Summary:

A prince doesn't sweep the step-daughter off her feet and the princess who lived with little men and ate a poisoned apple does neither. The girl in the red hood is a skilled fighter. The wolf is not her opponent, but a much needed ally. Even if she denies the very true fact. Sometimes beasts are heroes and beauty is horrifying. Sometimes enemies are friends and friends are enemies. Sometimes glass slippers lead to cut up feet.

Disclaimer: I own nothing (well, technically, the characters are kind of mine, they're just parodied versions of the originals, but it's easier than explaining everything).

Part I: Cinderella/Snow White

Burning Cinders

She sat on the stone lion bench, shrouded in the mist like an apparition, a wanderer in a forgotten dream. A lost whisper taken by the wind, never to reach listening ears. If one blinked, she'd surely disappear – this girl dressed in a tatter white dress that fell to her knees. Her hands rested in her lap. Her blonde hair formed a braid down her back with red and white roses weaved in. A halo of flowers was placed atop her head.

Her arms and legs were laced with scars. Her feet were bare, the bottoms black from dirt and red from blood. But her expression wasn't one of pain. Her eyes were closed as she hummed a lullaby both foreign to her ears and yet, familiar. It was one of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, loneliness and love.

The feelings it produced, ones she didn't quite understand, ignited inside her from the small flame that still managed to flicker even when it seemed like nothing was there but dying coals. Like her name, Cinder.

Often she'd wonder about the woman who gave her such a name. The woman who had died giving birth to her. She vaguely remembered the soft tune her mother carried, faint until it faded away along with her life. That was it – the song she hummed now. She didn't know the words, just the tune. It was one that had haunted her for years as nightmares of a dying mother and an ailing father plagued her mind, a wicked stepmother with razor-sharp nails and her two heathen daughters, both protruding fangs from their cracked lips.

It was here, out in the woods that surrounded the Victorian-style mansion, on her favorite bench, that she could get away from them. Their dark, malicious eyes and sneering mouths. Their vicious verbal torment and physical abuse that caused her great agony and made her wish for the bite of the blade. But there was that part of her, the Cinder part, that wouldn't allow her to say die. That would just give them what they wanted and she wouldn't grant them that satisfaction.

The small hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing on end, Cinder's eyes snapped open and what she saw took her breathe away. Her icy-blue eyes were wide and the flutter of hummingbird wings invaded her stomach.

She had skin as white as snow. Hair, black as ebony, fell down in perfect ringlets, framing her heart-shaped face. Her delicate lips were a wet kind of red, like fresh blood. She stared at her with dark eyes that were as blank as a slate. Her slender legs stride toward her as she remained seated, paralyzed, but not with fear.

There was no terror here. She felt like she had been waiting forever, for eons, for this person. This china-doll beauty. And as the mysterious girl leaned down, Cinder closed her eyes. Their lips met briefly, but, to her, it felt like a lifetime.

When the girl pulled away, Cinder ran her tongue over her bottom lip, tasted blood. A drop of crimson dribbled down the side of her mouth and dripped from her chin. It stained the dress with a perfect red circle, the color a great contrast against the white.

Blue orbs locked with black. "I am Cinder."

"I know. I've been watching you."

"I know," the golden-haired girl only now realized how true the two words were. She did know. It was often that she felt eyes on her, observing her every movement, but, up until now, she had never thought on it for long. There was something about the watching eyes that felt comforting, secure.

Her wandering eyes once again locked with the girl who rose from the depths of the woods like the mist that engulfed them. "Who are you?"

The girl tilted her head to the side. "I am Ivory."

Shattered Ivory

The reflection in the looking glass was a masterpiece. A work of art. Pure and innocent, breathtaking.

Beautiful.

How Ivory had grown to loathe that word. Although it may have been true in every way, shape, and form, that was all anyone saw of her. All they expected. Beauty. Perfection – because what was beauty without perfection?

And if there was something the least bit wrong, well, people never talked about that. They didn't notice or pretended not to. Saying or even thinking that there was something wrong with a form of perfection was surely a sin.

That was why blind eyes were often turned to the chip in the Ivory. If they didn't see it, it wasn't there. Close your eyes and the bad things were nonexistent. Ignorance was bliss and Ivory lived in an extraordinarily ignorant world.

