#exolss24

Lately, your clients seemed so predictable.  Where was the uniqueness? The fire? 

Before a client walked through your door, you were able to guess their type with upwards of 90% accuracy. You broke it down was follows:

Vampires: Delicate, sexy (but virginal), tall. Luminous skin, with a preference for bite play. 

Goblins: Short (because they’re short kings), mischievous, intelligent, and into forging. 

Frankensteins: Compassionate, loving, and kind. Literally couldn't care less about appearance. Good at sewing. 

Incubi/Succubi: Good sex. Period. 

And lastly, werewolves–

Werewolves: Voluptuous, sensual, and sturdy. Typically not as picky about appearance and– 

“Boss, your 8:00 is here,” chirped the phone on your desk.

Strange. Mr. Weylan should have been your last client for the night.

“Elsie?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“We talked about this already, I have a date at–”

“Yes, I know, Boss. But trust me, you’ll want to see this one.”

“For your sake, I’d better. Fine, fine, send them in.”

You’d always known that helping immortals, many of whom didn’t sleep, find romantic fulfillment was going to be a 24-hour job, you just never anticipated tiring of it all. 

Open 24/7 just like a fucking minimart. 

No life. No lover. Forever fucking alone. God, the cliche of it all. 

Turning to look in the mirror behind your desk, you fixed your hair, wistfully thinking it unfortunate that your date-night outfit had gone to waste. 

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of your neck tingled, giving you the distinct impression that you were no longer alone. 

A familiar pair of eyes met yours in the mirror, belonging to the last possible person you’d expected to see. 

Your surprise must have shown on your face, as a sly, knowing grin spread across the asshole–your visitor’s–face. 

“Ah, Mr. Byun, to what do I owe this distinct pleasure? I thought we had concluded our business relationship, per your request.”

Seated on your plush couch was Byun Baekhyun. A man who had made his fortune in tech, owning one of the biggest cybersecurity firms in the world. He was a big deal, everything he touched–businesses, inventions, people– turned to gold. There were rumors that he had ties to the underground, but this was just a rumor. 

 He was a big deal alright and a big pain in your ass. 

“Aww, don’t be salty, Boss. A misunderstanding is all that was,” Baekhyun cajoled, patting the seat next to him on the couch–your couch–as if he owned the place. 

You crossed your arms, taking a seat across from Mr. Byun. “I wouldn’t call you referring to my company as, “the worst t” on national television ‘a misunderstanding’, would you, Mr. Byun?”

Mr. Byun uncrossed his legs, learning forward. “Alright, let’s call it an unfortunate occurrence then. And please, call me Baekhyun.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Byun”, you said pointedly, refusing to take the bait.

“Why, yes. In fact, I believe you can. You see, I have a proposition for you.”

A proposition. A proposition?! What kind of proposition could this Grinch possibly have for you? 

It must be business-related. Of course, it had to be. You weren’t naive enough to assume your charming good looks and effervescent personality had been enough to totally reverse this person’s worldview. 

Was he in the market for a lover? You highly doubted that. A quick scan revealed a suit worth a minimum of $30,000, a watch worth double that, and loafers worth more than your monthly car payment. Not to mention, the swarm of media coverage that followed him from place to place showed he never had any trouble finding quality partners. 

You decided to play it cool. “Proceed. I’m listening.”

“I like a woman who’s decisive,” he remarked appreciatively, eyes flickering from your head to your feet. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to hide your annoyance. “Mr. Byun, I have many things–important things–that I could be doing right now.”

“Oh no, so sorry, did I interrupt your plans for a hot date?”

Your stony look accompanied by silence confirmed his theory. 

“Ah, so I did. Oops, my apologies,” he said smugly, not sounding the least bit remorseful. 

“Make your point, Mr. Byun, or please leave. Don’t waste my time.”

Mr. Byun put his hand over his heart, moaning and theatrically clutching his heart. “You wound me, Boss. Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit too serious?” 

“Many times. Has anyone ever told you you’re annoying?”

That stupid, smug smile reappeared on his face. “Annoyance isn’t the usual reaction that I get from women, no.”

“This should be character-building then.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Byun chuckled.

Mr. Byun’s face turned serious and you hoped he’d finally get to the point of his visit here. 

“As you know, I own a company–”

“Byun Solutions. I’m aware.”

“Yes, Byun Solutions is my public-facing company; however, I own another….side hustle, you might call it.”

“A side hustle?” 

You couldn’t imagine why a man like him, a filthy-rich man like him would need a side hustle. You stared at him skeptically, a bid for him to continue. 

“We’re a guild, of sorts, taking on requests and executing them per our clients’ wishes–”

“ –which I’m guessing aren’t all legal,” you guessed.

Mr. Byun’s eyebrows raised. “What gave you that idea?”

“If your activities were legal, this side hustle would be public knowledge. I haven’t heard one peep about it, so I assumed some of your activities might be on the other side of the law.”

“You’re quick, Boss, I’ll give you that. We’ve had a client request come in that requires some outside expertise. Yours, to be exact.”

He paused, not elaborating any further. 

“This is all very interesting, Mr. Byun, but I’m going to need more information than that.”

“Of course, there’s just one teensy, tiny thing first.”

You smacked your hand across your forehead. “For the love of gosh, what?” 

Mr. Byun reached into his briefcase, pulling out a thick, legal-looking document. He flashed you a brilliant smile, one you’re sure had charmed thousands of businessmen and women alike. 

Pushing the stack of papers toward you, he pulled out a Montblanc pen and placed it on top. 

“Just a simple non-disclosure agreement, you understand, I’m sure?”

Something felt off about this whole thing, but you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. Was it the fact that your #1 most-hated enemy was in your office asking you to sign some suspicious document? Yeah, actually it probably was. 

“Come on, Boss. A little adventure wouldn’t hurt, no? Aren’t you tired of the same, old monotony?” 

How the fuck did he know that? Was the man a god-damned mind reader?

You bit your tongue, not wanting to admit to this aggravating man that he was right. Hadn’t you just been thinking that very same thing moments before he walked through your door?

You cleared your throat, picking up the stack of papers to glance through them. 

“Then I’ll need to read this through, thoroughly…you understand, I’m sure.”

Satisfied, Mr. Byun grinned, extending his hand in consent, his body relaxing into your couch, though his eyes remained intent on you. 

When you were satisfied he wasn’t trying to con you into some illegal ponzi scheme or sell your organs on the black market for cash, you signed the paper with a flourish. 

“Now that that’s out of the way, can you tell me what this ‘assignment’ is?”

“Of course”, Baekyhun replied gamely, “I need you to help me kill someone.”

~*~

this goes especially to @sakurasangcl, who I had the pleasure to make these very rich-in-Baekhyun edits for! I dipped into his different facades - from cute to sweet to dark to sexy - and let myself be inspired by some of his (and EXO's songs). So, I hope these lockscreens are to your linking (let me know if you need size adjustments in case you want to use them :D)

and, as every year, a huge thank you to the person organizing this event! @exols-silver-christmas - I'm so excited to see the wonderful gifts this year will bring, I hope I'll get around checking all of them out.

until we meet again, hopefully, next year

Grandmother once told me that this land was not always ours. It seems hard to believe, seeing how well acclimated we are to the mild weather and gentle winds of this place. Our people have lived here for a very long time: I was born and have grown up here, in this little village, as was Grandmother. The stories she tells, about foreign grounds and harder times, she learned from her own grandfather, a stern warrior who came here from the North with a few hundred others to seek shelter in a more welcoming land.

I am not sure what became of the people that were calling this place their home before we did. Grandmother said they were a peaceful kind, with strange customs and even stranger gods. I heard, most of them left, and the remaining ones adopted our traditions and practices. Eventually, our culture was the only one to remain.

A long time has passed since then, and our Holy One has allowed us to prosper and live in peace. Of all the villages my people have established in this region, I live in the smallest. Our numbers hardly reach a hundred souls, and I know that on this day, each and every one of them is going to attend the ceremony. It takes place every three years, in midsummer. On the day of the second full moon of the season, we can finally reap the fruits of our yearly labour. As a sign of devotion to our Holy One, every daughter who is at least twenty springs of age ought to enter adulthood through an entire week of uninterrupted prayer, after which she will finally be considered adult enough to marry and bear children.

