I own nothing in the Inglorious Basterds world. Would I be writing this at 3 am if I did, nope probably not. This was inspired by an amazing still from movie and a new lj friend who planted the idea of Cinderella and just how messed up the Grimm Brothers where in my head. The title and chapter names are all credit to FATA.
"Little tree, little tree shake over me,
That silver and gold may come down and cover me."
The stupid rhyme kept running through her head; after all these years the little fairytale her mother told before kissing her forehead and switching off her light, came back to haunt her. Such folly, thinking back to the easy days when walking home from pastures she would create fantasy worlds in the clouds slowly moving above her head. Shaking her head trying to clear away the still painful memories, she finally let the fog overtake her.
One day a prince would be seen riding a sleek magnificent black beast. So dashing and handsome, she knew one day he would come. He, him, the nameless savior of the stories she told herself and brother to pass the dull days. He would sweep her away from a life preordained to be dull, filled only with local festivals and holidays. She shuddered at the thought of attending them with the local farm hands and let her thoughts turn back to her white knight. Walking through the meadows where the wildflowers perfumed the air she tried imaging his face. It still escaped her as always; so she compared him to her favorite story as a child, from the huge tome her grandfather had left filled to the brim with stories detailing roving trolls, princesses to smart and cunning for their own good, little grotesque men stealing innocent babes from cribs and princes both fair and dark pushing through barriers that nature itself set up to destroy them. Her favorites were the ones where the ones with girls in disguise, just like her. She especially loved the little cinder girl and when she was smaller her mother would catch her playing near the big fireplace in the kitchen. She'd be scolded, thwacked on the bottom and told to clean up. But still her mamma would sing her the little songs from the story each night. Her mother always curious why her eldest child loved those stories so much, they all had a darker edge to them filled with severe trials and almost disturbing occurrences. Thinking about her father she remembered being told once that without these cruelties no one would actually appreciate the treasure that was life.
Even when the persecutions started she still latched onto hope, it wasn't like her family and the others in the sleepy village were really the strictest their religious duties. They all observed the Sabbath and proper holidays, ate the proper food but that was about it. None of the neighbors cared and treated them the same. Anyway the village was barely on a map, why would the Germans actually want anything to do with them. But slowly the attitudes changed, the shadow of the Reich began to stretch and finally settled over their home. Mamma no longer hummed little tunes Grandpere taught her. Papa no longer laughed and smoked his pipe at night. Her brother even quieted his endless questions. Her stories once a source of entertainment; where deemed silly and inappropriate. She asked her mother one day if she thought they would be safe since mamma wasn't actually born a Jew. Her mother paused," Little one if there is nothing those fanatics hate more than the people they persecute: are the ones who willing align themselves with those who are damned." Never before had her mother spoken to her so plainly and from the look in her eyes she knew it was time to put away childish stories and idealism's.
The hunts soon began and the little family had to abandon all they knew, the house with its huge fireplace and comfy bright rooms to the book that brought so much comfort in long winter months and quiet summer evenings. They had to siphon of the kindness of neighbors, asking them to risk their own lives while they lay in wait for deaths footsteps to creak above them. At this time she greatly missed the life she threw away to wishes sung to clouds. Her tears leaking back to mingle in the grime coating her hair from the crawl space they groveled in.
Those steps came on day that seemed to soon but still so far away. She listened to the man speak in light French and prayed that the farmer would be strong. As she held her hands over her mouth she thought back to silly times and begged for that prince to now come and rescue her. Or there was tree that was able to magically dispense disguises for her and her family's use. Still they all listened as the language slipped away from their native tongue, this investigator known as Hans Landa finding out all he needed as the farmer silently broke. Her father holding mamma while her brother clutched onto her, they listened to the steps tapping out doom above them. Then silence. The earth shattered her parent's eyes wide open and staring at nothing and her brother's skull bleeding beside her. So she fled as fast as she could, pushing herself through the crawlspace like a person buried alive feeling the heat as the soldiers set fire to the farmhouse. Her eyes stung with smoke and sunlight they had not seen for days. She pressed her already fragile body to run, stumbling she turned by a huge black car. It sat sleek and shining, the flames dancing in the reflection. She ran faster still and heard the shout behind her, her name echoing in the pasture as clouds moved across the sky ignorant of the girl that used to dance and sing in their shadows. That was all she had left, shadows of days filled with happy dreams and songs, pipe smoke still curling in her nose mixed in the with stink of her loved ones burning away to ash. Now she really was the little cinder girl, lost and alone depending on the kindness of others.
