Ever After and Beyond
Prologue, Part One
Once upon a time, in a far off kingdom, lived a young boy, a beautiful girl and two small children. They knew nothing of one another, and never thought much out of their own lives. Truth be told, they were extremely different. Only one thing connected them: the bonds of fate.
The young boy lived in a well-built cottage on the edge of the forest. Often the boy, whose name was Oleander, asked his father why the cottage had been built so strong. No fierce storms blew in, the earth hadn't trembled for centuries, and they weren't near any warring provinces. His father, a time-worn baker, would merely smile and reply, "Because she would want a strong roof over your head."
Oleander grew up never knowing his mother, but from the fond tone that crept into his father's voice whenever she was spoken of, Oleander surmised that she was very loving. When he was a very young boy, the baker would recount the story of how he came to be born. Oleander had heard the story so many times that he knew it by heart; sometimes he could picture his mother standing beside him, gentle and warm.
The baker had raised Oleander to be a good child. He listened to his father and did what he was told. In all respects, he was a wonderful son. However, fate has a cruel sense of humor, imbuing Oleander with as much skill in the kitchen that a sieve has holding water. Though the baker trained him for many years, Oleander failed in the simplest of tasks, often transforming biscuits and rolls into smoldering piles of ash. The baker rarely grew frustrated with his son, telling him to just keeping trying. And so he would, throwing out the burnt bread and starting over again.
As the years went on, however, Oleander began to grow more curious. He began to pine for actual friendship, not idly chatting with the utensils and batter. The baker told Oleander not to think so much about friendship—though the baker was kind, his heart still ached for his missing wife. He didn't want his son to go through the agony that he had endured, so he prevented Oleander from making any friends—especially female friends.
This only fueled Oleander's curiosity. One day, he decided to bring up the subject again with his father while both worked in the kitchen.
"Father, may I ask you something?" Oleander asked, kneading some dough.
"Certainly!" the baker replied, pausing from his activities.
"Why is it," Oleander spoke meekly, "that you won't let me have any friends?"
"Not this again," the baker rubbed his forehead, leaving a streak of flour across his wrinkled skin. "I have told you already; I have my reasons."
"And yet you won't tell me those reasons!" Oleander caught and held his father's gaze, feeling an intense heat rise up in his chest.
"You wouldn't understand!" the baker took a gentle step towards his son. "You just have to trust me—!"
"Do you take me for a fool?" Oleander cried. "Do you think I am too stupid to understand? I'll have you know, I am extremely competent--!" At that moment, the smell of burning dough wafted past father and son's noses. Suppressing the urge to scream, Oleander went to douse the oven fire and to take the burnt dough away. He took the dough away in a bowl, carrying it to the edge of the woods. He sat down against a tree, breaking off a piece of the singed dough. He tossed it to a bird and watched the small animal gobble it down hungrily.
"Lonely, are you?" came a small voice, more air than sound. Oleander leapt up and turned to face an extremely old and withered woman. Her skin was draped lazily against her bones and wisps of white hair escaped her black hood. Her fingers were gnarled, mottled and pale; she reached the decrepit thing out to Oleander, stroking his cheek. He withdrew, her rotting smile sending shivers down his spine. Her intense blue eyes looked him up and down.
"And who are you?" Oleander demanded. The old woman played with a dark wooden cane, depending on it to stand upright. Her voice came in harsh, heaving gasps.
"Just someone who wants to help out," she replied. "I repeat my question—are you lonely?"
"Of course I am!" Oleander cast a spurning glance at his cottage in the distance. "My father wishes me to live an uneventful life."
"Ooh," the woman cooed, taking a few feeble steps toward Oleander. "I beg of you child, hand me that bowl of dough."
"But it is burnt." Oleander stated.
"It is of no concern to me," she attempted a shrug. "Hand me the bowl." Confused but now extremely curious, Oleander bent down and picked up the bowl, handing it to the old woman. She took it gratefully and turned away.
"What are you going to do with it?" Oleander asked. Faster than Oleander could anticipate, she whirled around and plucked a single black hair from his head. He flinched and leapt backwards. She giggled and dumped the dough on the ground.
"Hush, child, and watch." The old woman placed Oleander's hair on the dough and pointed the cane at the strange confection. Nothing happened for a moment, but after a few seconds, the dough began to change. First it began to stretch and thicken, as if alive. It wriggled around on the ground, beginning to take on a familiar shape. Oleander was amazed at what he saw—he could see two arms now, legs, a nose, a mouth….
Within a minute, the dough had changed into a young girl. She lay naked on the grass, not moving. Her skin was dark, like rich copper. Her hair clung to her skull in tight black curls.
"She is not alive yet," the old woman mused. "I need a drop of your blood to bring her to life." Reluctantly, Oleander bit his finger and squeezed the tiny crimson bead out. It dripped onto the dark forehead, melting into the skin. Instantly, her cheeks began to redden and she took a sudden, gasping breath. Her eyelids fluttered open. She drew herself up and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"Now you will not be so lonely," the old woman cackled, handing the girl some clothes, who took them and stared at them blankly. The woman shook her head and helped the girl put the clothes on.
"Why did you do this for me?" Oleander watched the girl walk around awkwardly, picking at her tunic. His heart swelled with joy, however uneasy his stomach felt about the magic used to make her. The old woman did not reply—she had disappeared into the forest.
"So, what should I call you?" Oleander asked the dark-skinned girl, who opened her mouth again, but only managed a strange gurgling sound. Oleander frowned and noticed there was a small hole in the girl's left ear. The bird he had fed earlier, a scrawny robin, flew overhead. Sudden inspiration flowed into Oleander.
"Come on, let's go home," Oleander took the girl by the hand. "Robin."
And so, Oleander and Robin began to walk (and stumble) back to the cottage.