“Ouch !” I say, reaching up to massage the part of my head where Mother has pulled my hair a little too hard. I stop right in my tracks when I hear a disapproving sound behind me.

“Don’t be a child, Ajla,” she sighs. I lower my hand, my scalp still throbbing. “Why is your hair always so tangled ?”

In a sudden moment of realisation, she grabs my shoulders and makes me turn around so I can meet her eyes. I instantly lower them to the ground, as I almost always do.

“You untied it for the night, didn’t you ?”

“I just… it was pulled too tight, I couldn’t sleep,” I tentatively try.

“Remember Ajla, the Holy One despises the arrogant and the vain. I should have cut your hair a long time ago,” she lets an exasperated sigh escape her. “We don’t have time now, we still have to help with the preparations for the ceremony and go get your prayer dress for tonight.” She finishes brushing my long messy blond hair in a hurry, and then braids it into a tight updo at the base of my neck. I hold back a wince at the harsh treatment she gives to my head.

“It is good you got a little sleep nonetheless. You’ll need all the energy you can get for the Prayer. Our Holy One will test your strength in a way you have never experienced before. You’ll never be quite the same after you come out of the Sanctuary, Ajla. It was the same for me.”

I listen silently. It is the first time Mother talks about how hard of a trial the Prayer can be. She is a stern woman, hardened by the trials of life, but she likes to talk about the Holy One, and she reveres Him in a way I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to understand. Our whole community, myself included, is very devoted to our divinity, but Mother believes in His power with her whole heart. She says, her faith in the Holy One is what gives her strength.

I know what the Prayer entails, everybody does, but the gap between knowledge and experience can sometimes prove to be dangerous. An entire week of prayer, locked in a small room with only enough food to keep us alive. It is complete isolation, no contact to the outside world allowed. The Prayer is supposed to test our faith and devotion to the Holy One, and no one is allowed to interrupt. Not that there would even be a possibility to interrupt, as the opening of the praying rooms get nailed shut to ensure nothing will distract the participants.

“Get dressed, we’re going to the storehouse first,” Mother says before leaving me alone in the room. I sigh, and walk towards a small hook attached to the wall. The women of our village must always walk around with their body covered to maintain modesty : for that reason, it is common that we wear a flowy upper garment on top of our dresses, that we call “kiva”. Mine is long enough for the sleeves to almost reach my fingertips. As is tradition, it also has a hood so I am able to properly cover my hair. Father mentioned once, that showing my body too much would only bring me dishonour, that what I was hiding was to only be shown inside of my home in the presence of my close family and, when I am wed, of my husband. That this was the Holy One’s will. Sometimes, I wonder if we do the things we do for the Holy One, or for the sake of some old traditions that have existed since long before my birth.

After making sure my kiva is on correctly, its hood held in place with pins in my hair, I join Mother, who is waiting for me at the doorstep. In a few short weeks, summer will yield to autumn ; the days will become shorter and the leaves will turn orange and yellow. Right now though, the heat, if not quite stifling, is still well present. We start walking slowly towards the storehouse, where we keep all our food, and apart from the bustle of the final ceremony preparations, this day feels like any other summer day.

Yet, when my eyes land on a small stall filled with strange items and foreign designs, I understand that something about today will be different from usual. Today will bring change.

They look different, misplaced in this little village of mine that is not accustomed to receiving visits from foreigners. They are dressed in various colours, some bright and some dark, a stark contrast to the sea of cream and brown coloured clothes that my people commonly wear.

I see a middle-aged woman smile gently at the passersby, showing a few of them the items she is selling. She does not look like me, or any of my people, but I find her utterly beautiful. Her hair is long and dark, draping over her shoulders in messy curls, and she’s wearing a strange embroidered headband. Her long tunic is a deep red colour and decorated at the seams with patterns I have never seen before, leaving part of her shoulders bare, exposing golden, sun kissed skin. It is a couple tones darker than my own, my kiva perpetually keeping it hidden from sun and moon alike. Her eyes all of a sudden find mine, and she smiles at me from where she stands, behind her stall. I look at her curiously, and find myself wanting to smile back.

It is at this moment that I feel Mother’s hand on my back, urging me forward. She takes her place at my other side, positioning herself between the woman and me, blocking my view.

“Do not talk to them, Ajla. I forbid you to even look at them, do you hear me ?” she whispers, her tone serious and authoritative.

“Why so, Mother ? We do not see foreigners very often and–”

“And it is best that way. They are heretics, Ajla. They are not like us.”

I can sense from the tone of her voice that she will not accept any more discussion about the travellers, so I stay quiet and we walk the rest of the way in silence. The storehouse is always a flurry of activity, especially during harvest season. My people mainly thrive thanks to the fruits and vegetables we grow within the walls of the village. While we sometimes eat meat from the small animals we raise, we no longer hunt like our ancestors did. Seeking larger prey would mean stepping a foot in the forest, and the woods are dark and scary, the foliage of the trees thick enough that it is not possible to see the sun from the ground. I have never left the village – Father says, it is best I stay where I belong, in the safety of the walls that have seen me grow – but I heard rumours once, about how the forest and the mountain are places that the Holy One cannot reach.

My thoughts are interrupted by the rumpus of men and women in the storehouse, gossiping loudly as they wash the produce we harvested a few days ago so it can be prepared in the kitchens. Had today been any other day, the presence of foreigners in the village would have surely caused a commotion, but everyone seems to have forgotten them now that the Prayer is approaching.

“Mother ! Ajla ! Over here !” my brother yells, waving his long arms to catch our attention from the very back of the room.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but it breaks my heart just a little to see Mother’s face instantly break out into a bright smile. I have no memories of her ever looking at me with that same affection in her eyes. I had an older brother once, who was Mother’s pride and joy. She was never quite the same after his sudden death at the age of six, brought on by a feat of uncontrollable fever. She cried for years, prayed for days on end, tried everything in her power to give birth to a second son. I can barely remember his face, but I’ll never forget Mother’s tears. In hindsight, I think a part of her died with Adem. Luan was the one that gave her a new breath after three long years of mourning her lost child. And then there is I, Ajla, always stuck in the middle, between Adem’s memory and Luan’s sweet smile, neither truly seen nor completely invisible.

For the next couple of hours, I help with whatever needs to be prepared. It’s hot inside the storehouse, and the effort starts to make me sweat, my kiva keeping my arms and my hair covered not helping with the afternoon heat. Luan’s chatter is a welcome distraction from my thoughts of family, faith and foreigners, even though I still feel nervous about the upcoming ceremony and Prayer. When he asks a question excitedly, I turn and smile at him, answering with as much liveliness as I can muster. He does not seem to pick up on my thoughts and somewhat sour mood, and I thank the Holy One for that. My little brother just turned twenty summers old, and by the time the next ceremony takes place, he’ll be aged enough to be married. Luan has always been adored and doted on by the whole family, including me, and despite his tall stature and long limbs, childlike features still linger on his face, giving him an uncanny resemblance to the older brother that he has never known. For that reason, and to Luan’s dismay, Mother has a hard time letting him out of her sight.

I stop working when I feel the gentle press of a hand on my shoulder. The girl looking at me is dressed in a similar fashion, with a long dress and cream-coloured kiva to match. Under her hood, her hair is some shade of blond, a characteristic shared by many of our people, though her striking grey eyes are a little unusual. She takes my wrist in her hand and smiles warmly. After hours of working here, it seems we are both ready to escape the storehouse mission we’ve been given. We just need to ask for permission first.

“Master, it is getting late and both Ajla and I still need to stop by the tailoress’ shop. I was planning to go now, would you mind if we go together ?” Ema asks, her gaze low. Father is not a bad man, but he is tall and intimidating, and even though Luan is growing up to share most of his traits, I hope he retains the gentleness that has characterised him since he was a baby.

“Rona, didn’t you want to go with our daughter?” Father asks his wife.

“I… I was planning to, but she might as well go now. We have work here still,” she says, and I would be lying if I said I am not a little glad to finally have a chaperone my age.

