I am the bad wolf.
A cheerful face, ears twitching with his wide, manic grin. He tells her he is the Doctor; she asks for his real name. He refuses, and she tries to guess – Rumplestiltskin? No, he replies, but then goes on to weave golden skeins out of the straw that is her life.
I am the bad wolf.
She stands watching, aghast, as he changes. Pleads with him to wake up and save them, then in the end takes things into her own hands. Then sleeping beauty wakes, not with a kiss but with a cup of tea, and the knight in shining armour is rescued.
I am the bad wolf.
She gives her tail for him, but he refuses to accept the gift and gives up his legs. And she cannot speak, but somehow, this time, the prince knows that the woman who captivates him so is not the one he loves. And when he realises, confronts the girl that is not her, not really, she hopes - maybe, just maybe, the old stories really did have happy endings.
I am the bad wolf.
They follow the path to the gingerbread cottage, only to discover that it is far from harmless. They are chased by monsters, and are only exhilarated. She wonders at a jewel that men have died for, the stuff of myths and legends. Considers how much that describes her own life now, but only briefly. They are rewarded, but then are cursed to leave, not for a year and a day, but forever, and she realises that the stories were just that.
I am the bad wolf.
Travelling through time, the past doesn't have to come back to haunt you. This time it comes forward, the girl with the golden goose, unique and beautiful, but which no longer lays and so is useless. The dashing hero sweeps in and saves the day, leaving his followers to trail behind in his wake even as he pulls the fair maiden along by the hand. The goose is broken, but is mended. The girl is broken, and he cannot fix her. Perhaps the hero is not always who you think it is, she ponders.
I am the bad wolf.
Cinderella, she watches helplessly as he returns from the ball, weaving and lurching and merry. She laughs at him, is playfully insulting, but inside she burns with resentment, the ugly stepsister to this enchanting French beauty. But she knows that she is his Rose, and that even when she has faded he will be unable to return to his Beauty.
I am the bad wolf.
Did Snow White, she wonders, ever realise how much she loved her mother before she died? Or was it only when the woman who was not her mother turned cold eyes to her and treated her like nothing that she realised the true depth of her loss? But Snow White was alone; Rose already has her handsome prince, and her seven dwarfs, even if the seven are all wrapped up into one – no, two, people. Did Snow White's father die, or did he simply not care what happened to his daughter as long as he had his handsome wife? Rose finds that she cannot remember, and wonders where all this will end.
I am the bad wolf.
She is the bad wolf, the big, bad wolf. And isn't it true that in all the stories, the big bad wolf is defeated? But not, she remembers, until it has huffed, and puffed, and consumed the first two little piggies.
The first is gone. She blew its house down; can barely remember, but knows enough that it was her.
She wonders how long the second's house of sticks will last.
Written, obviously, before the series finale. I may get around to updating it for the rest of the series at some point, but no guarantees!
Thoughts and comments are greatly appreciated - so please review!