She was lucky and found a home in a city too big to give up all its secrets. She was given a new name and life. To this life she adapted most readily. Learned all she could about film, it was almost like her grand book from back home. Gilt figures enacted make believe stories and epic battles. The only difference being the happy endings weren't won by pain and sacrifice. Still she sweated and toiled in the little cinema, learning to be happy with what she forged for herself. Sometimes alone in her little apartment with the white walls and high ceilings, she'd dream of a prince riding a sleek black beast. Waking up she'd pour a glass of wine and reflect on what she's become, a lost little girl still wishing for fairytales to be real. Surrounded by books filled with tales from around the world and prints on the walls of lands she will most liking never visit, she could still smell the meadows of youth that physically wasn't very far away. These thoughts drove her to walk in the late night, the trees on the streets below her windows shaking silver and gold on her as she walked in solitude, trying to find answers and a shoe that fit her again. Clouds are again her companions as she dreams up half stories to console herself, almost wishing for that prince to ride down the street she haunted. What kept her up was the fact he was starting to solidify in her mind.
He resembled a man she watched in her nocturnal wanderings. Her mind softened by the wine meant to help her sleep. He would still be awake when she passed underneath the wrought iron balcony to his adobe. She walked under it on a daily basis; it was to and from the theater. Perhaps it was the long way but throughout all the seasons this route afforded her the most pleasant diversions. She knew he left early since she never passed by till later in the morning. The cinema owner business afforded late mornings and even later nights. Apparently as did his business, on her way home she'd see him reading or note taking with a cup of something hot and a cigarette burning low besides him. During the hotter months he would be out on the veranda still working but taking in the sounds around him. And still later at night she would catch glimpses of him actually relaxing, sitting again outside or by the windows with strains of faint music wafting in the air. His late night attire consisting of nothing more than the pants he slept in. She would see the outline of muscles as he moved to change the record or walk to another room to refill his drink. She would keep to the shadows never letting him see her, even though she always felt as though she was intruding on something extremely private. This seemed like it was the only time he ever let himself truly relax. But she couldn't stop herself, the nights when she could actually sleep felt empty. It was as though she really couldn't call an end to her day unless she saw him with his eyes closed and the lamplight turning his hair in to the same color as the molten liquor he held in his hand as he listened to whatever the night had to offer him.
Her dream prince reflected these moments and man; after he carried her away they would always end up in a large room with distant music wafting in the air. Amber hair brushing against her check as he bent down to kiss it, her finger digging into the firm muscle of his upper arms. Waking up she would always wonder if by chance she would actually converse with him that day or week. Lately after working, when she passed by his residence she'd glance up and see him outside and he'd lift his hand to her. Maybe he wasn't so buried in his work as she thought and watched the people along his street as a diversion.
What she didn't expect was to see a phantom from her childhood parked along the street as she walked to the theater later in the week. It was still just as midnight black and sleek as she remembered, only this time reflecting her now honey colored hair and less mystified eyes. As much as she wanted to run she schooled herself to merely stroll by as if huge expensive vehicles during wartime meant nothing more than an early afternoon tea. Only a few hours later she passed by it again. Having made some excuse that she was preoccupied to the only other person employed she made her way home, stopping to retrieve some dinner and thinking that she really shouldn't encourage the projectionist's endearments. He was too chivalrous, too ready to please and charge into a battle he had no hope of winning. Too much of a modern day fairytale ideal for princes, no hers needed restraint and the ability to access the situation before formulating a plan fit for total annihilation of whatever threat loomed over them. Marcel ment well, he just wasn't right for her and for that she felt guilty for even giving him the idea she was in want of his affections. She was shaken out of this reverie by the sight of the black car, still parked in its silent stance just waiting for it master's touch to smoothly move along Paris's winding streets.
Stepping around it, she tripped and dropped her parcels, apples a treat to herself rolling away. While collecting her runaway items, she heard precise measured steps behind her. They stopped and she felt a solid warmth by her elbow, turning she looked into eyes that blended from a blend from blue and green deep enough to drown in to a tawny brown sparking with a fire that burned her. Her own eyes trailing from his to the slight creases at the corners of those hypnotic orbs, landing on an aristocratic nose and focusing lastly on a smile that would falter the ones gracing cherubs in the Louvre. Her hands shook as he helped locate errand parcels, and a voice much unexpected yet very familiar asking if she was alright and not injured in anyway.
She answered quietly that she was fine and apologized for taking up his time. He was dressed in his full uniform. Every cut and line accenting what the moonlight had already shown her for months. She stepped around him and hurried down the street, never noticing him watch her still she rounded the corner. Her own apartments a few blocks where located a few blocks from there, and she quickly moved down them and up the steps to the safety of her books and lofty ceilings. Dazedly she sat at her little table, the realization that her midnight prince was the one man that broke her world apart with a few simple utterances to those under his command. Yet she wouldn't have it any other way, it made sense as she rolled an apple between her hands. He knew of her past persona and know looked onto the current one. One life traded for another at a pricey cost and he had granted her original wish. He rode in on a sleek black steed and managed to aid her in the escape of a life she felt no part of.