Luan smiles at my friend. “They will also not be able to see each other again until after the ceremony, so it’s important to enjoy each other’s company now. Right, Ema ?” he smiles at my friend. His back is turned to our parents, and his teasing wink is lost to them. Ema’s cheeks redden, but she nods politely.

Father looks at my brother and accepts without too much of a fight. Other than the fact that Luan has had our parents wrapped around his little finger since his birth, he also has the advantage of being male, which the Holy One has decided would be the stronger and wiser gender. His support is precious, even if we soon will be wed and not part of the same household anymore. Ema and I leave the storehouse, and though the walk to the tailoress’ shop is short, it is filled with excited ramblings from my friend, who seems to be in a vastly different mood than I.

“I can’t wait to prove myself to our Holy One,” she says, and I look at her a bit perplexed.

“Aren’t you scared ? That you are not going to hold up with so little food and rest ?”

“Well, there aren't really any alternatives, are there ? And then we’ll be out, and we’ll finally be able to get married !” She exclaims. “Do you have anyone in mind ?”

It wouldn't matter in the end, the decision is not ours, just like it had not been my parents’ choice to be wed. But I know that Ema is already aware of that fact, and I do not want to crush her spirits. This casual banter feels somewhat good.

“I do not,” I say truthfully. “What about you ?”

“Oh– um, yes, I actually do, you know, have someone in mind,” Ema answers, her face becoming redder by the minute.

I smile to myself. It’s Luan. My friend thinks she's good at hiding her fancy of my little brother, but I am convinced that everybody, including Luan himself, knows about it. I hope the people of my community will take Ema and Luan’s wishes into account when making their decisions. I hope they choose someone good for me, too.

Ema and I were never really close until a few years ago, around the time of the last ceremony. To participate in the Prayer, all girls must be aged of at least twenty springs, but I was born at the very end of the summer, making me half a season too young at the time. Ema was born in the autumn a couple weeks after me, and we both bonded over the knowledge that when our Prayer would come around, we would be the oldest participants.

The shop is small, but peaceful. The business used to be held by a man, until his death a decade ago. His wife has taken over the affairs of the shop since then, handling the business with an iron hand and a heart of gold. Everybody in the village likes Nona, but I like to think she and I have a closer bond. She was Grandmother’s dearest friend, and talking to Nona feels a lot like it used to feel talking to her.

I see the old woman at the back of the room, adjusting a big piece of ivory-coloured cloth. She smiles instantly when we greet her, the curve of her lips accentuating all the wrinkles on her face. Her hair is covered, like mine and Ema’s, but I can see a hint of grey where her hood is a little misplaced on her head.

“Look who’s here ! Aren’t these girls a little late ? Everybody else has collected their dresses already,” Nona says, with a tiny hint of disapproval in her voice. Nonetheless, she heads for the backroom and comes back only a minute later, carrying in her arms two identical outfits.

The shape and looks of the ceremonial outfits never change from one ceremony to another. Year after year, they stay the same simple flowy dress and kiva, and are not decorated with any patterns or symbols. They look very similar to our daily clothes, except for their colour, an almost blinding whiteness, that is meant to represent the participants’ purity, both moral and physical. I have seen this dress on so many girls, yet it’s still hard to realise that in just a few hours, I will be the one wearing it.

“They’re beautiful,” Ema gasps next to me, taking her outfit in her arms with the utmost care, as if it was some fragile thing going to break. This dress has meaning for my people, as the ceremony dates back to long before most of my ancestors were born. It is stunning, and one of the most beautiful pieces of clothing that I will ever wear. Yet, I am not sure how to react, as the weight of what such a garment means slowly but surely crashes on me. Feeling Nona’s gaze on me, I settle for thanking her for her hard work. She gives me a carefully guarded smile.

“You remind me so much of your grandmother,” she says fondly, with a hint of melancholy in her voice. “She was scared too.”

“I– I’m not scared, Nona” I stutter, a little panicked that she would doubt my faith in our Holy One, that I would dare be frightened by the prospect of honouring Him.

“Oh but you are, Ajla. We all are, before we step foot in the Sanctuary. And then we endure ; the hunger, the weariness and the weight of the confessions we make. You’ll learn to endure too. In the Prayer and in life, you’ll endure.”

She slowly grabs my hand and takes something out of her kiva’s pocket to put it in my palm. It's a white handkerchief, embroidered with beautiful pink flowers, a rarity in my community, where clothes are plain and neutral in colours.

“This belonged to your grandmother. She got it from her own mother. She was wearing it on her wrist when she did her Prayer. She wanted you to have it. Her only granddaughter. She wanted you to find your way, for our Holy One to give you strength.”

Even though it is not written in law that the participants to the Prayer must not have any additional garment or accessory, it is not conventional enough that Grandmother thought it would be safe to give me her handkerchief through my parents when my time came. I am not surprised ; for all the love Grandmother had for her culture, her people and her customs, she always found Mother, her daughter-in-law, to be a little too stern.

I thank Nona profusely, and part ways with Ema in front of the shop. We both have to return home now, and we live on opposite sides of the village. I walk slowly, as if getting home later was going to push back the time of the ceremony. With both hands busy holding my dress high in my arms to avoid creating creases, I can only lightly grasp the handkerchief with the tips of my fingers. The sun will set in a couple hours and the heat of the early afternoon is long gone, replaced by steady winds.

I gasp when Grandmother’s handkerchief slips from my fingers, stolen away by a gust of air, and I hurry past surprised passersby, trying to catch up with it as it dances further and further away from me. It seems as if the winds are having fun playing with something I hold so dear to my heart. The delicate piece of cloth swirls around, as light as a feather. Each time I come close to it, the handkerchief starts its crazy escape again, seemingly mocking me.

Eventually, it slips under a table filled with goods on sale, and one of the merchants bends down to pick it up. I stop right in my tracks. Grandmother’s handkerchief is in the hands of one of the foreigners I saw earlier on my way to the storehouse with Mother. I am still a good distance from them, but he’s undoubtedly male. The heretic cradles the cloth in his palms like it's some fragile treasure, and seems to gently brush some dust off of it before raising his head and starts looking around, obviously searching for the owner. Searching for me.

Flustered and still out of breath, I duck behind a nearby wall, a hand on my chest to calm my racing heart. What shall I do now ? Mother said not to talk to them, she even forbade me to get too close. I should let it go, pass them by without sparing a glance in their direction.

On the other hand, I do not wish to let go of the only thing Grandmother has left me. She said it would help me, she said it would bring me strength. Besides, what could happen if I just asked for it ? Surely the stranger will give it back ? I just have to make it quick, so Mother will not see me if she returns from the storehouse earlier than planned. Yes, that is what I should do. What Mother does not know, can not upset her.

I fold my uniform in my arms, forgetting all about not making any creases, and start to make my way over to the stall, with an assurance that is not quite authentic. It is not the first time I see travelers, but it is the first time Mother has explicitly forbidden me to talk to them, her earlier words of distrust engraved in my mind. It is obvious that they do not worship the Holy One ; as otherwise their women would not show their arms and their hair so openly. They could be dangerous, but our numbers outweigh theirs and we are in the heart of the village. The day of the ceremony is the best to trade and sell goods. There is a crowd in the streets, all the shops are open. Nothing can go wrong.

The heretic calmly watches me get closer, his gaze fixed on me. I stop right before the stall, a table filled with various colourful items, the only thing separating us. Up close, I am able to see him better ; he looks about my age, maybe a little older. Unlike Father or Luan, he is not very tall or imposing, only outsizing me by half a head. Like the other foreigners, he is wearing an embroidered headband, the piece partially hidden under loosely curled hair the darkest shade of brown I have ever seen. Though all headbands have similarities in design, patterns and colours differ, making each piece completely unique. He is dressed in a simple blue tunic that is creased and folded all over, and closed at the shoulders by two pins, allowing whoever is looking to see his entire arms.

Busy as I am staring at the man in front of me, I realise a minute too late that he is examining me as well, the shadow of a cheeky smile tugging at the upturned corners of his lips. Not wanting to spend more time than I must in the presence of the stranger, I extend my arm towards him, palm upturned.

