Disclaimer–I don't own it, don't want to. As far as I'm concerned, it's the property of Charles Perrault (yah, I know, I've strayed away from the Brothers Grave. Er, Grimm.)
A/N–Here it be in all its glory (or lack thereof). Please note that at the moment I'm on a Discworld high, and that because of that, almost anything seems funny to me. If you don't like what I've done, please, by all means, tell me.
Someone. Get me out of here. I mean it. There is only so much protocol, so much etiquette you can learn before you start to slowly go insane. I have started to slowly go insane. I don't care which fork to use to indicate that the dinner speeches have run over. I don't care what side of a wine glass you're supposed to sip out of at a wedding to ensure good luck for the bride and groom. In fact–scratch that–I simply don't care. Somebody save me!
I suppose I should explain. Hi. My name's Eleanor, better known as Ella, better known as Cinderella. Yeah, I'm probably the one that you've read about in the tabloids, the one whose evil stepsisters forced her to do all their cooking and cleaning before calling her names and barring her entrance from the ball, so she had to call on her fairy godmother to help her, etc, etc. The tabloids got a few things wrong, though. For one thing, I didn't have to leave by midnight. I ran out of the ball at midnight because I was afraid if I stayed any longer I'd be stuck there for all eternity, discussing which type of cheese is more suited to souffle, eventually dying from boredom. For another, no, I didn't go to the ball in order to win over the prince. I went to the ball because–hey, it was a way of spiting my stepsisters. And because there's always great food at parties like that.
Not that it matters, now. You probably all know the rest–boy meets girl over party platter, boy tells girl she is the most beautiful maiden at the ball, girl says, "Yeah, whatever", boy asks girl to dance, girl says no, girl is dragged onto the dance floor, boy falls madly in love with girl. Pathetic, don't you think? I mean, for cripe's sake, I stepped on his feet at least three times. I am not a graceful dancer, whatever they might say. It's all I can do to do the Macarena. Apparently, though, this didn't bother the prince. At midnight, he was down on bended knee, declaring his undying love for me. Naturally, upon hearing royalty say that they could "never live without you by my side" and "how have I gone so long without knowing of your beauty", I fled.
Running was probably the wrong thing to do, now that I think of it. I mean, for one thing, I was in high heels–glass high-heels nonetheless–and a full skirt. I may be a good runner when I'm on level ground, barefoot, in just the homespun dress I wear for cleaning, but not in high heels and a full skirt. I tripped, went flying. Next thing I know, I was running through a muddy field wearing only one shoe, with my skirt torn half-off, babbling incoherently about how the guards would never catch me, because "I am the lizard queen!" Whaat? I had to do something to scare them off. And it worked. Kind of. They stopped chasing me and instead picked up my shoe.
You probably know the rest. The prince ended up tracking me down thanks to the weird shoe size (I have really wide feet), I ended up being taken to his castle where he proposed marriage, I was forced into saying yes, we're going to get married any day now . . . all that jazz. I, for one, am thoroughly sick of it. I tried calling on my fairy godmother for help–the conversation went something like this:
Me: "I'm really sick of being stuck here. Could you get me out?"
Her: "I'm sorry, I can't. Fairy Code declares that as soon as you have your heart's desire, I'm free to leave you. I'm not your fairy godmother any longer–I'm moving to Tahiti."
Me: "This isn't my heart's desire! I hate the prince–for one thing, he has an annoying name. I mean, Charming, come on!"
Her: "Oh, I'm sorry, that's my pager–I have to be leaving now. Enjoy the wedding! 'Bye!"
Knowing her, she's probably already in Tahiti, sitting on a beach sipping a virgin strawberry daiquiri, or something, complaining about how the "youth of today are so ungrateful". Which brings me to where I am. On a sofa-like thing, in a sitting room. Waiting for my next lesson in protocol. Naturally, it's not where I'm going to stay. I have plans. As soon as the protocol instructor comes in here, I'm planning to–oh! faint. It's what the women around here are fond of doing whenever they're in a situation they don't care for. They're almost always carried to their rooms, unless they're guests, in which case they are taken to a guest room. I'll most likely be taken to my rooms, which are just across the hall from the princess's own rooms. As soon as I'm carried there, I'll plant my note on the desk and climb out one of the windows. My rooms overlook the gardens, where almost no one ventures these days, so chances are I won't be seen.
Oh–the note. I almost forgot. Today, while in one of my lessons, I took the time to write a short, tragic note telling the prince that I love him, but that I am betrothed to another. And that I'm under a curse, and that I'm afraid that I was bitten by a werewolf at the last full moon, and that I may or may not be related to his archenemy, Prince Cunning, or whatever his name is. Oh–and that I did a reading and we're star-crossed lovers. If he wants to live to rule his father's kingdom, we can never be together. Yah, it's a far stretch, I know, but these people aren't exactly the brightest stars in the sky, if you see what I mean.
Speaking of which, here comes the protocol teacher now! Here I go . . .
-.-
The Prince Formerly Known As Charming would like to take this time to say that if anyone has seen his beloved Eleanor, better known as Cinderella, wandering the kingdom, would they please tell her that he still loves her, even though she is a werewolf/under a curse/will be the death of him/is related to his archenemy/is betrothed to another, for he is relatively sure that all of these things can be fixed, if she will just give him time.
