone miss what was coming next. "Despite my own high degree of royalty, I have always possessed certain magical talents, as many of you may know. Perhaps I shall be the last one to bestow a gift upon the Princess Linnaea?"
The gray-clad fairy remained silent, but did not move from her place in front of the cradle. Her eyes met Melanthe's and she kept them there, locking gazes with her old enemy.
Melanthe approached the terrace, gliding up the steps to the cradle every so slowly, trying to make the suspense build as much as possible. Finally she was less than a foot away from the woman, and the cradle itself. She stared down at the both of them, forcing the fairy to look up to her.
"Hyacinth," she cooed. "My old friend. Surely you will step aside and allow me to present your charge with a gift of my own? It is clear that you do not have a drop of magic under your control, so diluted they are from whatever preparations you have made for this day. Come now, do not endanger your child in order to futilely try and save one that does not even belong to you."
Melanthe thought that nothing could surprise her, but when Hyacinth stepped a few paces to the left, giving her full access to the princess, her eyes widened. Hyacinth, whose eyes had not left Melanthe since she revealed herself, noticed this, and she silently hoped everything she had planned in case of such an emergency would not fail her now.
She watched as the witch-fairy raised a single white hand over the baby princess. Along with everyone else in the room, she knew what was coming, and braced herself for it.
"I, Queen Melanthe of Althredra, present the Princess Linnaea with an everlasting gift. An eternal sleep, in the form of death," she declared, with a particularly vicious emphasis on that final word. Then she enveloped the entire cradle in a glittering black fog, and cast a single, infinitely powerful death bolt, straight at the newborn princess.
The silence that followed this was deafening, only pierced seconds later by the solitary wail of an infant.
The fog instantly dissipated as Melanthe shrieked a ringing scream that made those nearby wince and put their hands over their ears.
"This is your doing!" she screeched, advancing on Hyacinth, who suddenly radiated with confidence.
She looked up at Melanthe, both hands on her stomach placidly. "Of course it was me who placed a spell of protection around the princess, one that you could neither see nor break through. Did you expect nothing less?" Her voice was quiet and calm.
"I may not have broken through your shield with my spell, but I have broken it!" Melanthe summoned up more magic within her, grasping at strands of it to fire off another death bolt. But it was not enough, and Hyacinth knew it. No longer was Melanthe glowing with dark magic, and her eyes had faded to a washed-out blue.
"You are as weakened as I am by your efforts," Hyacinth said. "Your bolt was not powerful enough to break through my shield, and now you have not enough magic left make even an attempt at death."
The audience seemed to move closer to the stage, desperately trying to catch every word that was exchanged, so that they might better understand the magic that had just occurred.
Melanthe's face broke into a wicked smile. "But I do know what I have enough magic left for, and what you are too weak to counteract."
"And what is that?"
"White magic has always been pathetic in undoing curses, hasn't it? And yet curses come so easily to one who is well-practiced in them, even with only scraps of magic at my disposal."
Hyacinth's hand clapped over her mouth in horror, and the audience gave a timely gasp.
Melanthe did not even have to look at the baby in the cradle to know what came next. "I curse the Princess Linnaea with death that shall come to her as she enters her seventeenth year…by pricking her finger upon the spindle of a spinning wheel," she added as an afterthought. A decent curse, certainly creative enough, she decided.
Nothing happened at that moment, as often does with curses. Melanthe did not have the magic to expend for showy side effects or more black fog. She simply smiled, and disappeared into nothingness with a snap of her fingers, using the easiest transportation spell she knew to return to her castle.
Hyacinth did not try to chase her, for she knew it was useless. She crumpled to her knees on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. The king, in typical kingly fashion, began to bark orders at various servants that stood at hand, jerking them back into reality from the spectacle that had just happened in front of their eyes. The subjects in the crowd made their own noises, some screaming in terror or in grief, while others did their best to remain composed, and to calm down those who stood beside them with soothing, ineffective words.
The thin cry of a baby seemed to drown out everything else.