“I have lost my handkerchief. I would like to have it back,” I try. He keeps looking at me with the same expression on his face, and I wonder for a moment if we speak the same language. “Please ?” I add tentatively. “Um, it seems like the winds were mocking me, making me run around like that after a stupid cloth,” I explain, conveniently forgetting to mention how dear said stupid cloth is to my heart.

This time, the foreigner’s mouth stretches into a gentle, full-blown smile that reaches his brown eyes, and I wonder for a moment what could be so funny.

When the young man before me starts speaking, he sounds strong and powerful, although not unkind. He has a very light accent I can not quite place. “The winds are mischievous, they love to play. They love to make people dance.”

I still, astounded. I was not prepared for that answer, and I do not know quite how to respond. In the end, I decide to let the conversation run its – hopefully short – course.

“Yes, um, I… guess they do ?” I whisper. “I am not sure I liked this dance very much though.”

“They’re nice enough, once you learn to know them,” he says, smiling brightly as if he did not just talk about the winds as if they were living and breathing. He’s mad. He’s mad, and my handkerchief is still in his hand.

The young man must sense my increasing discomfort, because he lowers his head. Once free from his dark gaze, I slowly exhale a breath I did not realise I was holding. The stranger absently traces the pink flowers embroidered on Grandmother’s handkerchief with his thumb.

“This is very fine and delicate work. The person who made it is very talented. Were you the one who embroidered this cloth ?” he asks.

“I– no, it is very old. It belonged to my grandmother, and to her own ancestors before that,” I finally admit.

“Then it must be very dear to you ?”

“It is,” I simply say.

“Then I’ll give it back. Here,” he says, extending his own arm, the cloth in his hand. 

He has nice hands. They are not very big, and they are more calloused than mine, but he has long and slender fingers. His nails are clean and clipped short. He’s wearing several bracelets, some of them made out of colourful threads knotted together, and some thin circles of golden metal that glint in the late afternoon sunlight. None of my people wear jewellery, or any decorative adornments for that matter. Showcasing one’s beauty is to bask in vanity, and the Holy One does not like vanity.

I frown when I notice tiny markings on the arm he’s extended towards me. Scars ? No, not scars. It’s a tattoo. A tattoo made with white ink and barely visible on his skin despite his tan. Fascinated, I let my eyes run along the length of his arm. The patterns and symbols extend from the back of his hand to the crook of his neck, swirling and intertwining delicately around his wrist and his elbow. I stop staring when I hear the man clear his throat. I close my eyes and chastise myself. I can almost hear Mother and her stern voice at the back of my head. Ogling a man – an impure heretic – like that, you should be ashamed !

“Thank you,” I finally whisper, finding nothing else to say. Our arms are both extended, as if waiting for the other to cave in and get closer first. In the end, eager for this conversation to end, I sigh and take the handkerchief in his hand, my fingers brushing his for the shortest of moments.

Time seems to slow and speed up at the same time, and I feel slightly nauseous. I close my eyes, overwhelmed, as sound surrounds me, making my ears ring painfully. Why is the world so loud all of a sudden ? After the first few seconds, I get used to the noise and notice a voice in the chaos of sounds. Sometimes, it laughs, the laugh of a young girl, so clear and soft, and sometimes, it sings songs I have never heard before. Several other similar voices then join the first one in a chorus of melodies, and I think I can hear them speak to each other. Some are surprised and some are amused, and I hear them whispering faintly about someone they call “the foreigner”.

When I feel like my heart is beating at a normal pace again, I open my eyes to find myself in a place I have never seen before. Where am I ? Why am I here and how did I get there ? I do not know this place. Trees surround me, casting gentle shadows on the water I find myself standing in. Looking around, I see I am in a forest, although I have never ventured out of the village. I do not know how to swim, yet I am waist-deep in the water of a small lake, wet and shivering. I’m cold. The voices are gone now, barring one ; the chuckle of a man coming from behind me. I turn around and raise my head. After a few moments of blur, my eyes finally focus on the silhouette before me.

The heretic stands on a big rock on the shore, dry and dressed in the same tunic I saw earlier, albeit in a different colour. It is only long enough to reach the middle of his thighs, showing off long but muscled legs. He is barefoot, and he is still chuckling – is he laughing at me ?

I should feel outraged, and angry, that he is allowing himself to be so familiar with me – we have only met for the first time today after all – but somehow, the only feeling I can muster is mild annoyance. I give him a dark glare, and I find myself speaking his name with a scolding tone. I can not quite make out what name ; unable to control my lips or hear the words coming out of my own mouth. I feel like an actress in the middle of performing a play that already has a set ending. At the sound of his name, the man stops laughing and apologises. He looks around, glaring and I find myself doing the same. There is nobody but us here.

Then his gaze is back on me and I feel his eyes slowly slide down from my eyes, to my neck, to my chest, and I wonder for a moment what he is looking at. Then I check my reflection in the water.

I am dressed entirely in white, in my ceremonial clothes, wet from head to toe ; the weight of the water has pulled my kiva off from my shoulders, leaving them almost naked. My dress is drenched, and has become transparent under the effect of the water. My lower body is thankfully still under the water line, but my neck, chest and belly are fully visible. I gasp in shock, immediately crossing my arms over my chest so I feel less exposed ; so the man before me is not able to steal glances at my body more than he already has.

My reaction seems to wake him up from a trance, and both his cheeks and mine start turning red. At least he seems to feel ashamed of his staring, of making me uncomfortable. As he starts to open his mouth and apologise, I blink, and the moment I next open my eyes, I am back at the stall, in the middle of my village. The young man is still before me, but he has taken a few steps back, clutching his tattooed hand as if the contact has burned him. His mouth is open in shock, and though I can not see myself, I can guess he is mirroring my own expression.

I clutch my handkerchief in my hand. And then panic sets in.

“I- what just happened ? Was I dreaming wide awake ?” I ask, more to myself than to the stunned foreigner before me. What sort of spell has he bewitched me with ? Was this dream a trick from the evil spirits Mother is so scared of ?

The man raises his hands before himself, obviously trying to defuse the situation but it does nothing to reduce my anxiety. I take a few steps back.

“I– I must go now. There is still much to do,” I say, on the edge of panicking. My eyes can only stare at nothing, unfocused, as I try to register what happened in the dream, and how real everything felt.

“Listen, I didn't mean… I didn't mean to– to show you anything,” he stuttered. “Don't be scared, no please–”

But I’m already running past the passersby and away from him, my dress balled up in my arms and my handkerchief tightly grasped in my fist, as I try to hold back confused tears. My tiny world feels like it has collided with something much, much bigger. Something unknown. Something frightening.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. 

I see but I am not looking, I hear but I am not listening. I feel like I am wearing someone else's skin.

I keep moving, but it's just habits, as if my movements are controlled by some puppeteer.

Soon my family comes home. They change into their ceremonial clothes, and Mother does my hair again, pulling and twisting the tresses until they are shaped to her liking. My head is throbbing, but I do not feel the pain.

The sun is setting when I finally take my place in the line of maidens who are going to be subjected to the Prayer. I recite the oath that I have learned by heart under Mother’s supervision ; I do not stutter, and the words come out clean and well-spoken, but I feel empty. I am given a bag of provisions, that contains the only things I will be given to eat for the next seven sunrises.

As the crowd celebrates all around us, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze on me. I follow it to find the foreigner staring from a distance, unmoving as the rest of his people pack up their belongings as they prepare to leave. Tomorrow they will be long gone, and I will have forgotten all about what I saw earlier, too engrossed in prayer to care. However, today, my memories of the dream are still too fresh in my mind, and I find my lips softly mouthing the name I spoke in the lake. This time, although the crowd around me is loud and excited in celebration, I can clearly hear what is coming out of my mouth. “Jongdae,” I speak, looking at him. I have never heard of this name. From afar, his eyes seem to widen, but he does not move. We watch each other for a few more moments. He looks sad. I hope this time I am not mirroring his expression.

I am the last one to be led to the Sanctuary. It is near the entry of the village, as it was the first structure that was built here. The Prayer room that has been assigned to me is located in a corner of the building at the very end of a long hallway. I step in, and look around. The wooden walls of my room are thinner than I thought they would be. There is an altar, but no bed, as I am not expected to get much rest. Two giant eyes are painted on the wall, dark and foreboding. They, too, stare at me, intense and intimidating. The space is so small, no matter where I am, I feel seen. Vulnerable. A chill courses through my body when I hear the opening of the room being sealed shut with nails that will only be removed once the Prayer has ended.

