Disclaimer: I'm not making monetary profit. Either way, Cinderella is public domain. this story is turning out to be a historical fiction piece so it has references and parallels to things that have actually happened. I also throw in little tributes to cultural icons. The plot is mine, minus the Cinderella ish parts.
A/N: (must read)
Dear readers,
This is a story that transcends time or space. It can take place anywhere and at anytime. This vague setting is modeled after that of Oedipus Rex, so the reader can relate more to this tale. I make references to historical and contemporary characters with absolutely no regard to geography or time periods. However, I do this off of the top of my head and I'm not very good at remembering specific details. Therefore if you find anything historically inaccurate, please let me know. Also, if you have a favorite historical event or character you'd like to see in the story, drop me a review and I'll try to put it in!
Thank you for reading.
I am especially grateful to all you reviewers because this piece was
originally designed to be a oneshot. I hope the rest of you enjoy and
review as well.
This is a fic that critiques the unrealistic standards of beauty that can only be achieved by cosmetic enhancements. In other words, Cinderella remix with a reality check. and now, for the feature presentation...
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a beautiful princess.
But that's not my story.
No one is born beautiful. It takes the right clothing, hairstyle, and makeup to look that way. If you're lucky, you get a handful of fairies who bless you at birth. My "natural" countenance lacks what it takes to catch the eye of any man who would be able to put food on my table and a roof over my head, so I took pains to alter my appearance. Call me superficial, call me a gold digger, what would you have done? What means are available to women that do not involve men? I could spin for men's wives, prostitute myself to men, or beg for scraps paid for by men. You may judge me but there is a piece of me in each and every one of you.
How many of you have never primped yourself in the mirror, changed outfits several times before meeting with a man who had potential to become a marital partner? You may claim that you want to make your own means through your own hard work, but how many of you would not want to be a princess? Do you think it is easy to charm a prince into marrying you when he has so many other prospects? It takes effort to look attractive, a certain tolerance to appear composed and royal. All of you who judge me, you are in denial. What I have achieved for myself is what you all secretly want. This is my story.
I was hired to be a mere servant, but with the wages they paid me you would have thought I was some unwanted stepsister turned maid. I grew tired of scrubbing floors until my knuckles bled and chasing off the advances of disgusting older men. If I were in a position of authority, I'd be able to do something about all the poor servant girls who are whipped after giving birth to their master's children if the fathers are not merciful enough to wed them. Most of their masters already happened to be wed. The lucky ones would get beaten by the mistresses until they miscarried. I cursed my plight and that of all women. Like all other females, I only had one narrow way out. I had to marry a benevolent man who would provide for me and not abuse me. I had no room to fall in love, or find someone who would take me for who I am. Fairy tales do not happen in real life.
As a lowly servant I had little opportunity to attract decent husbands, especially since I was often red faced from the hot stove and my skin scorched from washing clothes with lye. However, my opportunity came when a royal invitation arrived in the mail. It requested that all eligible maidens attend a ball during which the prince would choose his bride. The ladies of the household were in such a flurry that they did not even notice when one of the hairpins or cosmetics went missing here and there. I doubt they would have missed them anyway, the ornaments are numerous.
After the two sisters left for the ball giggling and squealing, I began to prepare myself.
I bleached my hair blond with urine I had collected from the chamber pots. I forced each lock into curls with rods I pulled out of the fireplace. I made my squinty eyes look bigger by lining them with kohl. I covered my rugged cheeks with powdered white lead. I hid my calloused hands with silk gloves. I stained my lips with berries. I squeezed into a corset until I could barely breath. This was the only way any man of significance would notice me. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that I looked much more appealing. A peacock that had spread its feathers. Any other woman who married the prince would be content to serve as a mere trophy ordering servants around. I, on the other hand, would be the real power behind the throne. I would never forget what it was like to be a servant. I would not leave the poor behind as I did what I had to do.