She felt the way his eyes bore into her that he could see the cinder dust she has collected throughout the years, wipe away all the past hurts and aches. See through the disguise and she indeed wasn't something to be marked off in a file. Still dwelling on these thoughts she went about her routine and soon it turned into the time she pretended to sleep. After only about an hour she got back up and dressed again, locked her door and started her nighttime vigil. Starting out on a different street she walked till his was the last before she turned for home. His lights where on signaling another late night for him even though to her it seemed as though his day had been plenty full. If it where her she'd would have actually been exhausted enough her mind wouldn't need this strange obsession. After the shock of the day, she only let herself glance up content with the idea that seeing him walk around or his profile relaxed would ease her mind. She saw nothing and quickened her pace, only for the second time in twelve hours to run abruptly into the person that now constantly haunted her thoughts. Smiling at her he offered to walk her home. Her stuttering reply giving him the satisfaction he had indeed disarmed her. As they both moved through the quiet night he asked her small questions, who she was and what did she do. She answered the same way as she had to everyone else the past few years, she was Emmanuelle and ran a local theater house left to her by her deceased aunt. She remembered his talent at uncovering hidden truths but decided that he needn't be privy to who she actually was yet. The prince could still turn out to be the villain after all. Grandpere's book taught her that much, never take first appearances as basic truth. It will always lead to your downfall and make the path you travel that more perilous. He walked with her up the steps and stopped at her doorway.
He paused and brushed away a stray hair from her face. He leaned in and invited her to dine with him tomorrow night. With his boyish smile he even confessed that he'd been in fact watching her walk so late at night and took comfort in seeing her pass by his home. The nights when she didn't caused him to wonder if she was feeling well. The man before her dressed in simple civilian clothes presented her with a far more intimidating image. At least in the uniform he had to play a role in the story, now he was a mystery she wasn't quite sure she was willing to unravel. In a split second decision she agreed, her body humming with delight as he let his smile reach his eyes. Knowing she brought him that sort of pleasure she became a willing participant and the game life just rolled her. He told her he would come her around seven and to dress a bit more feminine than now, laughing he said as adorable as he thought she looked right now; she needed at least a nice summer dress. Grinning shyly back, she murmured that she indeed had a few. Ducking into her apartment she softly closed the door and stood behind it in amazement, knowing she very well could have just signed a deal with the devil himself by agreeing to be in the very presence of the man that terrorized her village and ordered the slaughter of her family. Yet she couldn't judge him on these actions, for all she knew he was wishing these acts never had been committed and his talents put to use elsewhere. Or at least she could save him from turning into a monster that fate deem him to be. She fell into bed and welcomed with open arms and a blissful smile sleep.
Landa stood outside the door to the quaint apartment, when she had slipped inside he caught a glimpse of books and small items. It wasn't enough of a taste to satisfy his curiosity, this girl that walked the boulevards after curfew to watch him from lengthy shadows and cloud cover. Emmanuelle wasn't her real name; he had watched her enough to recognize the curve of her back and shape of her calf to remember the young girl that ran from him so many years ago. Something made him pause that day, not really understanding what it was he laughed it off to his men and mentioned something about another day and another time. The honeyed hair suited her and her eyes told him she knew exactly who he was and she never blinked in fear of him. Oh she reacted with shock and surprise but never the paralyzed fear most people showed him, afraid that if they didn't smile and react just the way they thought he would like; he would magically discover the darkest secrets they harbored and display them for the world to gloat upon. When he made the connection as to who in fact she was (he had after all discreetly asked around as to who people thought she was), he felt no desire to spring upon her and let her join her family in whatever afterlife he was assigned to push them towards. He wanted to see what life she had built for herself here far away from the rustic villages that never really change with the moving centuries. Maybe after then his innate curiosity would be extinguished and he would continue without nightly distraction peering at him and crawling unbidden into his mind as to what her skin might taste like under his lips. He quickly changed his mind at the thought of her only being a partial amusement. She left him a shoe when she ran from him, and he wanted to see if it fit her. No woman so far could match what he wanted, always meek and subversive never rising to the challenges he set forth. He wanted to see if she could hold up and maybe save him from himself. Too many years alone has sent him on a path he never felt easy on in the first place. She might just be the beacon to draw to the one meant solely for him and not marked by the ignorance of madmen. Shosanna was presenting herself to be a very interesting creature.
"There they go, there they go!
There is blood on her shoe;
The shoe is too small,
Not the right bride at all."
Now he only needs to wait and see if the little rhymes from so long ago would tell him the truth.