First, I do not know what to do. I stand, as if paralysed, in the middle of the room for a long moment. Then I remember Mother, and I remember my oath. I must pray now. I lower the bag of provisions to the ground and kneel on the hard floor in front of the altar. Mother has told me what to say as the opening of a Prayer. We have recited it, again and again.

Forgive me, my Holy One, for my sins. I am here to confess and earn your forgiveness.

Yet, somehow, the words that come out of my mouth are different. More honest.

“Forgive me, my Holy One, for I am not quite sure what to say.” Then I start praying, whispering the words under my breath.

For a moment, I pray for my family. For Father's health, for Mother’s peace of mind, for Luan’s happy spirits to remain and for Adem’s soul to rest in peace.

Then I start praying for my village, and for my community. I pray for peace, for a good harvest and for a mild winter. Talking about winter makes me realise the night has fallen. I shiver and wrap my kiva tighter around me in hope of keeping some warmth.

When time comes to confess my sins, I think back to that moment in the forest ; of the evil spirits that possessed my mind and made me imagine this unholy scene of me almost bare in front of a man. I am ashamed, but I am not sure this vision was my own doing. Do I need to confess if it was not my fault ? In the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut about this event and instead to ask for forgiveness for untying my hair last night.

After that, I realise I have nothing more to say. I try to think, but nothing comes to my mind. As I search for something to pray about, I sit with my back against the wall opposite from the altar. Instead of looking at His eyes, I start looking at my hands. Grandmother’s handkerchief is tied around my wrist, the only touch of colour in my entirely white outfit, and I start thinking of the foreigner.

This dream was not my fault, I am sure of that. Otherwise, why would he have apologised ? The look in his eyes makes me think that he might have known what was going on. Does he know what I have imagined ? Or worse – has he seen the things that I have seen ?

And this place, what was it ? Where was it ? Never would I have dived into water without knowing how deep it was first. Did he push me ? Why would someone do that ?

The more I think about the events of the afternoon, the more I realise my fright is turning to curiosity. Mother said it is not right to be curious, that I must wait for our Holy One to provide the answers. Like a poison, it runs slowly through one’s veins and takes over the mind. It pushes people to do things they would not normally do. Then I realise something else : in this room where I am alone with the Holy One, Mother can not reach. What she does not know, can not upset her.

In between the quiet of prayers, I hear people outside my room, one of which I recognise as the village chief. However, the voices are not coming from inside the Sanctuary ; this building is sacred and not a place for gossip. Instead, the voices come from beyond the wall that is directly to my right, which means they are standing outside the village. The chief is speaking to several people,but I can not make out what they are talking about, nor do I recognise any of the voices he is conversing with ; not until I hear a familiar voice, strong, powerful, and slightly accented, start thanking my leader.

“I would thank you a thousand times if I could, village chief. Our provisions were running low for the rest of our trip and it was urgent we exchanged some of our belongings for food and money. I know you do not welcome strangers often within the walls of your village, and for your generosity I will forever be grateful.”

Jongdae ? He must be leaving the village with his people now.

“You are very welcome,” my leader says, seemingly pleased by the compliments. “Had today been any other day, you would have been quite the sensation. I hope you got what you wanted, for as gracious as I am, I will not be able to let you in the village tomorrow,” he grumbles.

The young foreigner hardly waits a second before replying, probably louder than one should be during a private conversation.

“This is no problem, my community is already grateful for your help. We are going to stay a few more days in the small clearing we saw in the forest, only long enough to allow us to hunt and replenish our provisions.”

They exchange a few more words after that, but I am not focused on their conversation anymore. I simply stare at the painted eyes on the wall.

“What do you think ? What should I do now ?” I wonder out loud, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Before the dream, I would have listened to Mother and stayed put. I would have prayed about anything and everything, I would have confessed my sins.

But I can not help but feel like something important occurred this afternoon. Who is this man, and who are these people ? Is he working with the evil spirits to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of innocent young women ? And if so, why did he apologise to me ? I have to know what happened, I have to know if he saw the same vision I did, and if so how was it possible ?

Today, my tiny world has collided with something bigger, much bigger than anything I could have ever envisioned. But this time, I am not frightened anymore. I will find this foreigner, and defend myself and my honour. I am in need of answers, and I know there is only one way to get them.

Baekhyun didn’t know how long he’d been staring up at the vast blue sky, nor did he know how long he’d been resting atop of the rolling ocean waves. It could have been hours, days, months…he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure how he’d wound up in the ocean to begin with. He closed his eyes momentarily allowing his senses to be flooded (quite literally) with the sounds that came with the ocean. The rolling waves. The calls of seagulls. The soft crashing of the waves against the rocks of the shore that lay only a few kilometers away.

Crashing…

Crashing…

Crash…

That’s right.

The crash.

He had crashed there. In the ocean. He had crashed there.

The war had brought him to this place. Well, the aftermath of it.

The war…

The war…

His brothers…

Where were his brothers…

“Have you heard the news?” Jongdae asked as he entered the briefing room. His uniform was crips, perfectly pressed in all the right places. “There’s talk of a war.”

Baekhyun looked at him carefully, “We’ve just barely finished the last. We’re still rebuilding.”

Jongdae sighed, “We’re a new government in power. Someone’s bound to test us even if it means hurting innocents in the process. He balled his fists just as Junmyeon and Minseok, the oldest of the nine…well eight of them present… entered the room.

“It won’t come down to that,” Junmyeon interrupted. “We’re hoping a civil conversation will smooth things over…at least temporarily.”

‘When has that ever done anything?’ he thought silently as he sat up, nodding his head in greeting to all of his brothers as they entered the room one by one.

Yixing was missing, but then again he had been for some time…

Chanyeol sat beside him to his right, “And we’re sure it’s not some trap?”

Minseok and Junmyeon looked at one another, Kyungsoo shook his head already knowing the unsaid answer.

They weren’t.

Jongin cleared his throat, “So we’re entertaining a meeting with them while knowing full well it could be a trap to instigate a war?”

“To force our hands?” Sehun added.

Minseok nodded, “It’s just one meeting. I don’t think they’ll be so reckless to immediately make us their enemy.”

Oh, how wrong those words would turn out to be in the long run.

Baekhyun looked at the people going about their daily lives from the window where he stood high above them. His eyes were trained on the civilians, but his ears were focused on picking up the conversations occurring at the table in the center of the room. So far, everything has been going smoothly. Diplomatic matters were approached civilally, trade agreements had ruffled some feathers but nothing that was extremely unexpected or off putting.

Still, there was something almost too easy about the interactions and conversations with the diplomats present. Almost as if they were trying to play off some sort of malicious intent under the guise of prospective trade agreements and military support — something Chanyeol had shut down the second it had been brought up.

“I feel as though we’re not being taken seriously enough,” one of the diplomats said, leaning back in his chair. “These trade proposals don’t exactly benefit us in any way, yet they allow for your…regime… to flourish easily.”

“Your exports with us wouldn’t be heavily taxed,” Junmyeon clarified. “It’d make the sales you make here much more profitable for you.”

The diplomat looked over at a few others before looking back at Junmyeon, “We’ll need some time to think over this offer. Everything else, however, is fine. We’ll send word once we have reached a decision for the trade regulations.”

‘We’ll be taking our leave now’ is what they could’ve said. ‘We won’t agree to any of those terms.’

As they filed out of the room, the silence was deafening. All eight of them were silent for a number of minutes, waiting for any one of them to be the first to speak. Baekhyun’s eyes remained trained on a family of four that was making their way through the plaza laughing as they bought some fruit and began looking at a few plants at a different stand.

“Something was off with them right?” Sehun asked. “I couldn’t have been the only one to pick up on how strange they were acting, and the weirdness of it all.”

“Something’s not right—” Kyungsoo began before trailing off as he looked towards the window. “Do you hear that?”

The six of them, not already looking out the window, moved towards it. Baekhyun was still looking at the family, watching as a shadow covered the land and a singular shot rang out. 

