A/N: Okay – Not suppose to be writing another story while working on another – I just said that! in the last chapter of the other damn story, but…I blame jack63kids. She mentioned fairy tales & poof little rabbit foo foo plot bunny came hopping through the meadow smacking right into my head. (If you don't know the song Little Rabbit Foo Foo you do not know what you are missing!) I will have chapter 4 up of the other story sometime this weekend come hell or high water – despite the fact I have Thanksgiving & report cards to work on – no fun!
Anyway on to the story!
The story you are about to read is based upon Hans Christian Anderson's remarkable story The Snow Queen. I originally published it on October 6, 2012 on Fanfiction. When the story is taking place at the home of the Grandfather it is written in present tense. In the telling of the tale it is written in past. This is deliberate:)
Cruel as Winter
1. Endings and Beginnings
The story starts at the end. So do not fear, my children. As you can see our heroes made it home safely and have lived not quiet lives and perhaps not happily ever after, but there has always been surprises and excitement and laughter and of course love in all its shapes and forms. To start at the end is not giving away the story, for the story has not yet been told. There will still be surprises and excitement and laughter and of course love in all it shapes and forms. So sit back and listen. I will take you to a small cottage somewhere in England. Two men sit in front of a fire. That is how the story starts:
Two men sit in front of fire on a cold winter's day. One tall and thin, hair more white than the black it used to be, still curly and once again in need of a haircut. This one reads a book. A Christmas present. A book about bees. He thinks there can never be enough books about bees. The other man slumbers in the chair facing. He is shorter, stockier, his hair is completely white, but in the gleam from the fire, the other man can pretend that it is once more the blonde of their first meeting. He scoffs at his foolish thoughts, but as they reach near the end of their lives, he finds sentiment, especially regarding his husband, creeping into his mind a great deal. Occasionally he glances at the sleeper, affection clear on his face. He worries about him. The cold saps his strength and old wounds from a reckless youth and an unquiet army life are acting up, robbing him of precious strength. Arthritis has settled into the kind, caring hands. Even at their age there is some stirring of old longings as he remembers exactly what those hands are capable of. Perhaps later, after the end of the Holidays, when company leaves, if he can get their bedroom warm enough. The hint of a smirk plays about his lips.
The aforementioned company suddenly barges into the room, coming in from playing in the snow. "Da, Da, Papa," shout two fair-haired children, a boy and a girl of 11 and 9. The girl is yelling louder than the boy, who is usually more serious, a miniature of the formerly sleeping man. He has woken with a start at the sound of his grandchildren. The boy gravitates toward his grandfather. And even though he is the older and even though he is reaching the age where a young man starts to be more reserved in his affections, he loves his Da very much and the reserve falls as he throws his arms around the man.
"You are cold, m'boy. Give me your hands and I'll warm them."
The boy shakes his head, "No Da, your hands are bothering you today. I don't want to hurt them."
The first man's eyes gleamed. He knew that this young boy could have been cloned from his grandfather, so a like they were in mannerisms and kindnesses and looks. He has no doubt that the boy would grow to be just like his grandfather. He will go into medicine and perhaps join the army.
The girl meanwhile found her way onto her favourite perch, that of the first's lap. There were four people he loves without question. He loves no others. He loves the other man unreservedly and with his whole heart. He would and had died for him. He loves the daughter of the man's other marriage. The man had married and lost a woman while the taller man had been thought dead. The taller man had been surprise to return to the other in possession of a fiery tempered three year old, who apparently took after her mother. The love of the girl for him and his for her had been hard fought for, but now there was genuine affection between them.
And he loves the two small children in front of him. In the deepest recesses of his heart he would admit that he loved the girl a little bit more than the boy. She had captured his attention and fascination from the moment of her birth. She had been one of the few, except perhaps her grandfather, who had not had to fight for his affection. She had always come to him first, even before her mother, when saddened or hurt or for cuddling just because.
The girl snuggles into her Papa's arms, but turns her head toward her Da. "Da, tell us a story, please?" She still retains the hint of a lisp.
The grandfather pretends to be startled by this. He had been prepared all day for this request. His grandchildren would end each visit with the telling of a tale. The girl prefers,
"Fairy tale please, Da."
While the boy wanted,
"No, adventure, Da. One about you and Papa."
Their grandfather glances at his husband. A look passes between them. There aren't many tales about their adventures that are suited for small ears. There are a few however. He deems the children old enough to hear one in particular. His partner concurs, silently.
"How about I tell you a tale that is both?"
The boy scoffs momentarily. He does not want to appear to be interested in fairy tales. That is for his sister. But he is intrigued. He does feel, however, that it is his duty to point out that there are no such things as fairies and magic. There is a small part of him that has hopes that it might still be true, that magic exists in the world, despite that.
The grandfather looks at the boy in his lap and explains, "Let us say that this tale has elements of fairy tales in it."
"Magic?" asks the girl, excitedly.
"Perhaps," he smiles his gentle smile that still causes his husband's heart to race.
"Witches?" she asks again.
"Most definitely," replies the other with a smirk in their grandfather's direction.
"Please tell me there won't be a captured princess," groans the boy.
"How 'bout a prince? Would that be better," says Da, his grin becoming wider.
"John." A quiet warning.
John grunts a little, "A prince to me," he mutters low enough that the other is the only one to hear.
A rare genuine smile plays upon his face as he continues to hug the girl.
"Okay, let's see. How to begin?" says John.
"Once upon a time," informs the girl with all seriousness.
"Quite correct," says the man on whose lap she is perched.
"Alright then. Once upon a time there were two men sharing a flat together in London One was a mild mannered, unassuming doctor who was much put upon by the other."
There was an almost audible rolling of eyes amongst all assembled.
"The other man was a great detective, solver of mysteries, but in this story he is the one who was part of the mystery. It was up to the good doctor to figure out what had happened and without the help of his best friend."
The two children settled into the laps of the men, drawn into the superb story telling skills of their grandfather.
"One day the doctor came home from doing the shopping…"