I had saved my wages to buy a second hand black dress that was designed to accentuate and even create the illusion of curves. It was hopelessly out of style but a few alterations here and there made it somewhat redeemable. A little hat sat jauntily at an angle on my head and a net veil covered the top half of my face. In essence, I looked like a cross between a modest widow and a high class escort. It's the look that works, the fine line between not too provocative and not too boringly unfeminine. For the final touch, I squeezed my feet into tiny glass slippers that clacked and sparkled with each step. The pain in my toes and ankles was unbearable but it was nothing compared to what I had done to make my feet fit in the first place. I had bound my feet for years until they were narrow enough to fit into fashionably pointed shoes.
I rented a carriage that was not grand enough to please royalty but it was all that I could afford after the dress. However, if everything worked to plan, no one would even see the carriage.
When I arrived, I could see that many servants such as myself had labored greatly to make this festive ball a possibility. Just as I had expected, all the ladies were dressed in unintimidating pastels. As I entered the ballroom, everyone threw me incredulous glances but I held my head high and viewed everyone with an arrogance I had no reason to have. Instead of standing in line to speak with the prince, I swept past the hopeful admirers and graciously accepted the dance requests of other handsome men. Just as I had calculated, the prince eventually made his way over to me and asked me to dance. I feigned meek surprise and shyness as I told him I could not refuse.
"Why do you wear all black, on this cheery occasion?" he asked gaily.
"I was hoping no one would ask," I feigned a blush the best I could. "I mourn the fact that the other women must stop short of prostituting themselves for a piece of your attention." I furtively glanced at all the scantily clad women who were eying the prince with possessiveness. I, too, was showing much skin, but my breasts were not large enough to be deemed excessively provocative in the eyes of most.
"I am fascinated," came the wide eyed reply.
Of course he was. Men love the whole innocent and natural maiden deal. Now that I had sullied all the other women in mind, he would be more apt to spend more time with me.
"You are generous to invite every eligible lady to this ball," I teased. "Even the lowliest unmarried peasant would consider herself eligible."
"I shall marry whoever I find most fitting," he protested. "I am not a pompous ruler who finds himself above the people he rules. As a matter of fact, I am a servant of the people."
"You would mingle your blood with commoners," I breathed. He blinked and opened his mouth as if to correct me but apparently thought the better of it when he saw my (fake) dazzled gaze. He was exactly where I wanted him. I kept playing the delicate part of the nonthreatening lady who was not bright enough to intimidate him but not stupid enough to make him scoff me behind my back.
When I knew I had him hooked, I made my excuses and ran, perpetuating my image as a coy and mysterious maiden. Men love having to chase a reluctant damsel, it gives them a sense of masculinity. I hated having to be so manipulative, but it was for the greater good. The prince had probably broken many hearts anyway, he could consider it karma. The clock dramatically chimed at midnight as I ran as fast as I could without breaking my glass shoes. The prince protested and chased me but he was held up by all the ladies who wished to have him for themselves. When I gained some distance between myself and the pursuers he ordered after me, I took care to lose a shoe where he would not be able to miss it. This was not my idea, I had borrowed it from the advice of a book called Proper Behavior for Young Ladies. "In order to get the gentleman to initiate a courtship," it instructed, "'accidentally' forget your perfumed shawl at his place so he'll have to seek you out again." And so he would, providing that the glass did not keep too much of the stench from my sweating feet. Why had I not thought to wear more porous shoes?
A/N: In ancient Rome, prostitutes who wished to be successful had to bleach their hair with urine. In colonial America, a lot of female indentured servants would become pregnant by their masters and they would be whipped unless their masters were generous enough to marry them. Ancient Egyptians used kohl to line their eyes. It's still an ingredient in many eyeliners, it works very well. Women actually used to powder their faces with white lead, which is highly toxic. It's an ancient Chinese custom to bind the feet of little girls because tiny feet were considered fashionable. There are still women alive today who have bound feet. They can barely walk. That last piece of advice is actually from Seventeen magazine, on "how to turn a boy friend into a boyfriend", only it suggested a sweater, not a shawl. Passive aggression is not a thing of the past.
If you like stories with lots of feminist innuendo and strong female characters, read my Greek mythology stories. I promise that The Whole Truth series is a lot more lighthearted and better written. Persephone's Lament is a little angstier.