The father fell backwards, taking the plant stand with her. The mother let out a petrified scream that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, grabbing her children’s hands as she moved to run away from the stand only to lurch violently as another shot rang, sending her to the ground as well.

More shots rang, the screams of civilians filled the air as they ran around and around in circles looking for cover —anywhere to hide from the massacre they were being subjected to without any sort of warning or even logical reason.

Everyone but Baekhyun quickly sprung into action, a glow around them as they used their abilities to try and get as many people to safety as they could.

Baekhyun simply stood there, looking at the now orphaned children screaming for their parents to wake up.

The war was brutal.

Far too many dead and not enough resources for those still alive.

It was too soon after their revolution for this to be happening and now they were all paying the price.

“Another squadron just left,” Kyungsoo reported during their briefing. “And another was lost in a battle.”

Junmyeon’s face darkened as he closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip.

None of this was how things were supposed to go. They all knew that. The revolution was supposed to bring a new era to the planet —leave the old wartorn, discriminatory one behind and give everyone a fresh start at life.

Not this.

More war. Death. Illness. Pain. Suffering.

None of this was supposed to be happening.

“What if I-” Baekhyun began, only to be cut off by Junmyeon.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It would end this war and send a message to other-”

“No. We’ve lost far too many people as it is.”

‘I won’t lose you, too.’

Baekhyun looked at him, holding a standoff before getting up and leaving the room —leaving the entire tent for that matter. Where he was going he didn’t have a clue, but his feet eventually led him to a warehouse currently being used as makeshift housing for orphaned children and displaced individuals. He’d been going there more and more recently as he was barred from taking part in any aspect of the war that was purely strategizing from the tent he’d just left.

He should be on the frontline with his brothers fighting for everything they all swore to uphold and protect. Instead he was there at a camp. Staring at the two children who were the first two people to suffer and live to tell the tale.

“Mister,” the little girl said, recognizing him immediately. “You’re back!”

He nodded curtly, “Have the two of you been well? Eating well?”

She nodded slowly, “Big brother gives me part of his rations when I’m still hungry. He says he’s not hungry but I hear his belly growl at night when we sleep. Don’t tell him I told you that.  I don’t think he wants me to know.”

He swore his heart broke in that moment, at those words.

It didn’t matter what Junmyeon said or ordered. He knew what he had to do for his people.

Even it cost him his life.

‘I lost my power destroying the enemy base,’ he remembered as he stared back up at the sky.

It was all coming back. No one had noticed his absence from the camp, merely assuming he was hiding away in his tent. When they did, it was already too late. He was already on the enemy ship wrecking havoc and destroying every soldier in his way. By the time he made it to the core chamber, there wasn’t anything anyone could’ve done.

Allowing himself to shine brightly, he managed to overheat the core and blew the ship in smithereens. How he’d survived he’d never know or understand. But there he was floating in an ocean.

Alone.

All alone.

“Mister?” he heard a gruff voice ask.

Only then did he notice the shift in the way the waves moved against him. Was that a boat?

“Are you alright? Do you need any assistance?”

Where exactly was he? And how did that man know his mother tongue?

“Hey! Get me a ring! We need to pull him in!”

Baekhyun sat up as a life ring was tossed out to him.

‘What is this contraption?’

“Grab on!”

He did, gripping the strange material tightly and allowing himself to be pulled closer to the boat and eventually onboard. The man was shouting orders, all muffled as he now lay on the deck staring at the same blue sky.

Now, this witch--this young witch, this old witch, this most powerful witch--had an enemy.  A rumpled, crumpled, wizened old man, hair hiding half of his face, bent and twisted both inside as well as out.  

Or was he even a man?

Was he something older?  Something sideways, something underhill, something that couldn’t cross the iron on her doorstep?  Something jealous of the waxing power of a mere Daughter of Eve’s over the ancient waning of his?  

Perhaps.

But this was once upon a time, so we’ll never know.

This little man, this unseemly man who had been called down on her by another, weaker, enemy, tried everything he knew to catch her and climb on her back, wrap his hands around her neck, but was never a match for her, oh no, he could never be a match for her.

But he was older.   Oh, yes, far, far, far older.  And though she was clever, he was cunning.

And patient.

He couldn’t approach her territory, for it always moved whenever she sensed his approach.  He couldn’t send anyone after her, for she always smelled his scent on whomever he touched.  His wet, clinging scent of swamp, and musk, and rotting leaves.  But…he knew how to wait.  And he could plan.

So, he waited, and he watched, until one day, the time came for him to disguise himself as an old man sitting by the banks of a stream, where he was stumbled upon by a poor farmer’s seventh son, as the youth foraged in the woods.  The youth--because he was a good lad--asked why the grandfather stared into the stream so longingly.  

“Because I have lost my ball, child,” said the wicked old thing.  “I have lost my precious porcelain ball, given to me by my father’s father’s father, and I am too old, and too weak to search for it in the current.”

“That’s no trouble,” the lad said, striding into the rushing waters and searching until he found it.  “Is this your ball?”

“Why, yes it is,” the old man said, his voice quavering.

“Well, then, have it back.”  And with that, the youth nimbly tossed it back to the old man.

“Many thanks to you, lad,” said he.  “And for your service, I’ll do you a good turn.  Tell me, boy.  What do you want most in this world?”  With this, he threw off a little of his glamour, just enough to let the boy see that he was not as he had previously appeared.  

The youth froze. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head.  “I’ve heard of your kind. I’ll have none of your faulty promises.”

“Nothing like that, lad,” the old man rasped.  “As done for me, shall I do for you.”

“And why should I believe you?”

The old man thought for a moment.  He thought about his past, and he thought about his future.  He thought about possibilities, and risks.  But then he thought of that maddening grey witch, whose very existence plagued his thoughts, his waking, and his sleeping.  Finally, he smiled, a sharp-toothed, crooked, rueful smile, and held out his hand.  “I’ll give you my name.”

“And that’s the end of it?  I’m no more beholden to you?”

The old thing that looked like a man held up a long, bony finger.  “There is just…one more thing.”

“I knew it, I-”

“A story.”

The youth subsided.  “A what?”

The thing that looked like an old man smiled.  “You merely have to tell the right one a story.”

“What story?  And who is the right one?”  He was almost swayed now.  Seduced by the promise of a prosperous life, come by so easily.

“Seven times seven times seven,” was the rasped answer.  “You’ll know.  When the time is right.  As for what story, bend your ear and listen carefully…”

So the boy took the rumpled man’s name, and with it, a promise.  

And the lad in stature grew, and in prosperity grew, and everything he touched grew.  And when, in the natural way of things, he found a wife, she too grew.  And grew, and grew, and grew, and grew, and grew.  

And grew.

But when the time came for her youngest sapling to take root, he sailed instead, and everything he touched multiplied, and he was raised in stature, and importance, until he was an admiral of his majesty's royal fleet!  

And on one of his many expeditions, he found a treasure, a fruitful treasure that he brought home to his land, and visited between every expedition.  And through a little luck (and no little effort on his part), this treasure multiplied.  Again, and again, and again, and again.

And again.  

And the youth who had saved a porcelain ball from the river for an old man was now an old man himself.  He could no longer farm, no longer walk, could only lie in bed, and look out into the great wide world that he once roamed, and think.  And he thought, and he dreamed, until one day, in his old clabbered brain, something clicked.  And so he called for his seventh son who came to him, and sat by his side.  “My son,” he said, “The time is not long for me to go rest with my fathers.  But before I do, I want you to bend the ear, listen close...”

And he told his son a story.  

And he patted his hand.

And he died.

His son - the seventh son of a seventh son - bereft at the loss of his father, took comfort in his household.  For a time, he stopped sailing the seven seas, staying home to watch over his precious family.  One night, as he lay in the comfort of his wife’s arms, he told her a story, a story that had been told to him years before as his father lay dying.  

That night, they conceived their seventh son.

The man soon returned to sea, leaving his family to get on as best they could in his absence and, longing for her husband, missing his presence, his wife began to tell her youngest son stories.  First of his father's exploits, then of his father’s family, and finally…

A curious story.