A/N–Here it be in all its glory (or lack thereof). Please note that at the moment I'm on a Discworld high, and that because of that, almost anything seems funny to me. If you don't like what I've done, please, by all means, tell me.
Someone. Get me out of here. I mean it. There is only so much protocol, so much etiquette you can learn before you start to slowly go insane. I have started to slowly go insane. I don't care which fork to use to indicate that the dinner speeches have run over. I don't care what side of a wine glass you're supposed to sip out of at a wedding to ensure good luck for the bride and groom. In fact–scratch that–I simply don't care. Somebody save me!
I suppose I should explain. Hi. My name's Eleanor, better known as Ella, better known as Cinderella. Yeah, I'm probably the one that you've read about in the tabloids, the one whose evil stepsisters forced her to do all their cooking and cleaning before calling her names and barring her entrance from the ball, so she had to call on her fairy godmother to help her, etc, etc. The tabloids got a few things wrong, though. For one thing, I didn't have to leave by midnight. I ran out of the ball at midnight because I was afraid if I stayed any longer I'd be stuck there for all eternity, discussing which type of cheese is more suited to souffle, eventually dying from boredom. For another, no, I didn't go to the ball in order to win over the prince. I went to the ball because–hey, it was a way of spiting my stepsisters. And because there's always great food at parties like that.
Not that it matters, now. You probably all know the rest–boy meets girl over party platter, boy tells girl she is the most beautiful maiden at the ball, girl says, "Yeah, whatever", boy asks girl to dance, girl says no, girl is dragged onto the dance floor, boy falls madly in love with girl. Pathetic, don't you think? I mean, for cripe's sake, I stepped on his feet at least three times. I am not a graceful dancer, whatever they might say. It's all I can do to do the Macarena. Apparently, though, this didn't bother the prince. At midnight, he was down on bended knee, declaring his undying love for me. Naturally, upon hearing royalty say that they could "never live without you by my side" and "how have I gone so long without knowing of your beauty", I fled.
Running was probably the wrong thing to do, now that I think of it. I mean, for one thing, I was in high heels–glass high-heels nonetheless–and a full skirt. I may be a good runner when I'm on level ground, barefoot, in just the homespun dress I wear for cleaning, but not in high heels and a full skirt. I tripped, went flying. Next thing I know, I was running through a muddy field wearing only one shoe, with my skirt torn half-off, babbling incoherently about how the guards would never catch me, because "I am the lizard queen!" Whaat? I had to do something to scare them off. And it worked. Kind of. They stopped chasing me and instead picked up my shoe.
You probably know the rest. The prince ended up tracking me down thanks to the weird shoe size (I have really wide feet), I ended up being taken to his castle where he proposed marriage, I was forced into saying yes, we're going to get married any day now . . . all that jazz. I, for one, am thoroughly sick of it. I tried calling on my fairy godmother for help–the conversation went something like this:
Me: "I'm really sick of being stuck here. Could you get me out?"
Her: "I'm sorry, I can't. Fairy Code declares that as soon as you have your heart's desire, I'm free to leave you. I'm not your fairy godmother any longer–I'm moving to Tahiti."
Me: "This isn't my heart's desire! I hate the prince–for one thing, he has an annoying name. I mean, Charming, come on!"
Her: "Oh, I'm sorry, that's my pager–I have to be leaving now. Enjoy the wedding! 'Bye!"
Knowing her, she's probably already in Tahiti, sitting on a beach sipping a virgin strawberry daiquiri, or something, complaining about how the "youth of today are so ungrateful". Which brings me to where I am. On a sofa-like thing, in a sitting room. Waiting for my next lesson in protocol. Naturally, it's not where I'm going to stay. I have plans. As soon as the protocol instructor comes in here, I'm planning to–oh! faint. It's what the women around here are fond of doing whenever they're in a situation they don't care for. They're almost always carried to their rooms, unless they're guests, in which case they are taken to a guest room. I'll most likely be taken to my rooms, which are just across the hall from the princess's own rooms. As soon as I'm carried there, I'll plant my note on the desk and climb out one of the windows. My rooms overlook the gardens, where almost no one ventures these days, so chances are I won't be seen.
Oh–the note. I almost forgot. Today, while in one of my lessons, I took the time to write a short, tragic note telling the prince that I love him, but that I am betrothed to another. And that I'm under a curse, and that I'm afraid that I was bitten by a werewolf at the last full moon, and that I may or may not be related to his archenemy, Prince Cunning, or whatever his name is. Oh–and that I did a reading and we're star-crossed lovers. If he wants to live to rule his father's kingdom, we can never be together. Yah, it's a far stretch, I know, but these people aren't exactly the brightest stars in the sky, if you see what I mean.
Speaking of which, here comes the protocol teacher now! Here I go . . .
-.-
The Prince Formerly Known As Charming would like to take this time to say that if anyone has seen his beloved Eleanor, better known as Cinderella, wandering the kingdom, would they please tell her that he still loves her, even though she is a werewolf/under a curse/will be the death of him/is related to his archenemy/is betrothed to another, for he is relatively sure that all of these things can be fixed, if she will just give him time.