She felt obligated to keep up the charade, to always apply herself. To make no mistake that would risk her appearing anything but perfect. It was a blessing and curse. However, most people didn't understand that. They didn't understand how someone could scorn the gift of beauty as a curse. That would make her selfish and ungrateful, wouldn't it?

Of course, most people didn't know that she felt her blessing to be a curse. They didn't ask. She most certainly didn't tell. When she was feeling down, they weren't going to question it. Inquire what was wrong, because what if what was wrong spoiled her image? Made her seem less than perfect.

It all came down to that – that one, seven-lettered, two-syllabled word. In the hours of sleep, that word had claws that sunk into her, reached deep within, curled around her still-beating heart, and ripped it from her body. The organ pulsed even outside of her body, blood fell from it, dripped onto her porcelain skin. It burned like acid, forming holes in her. Eating away at the oh-so beautifully flawless flesh.

A flash of stinging pain suddenly alerted her senses away from the gory images in her head. She opened her eyes and stared, startled and yet, relief flooded through her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Her black eyes went from the cup she had thrown to the mirror. Both were shattered. And in her hand lay a sliver of glass. A thin cut oozed a dark pool of blood in the palm of her hand. She carefully picked up the glass and let it fall onto the wood floor. Her long, pale fingers curled into her hand, staining her fingertips in a wash of red.

She looked into what was left of the mirror, her reflection distorted. She brought her fingers to her lips, which were naturally red, the color only darkening further as the blood was applied. The metallic tasted filled her mouth. She felt so . . . savage. Wild.

Imperfect.

Ivory relished the very idea of imperfection. What would they think? Those who once thought so highly of her? Would they think she had gone mad? Off-kilter?

Or would they ignore what was so obvious? That she, in fact, wasn't perfect? That beauty was only skin deep?

A rush of something filled her. The need to get air. To be out there – in the wide open. So, cleansing the cut, but not the blood on her lips, she ventured out into the trees, plunging into the mist, the chill seeping inside her and nestling deep within her bones.

Out here, away from peering eyes, she felt so alive and free. The taste of it just about casted a spell on her. And then she heard the humming and was immediately placed in a trance. As always. She had heard it before and it sent the usual rush of heat through her as well as a shiver that danced up her spine. The mixed feelings differed greatly from each other, making her dizzy with wonder.

She followed the familiar sound down a familiar path and peered through trees at a familiar sight. It was her. The golden-haired angel. Her eyes were closed and her hands were in her lap. Her dress, the very same one she always adorned, was as tattered and ragged as ever. Her feet were bared and there were flowers in her hair. Her skin was marked with scars all along her arms and legs.

She was flawed.

Imperfect.

Ivory loved that about her. She was perfectly imperfect. A conundrum if there ever was one, but that was what Ivory felt. This humming girl had a pain seeping from her mouth even if she wouldn't allow herself to feel it. She was real. Human.

Something that no one would ever see Ivory as, but she wanted to learn. She wanted to learn how to be real. Human. Flawed. The longing drew her out of the trees and into the girl's view. The girl's eyes opened as she felt the presence. Her haunted blue eyes were wide, but not fearful.

As if she were attracted by a magnetic pull, Ivory found herself moving closer to the girl and did nothing to stop herself. She leaned down, eyes closed. Her lips, blood still wet, connected softly with the angel's. When she pulled away, she watched as the golden-haired girl's pink tongue flicked across her bottom lip. Blood ran down the side of her mouth and dripped onto her dress.

And then, their eyes met and she spoke.

"I am Cinder."

Cinder.

The name was a spark on her tongue. A flare inside her, making a kind of hope light up. She felt as though she could take flight.

"I know. I've been watching you." Only one of these facts were true. She liked to think that she already knew her name, because it felt like they had met once long ago. Like they were old friends reunited in the mist of the trees. She had been watching her though, but had never found the courage, the reason, to reveal herself. Until now.

"I know," Cinder echoed, eyes flashing realization as they trailed. Suddenly, she brought her eyes back to Ivory's. "Who are you?"

Ivory tilted her head to the side. "I am Ivory."