And she told it over, and over, embellishing it as he grew, to continue to enthrall and entice him, until, by the time he was a strapping lad, his head had been filled with stories.

Stories of a girl.  

A young girl who lived in the heart of the black woods, in a little cobbled cottage.

Or a high stone tower with no doors.

Or a cold iron keep.

A girl who was as kind as she was beautiful, as generous as she was clever, as pure as she was gentle.  These stories bewitched the young man who, in his heart, began to think of them, not as stories, but as truth.  

And so, one day, when he was full in the flower of his youth, the lad took his due, and struck out to seek his fortune, in the guise of a forest-dwelling girl.

It took many years, and many adventures, but as he was clever, strong, and handsome, his purse, like his courage, never failed.  Until one day…

One day…

Deep in the heart of the black forest, he came across a maiden in a tree.  One look at her sloe-eyed beauty, and he was struck.

Unfortunately, cursed with the ability to see into his heart, into that bright, shining, golden purity, so was she.

And so, they wed, and settled in town, where he became a merchant.  And they loved each other very much.  In fact, they loved each other so much that one day a little seed took root, and began to grow. 

Unbeknownst to her husband, in preparation for her little blossom, the woman created a beautiful doll -- made and tied with neither needle nor blade, so as not to poke her child’s fate.  Upon finishing the poppet, in the quiet, and in the dark, she brought its faceless head close to her mouth, and whispered.  

One cold winter’s day, the time had come for the couple’s love to flower.  The man, worried for his young wife, sent for the wisest of the midwives.  Unfortunately, she was met on the way.  Met by something very old, something that had the way of seeming.  

Something crooked. 

Some time later, the young father himself rushed to answer a sharp rap, brushing past servants in his haste. Through the opened door, a piercing wind blew, causing all who felt it to fall into the deepest slumber.  

The old woman slowly mounted the stairs, screams and howls echoing off the dark walls of the stairwell. She stepped into the room.  “Oh, lovey!” she crooned, hurrying over to support the back of the harshly panting mother.  “Don’t you worry now.  I’m here...”

The labour was long, longer than it should have been, but before the cock’s crow, the deed was done, and a beautiful, squalling baby girl, with eyes, and hair as dark as her mother’s, was held aloft in softly wrinkled hands.  “Oh, isn’t she a dove,” the old woman said, before fixing her gaze on the failing woman lying on a bed of crimson.  “Dearie, dearie me.  Look at you, half worn out.  Quick, give me her name, and you can rest.”

On a whisper it was given, and then the woman fell back.

“Dearie…dearie me…”  The midwife took a step closer, the old woman’s skin melting off to reveal an unseemly bent and tattered form.  The flesh slithered through the door, and down the stairs.   “You’ve grown complacent, witch.  Once upon a time, you would have known the very moment I stepped foot in the village.”

The woman on the bed sighed.  “Did you kill him?”

The twisted old thing slowly shook his head, sidling closer to the foot of her bed, and wrapping a wizened old hand around one of the posts, leaning against the carved wood in a failed parody of charm.  “No.”

“And the old woman?”  Her voice was weaker now.

He waved a dismissive hand.  “She’ll be fine.  In time.  I’m sure.  Unless some beastie gets to her before her skin does.  

The failing witch could only whisper.  “And…my child…?”

Instead of answering, he just sighed, a dry, rustling sound like leaves in autumn.  “How the mighty have fallen.  Look at you…leaving them…all alone.  And now that I have your daughter’s name…well…you just don’t know what I’ll do…”

The witch’s eyes fixed on the great walnut tree by the back door, and she sighed again.  It was a long, drawn out sigh, sharp as the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard.  

Then she was gone.  

The old man looked down on his fallen foe.  He felt no joy.  Just a queer sense of dissatisfaction.  The babe in his arm cooed, and he looked down at her.  “Now, now,” he singsonged, brushing rumpled fingertips over her throat.  

“None of that.”

***

The merchant awoke with a start.  Standing before him was a man.  Or what looked like a man.  Or what looked like the skin of a man stretched over the bones and muscle of something decidedly more angular, and far more crooked.  In his hands he held a child.

The merchant staggered to his feet, realizing that the too-quiet babe in the crumpled old man’s arms was none other than his own.  He opened his mouth, took a stop forward, but before he could utter a word, the rumpled old thing held up a hand, and with that gesture, the man fell back into a chair as a wave of tiredness washed over him.  “Listen well, son of Adam, for I will only say this once.  Your wife is dead, your child’s name is mine, and with it I cast this curse.  If ever she speaks…she belongs to me.”

The merchant was heartbroken, but despite his grief, he remembered something his wife had taught him long ago.  “Grandfather Likho, you came into my house uninvited, and are therefore bound by the law of hosts to grant a boon. I thereby ask you, is there any way to break this curse?”

Thus identified, the old spirit -- constrained by the invocation of his title, if not his true name -- eyed the merchant in distinct dissatisfaction.  But he was bound.  “It can be broken…” he began slowly, reluctantly, “if a prince of the realm, knowing nothing of the curse, and without prompting, gives her back her name.”

With that, the old thing pushed the babe into her father’s arms, and was gone.  As the servants began to stir, the young man buried his face in his daughter’s blankets, and cried. 

***

“Chernislava!”

You sighed.  Habit had awoken you from the loveliest dream, but at least it had been quiet as you readied for the day.  But now, the lovely pre-dawn silence had been broken by the raucous voice of your eldest stepsister, Duschenka.  Sighing again, you placed a mug of foamy kvass onto a wooden tray already laden with small bowls of porridge, and kutiya, a plate of eggs, pierogi, and cheese, and a little pot of honey.  Lifting the tray, you quickly trotted upstairs to her room.  

Duschenka said nothing as you gently placed the tray on her bedside table, merely waved you away as she reached for the frosty copper tankard without even looking.  

“Chernislava!”

And there goes the other one, you thought, as the voice of your other older stepsister, Anastasia, jangled your already belaboured nerves.  Quickly, you ran down to the kitchen to grab her tray and deliver it before her shrill yelling awoke--

A clear, clarion clang rang throughout the halls.  Closing your eyes, you wearily hung your head.  

Your stepmother.  

Ever cold, she never raised her voice, never called for you like “some common fishwife”, though she allowed her daughters to do so.  No, for her, it was always the bell.  That silver bell.  That eternal, infernal bell.  And while most of the time, the demand on the other end of that bell was simple enough, sometimes, it was simply impossible.  

***

You could no longer remember the name by which your father had called you.  Before he married your stepmother.  Before he was taken by the sea.  

Upon your father’s death, you had been immediately relegated to the attic, allowed to take nothing from your old room, but the simple pillow that had been yours since the cradle.  Apparently, it was ratty enough to satisfy your stepmother that you deserved it.  

Driven almost mad from his death, unable to voice your pain, you had flung the pillow across the attic, and upon impact, the old, threadbare cover had torn, causing the pillow to dissolve into a puff of goose down.  

And something that had thumped rather solidly as it hit the ground.  

Curious, you had looked over to find a little doll with no face.  As you picked it up, from under its skirt had fallen a little piece of rolled cloth.  Unrolling the fabric, you found a note penned in a beautiful hand, and signed with three drops of blood. “My child, take this doll as my blessing. Always keep it with you, and never show it to anybody. If anything bad happens to you, give the doll food and ask her for guidance.”

Soon after your father’s death, your stepmother, jealous of your beauty, began giving you heavy outdoor work to do, so you would grow thin and your face would turn ugly in the wind and the sun.  Despite this, you became more beautiful every day, for each day you gave your doll food and asked for advice, and after eating, she would sigh and say, "If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart, but fear not!" before helping with the tasks - even bringing herbs to prevent sunburn.  

As the years passed, you grew ever more beautiful, and your stepmother's hatred of you intensified.

***

Cold enveloped your body as you passed into the deep, cloying shadow of your stepmother’s room, standing still by the door, casting your eyes about unseeingly.  

“Chernislava.”  Her voice was like the hollow bong of a graveyard bell.  She enjoyed this, you knew.  The moment of uncertainty, of blindness as you waited for your eyes to adjust to the dark.  “Come closer…Let me look at you, child…”  

Obediently, you walked forward, laying her tray on her bedside table, and standing beside her.  Her round, almost cherubic face, surrounded by two fat braids as golden as summer wheat tilted upward to look at you.  Her eyes were the clear, cold blue of the sky in deepest winter.  “Well,” she murmured.  “Don’t you just grow lovelier every day?”  

It didn’t sound like a compliment.  

“What a pity you’re a mute halfwit.”

You lowered your eyes, seething inwardly.

Languidly, she waved a hand.  “That is all.  You may return to your…duties.”  

You could feel her gaze burning with an icy fire between your shoulder blades as you exited the room.  Heading toward the laundry to begin boiling water for the wash, you wondered what fresh hardship she was devising for you.

You weren’t curious for long.  That night, as darkness fell across the land, your stepmother crept around the house and extinguished all the candles. As the last candle failed, she said in a loud voice, "It's impossible to finish our work in the darkness. Somebody must go to the witch of the wood to ask for a light.”

"I'm not going," said Duschenka, who was stitching lace. "I can see my needle."

"And I'm not going," said Anastasia, who was knitting stockings, "I can see my needle."

Even before her daughter’s pronouncements, you felt your stepmother’s cold eyes trained on your figure, huddled in the leftover warmth of the hearth as you dipped a crust of stale bread into a cup of fresh milk.  “Well, Chernislava,” she said, her voice almost pleasant.  “Since I hear no protests, I suppose it will just have to be you.”

Silent as always, you hung your head, stood, and walked past her to slowly mount the stairs to your attic room. 

Your stepmother’s cold, silken voice floated up the narrow stone stairwell as you continued to climb.“Pack your things…”

What she said next was so low you almost didn’t hear it, but when the meaning of her words registered, you shivered.

“Not like she’ll be coming back…”

In the attic, you looked around, realizing that there was next to nothing to take.  Feeling petty, you opened the side of your pillow, and allowed the goosedown to fly around the room before filling the pillowcase with a threadbare shawl, a pair of ragged gloves, a patched pair of stockings, your thin blanket, and your mother’s note.  That done, fear finally had a chance to set in properly, and you fell down onto the rough, lumpen mattress, holding your head in despair.  Just then, a thought occurred, and, reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the rest of the crust of bread that you had been eating downstairs, fed it to your doll.

The doll sighed.  "If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart, but fear not.  Take the cloth with your mother’s three drops of blood, go to her grave beneath the walnut tree, and cry into the kerchief.  Take whatever falls from the tree, and go wherever you are led.”

So you did as you were bade, and from the branches of the tree fell three fat walnuts, one of silver, one of gold, and one of diamond.  You were placing them in your bag when golden motes of light dancing about your head suddenly caught your attention.  Turning to investigate, you saw that fine particles of luminescent gold had created a path through the woods - leading in the opposite direction from the witch of the wood.  Taking a deep breath, you placed the doll in the pocket of your apron, and followed the path in the night.

***

Now the tsarstvo in which you had been raised was unlike any other, in that royals of yore had brokered peace between their land and the southern border nation of Goryeo by way of a curious practice, and the way of it was this.  In every generation, the kingdoms exchanged crown princes.  Now, it was not an unusual practice for a nation to exchange royal wards, both as a gesture of goodwill, as well as for use as hostages, should peace be broken.  However, the difference between that practice and this was that the exchanged (ceremonially switched as soon as one of them reached the age of 12) became crown princes of their new kingdoms, to live, grow, marry, beget, and rule where they were planted.   

You, however, having lived on the northern outskirts of the tsarstvo, knew nothing of this.  

As you walked throughout the night, you soon realized that every step you made took you twenty steps forward.  This lasted until the threatening dawn found you at the gates of a vast city.  Since no one demanded you halt, you cautiously walked through the gates, following the golden trail until it brought you to a vast fortress surrounding a beautiful palace.  While wandering around the keep, your ears were suddenly assailed by the raucous sound of barking.  Turning, you saw what looked like a pack of bears approaching, and you spun back around to flee, to escape, only to quickly be run over.  

“Bolik!  Buyan!  Chernysh!  Come back here!”  A reedy, querulous voice demanded.  

The beasts ignored it, choosing instead to lick whatever bits of your exposed skin they could find.  

“Sobaka!  Come!” said another voice, this one much smoother, and far more pleasant.  

Almost instantaneously, the dogs - for dogs they were, great, energetic caucasians, already giants though they were still puppies - left you to gambol around the figure of a young, handsome man, dressed in finery the likes of which you had never seen.  

You lingered on the ground, stunned by his beauty.  The blackness of his hair, like a raven’s wing, the smooth gold of his skin, the deep, almost shocking warmth of his large, brown eyes, eyes that curved gracefully upward, reminding you of the Siberian cat your father had given you a few days after you were born.  It stayed by your side, a constant and loyal companion, until your father married your stepmother, who, claiming that the cat “ruined her complexion”, gave him away to a traveling tinker in exchange for a hair ribbon.

“You there - rag girl!  How dare you recline in the presence of your prince!” said the thin man with the reedy voice.  

“Stand down, Sergei,” said the prince.  “Can’t you see the poor thing’s overwhelmed?”  Crouching, he reached out a hand, and helped you to your feet.  “Come now, there’s a good girl.  Are you alright?”

You nodded, with a shy, uncertain curtsey.

“The insolence!  Your prince is speaking to you, girl.  How dare you remain silent?!  Answer his highness, Prince Minseok at once!”

Helplessly you looked from one man to the other before bringing your hand to your throat and shaking your head.

“Eh?” Sergei said.  “The sluzhanka must be feebleminded.  Well then, off with you!” he exclaimed, waving a dismissive hand.

“A moment!” said the prince, looking deeply into your eyes, his expression captivated.  “I don’t think that she’s feebleminded at all, are you?” he asked, shaking his head slowly.

You mirrored him, shaking your head, the reflected gesture oddly intimate.

“You cannot speak.”

Relieved, you smiled, nodding vigorously.

The prince returned the smile, his eyes growing momentarily wistful and far away before once more fixing on you.  “You have some business in the palace?”

Thinking for a moment, you mimed various chores.  

“Ah,” said the prince.  “You’ve come for a placement?”

Uncertain, but deciding to forge ahead when the doll in your pocket didn’t move, you nodded.  

The prince glanced at his servant.  “Surely, there’s something she can do.”  Though he spoke to his servant, he seemingly couldn’t take his eyes off of you, looking at you with considerable warmth.

The servant glared down his long nose at you before sniffing affectedly.  “Well, she will do for the kitchen, I suppose; she can sweep up the ashes, and do things of that sort.”  

“Then, lead her there.  I’ll be fine walking these beasts by myself.”

Sergei bowed before gesturing for you to follow him.  “Come along girl, don’t dawdle.”  After walking around the perimeter of the palace for what felt like ages, the servant led you through an abundant garden to a door that led to the palace kitchens.  He then showed you a little corner under the staircase, where no light of day ever peeped in, and said, “Tomorrow, little rag girl, you must clean the yard, sweep the kitchen, help Cook with the meals, and wash the linen. Then you must go to the corn bin and separate seed by seed the mildewed corn from the good corn. And mind that you remove all the black bits. If you don't complete these tasks by nightfall, then I will see to it that you are thrown outside the palace, and left to beg in the city streets.”

Unsurprised by his demanding demeanour, having grown up with a stepmother who was as unreasonable as she was capricious, you merely nodded.

“Well now,” he said, looking down at you as if you were a country mouse.  “You may lie and sleep there.”

As soon as he left, you took your doll out of your pocket, and gave it a crust of bread.  

After eating, the doll sighed and said, "If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart, but fear not.  Reach into your pocket, eat the supper you find, and go to bed. Everything looks better in the morning."

Obediently, you reached into your pocket and, to your surprise, found a whole roast chicken, which you downed, snickety-snak, and went to bed.

Upon awakening the next morning, you went to the corn bin and found the doll picking out the last black bits. The other tasks were also fulfilled.

The doll said, "All you have to do now is help with the day’s meals, and after that you can rest."

You thanked the doll and went to find the cook. 

That night, the servant Sergei returned to find you.  "Have you done as I directed?" he asked.  Sneering at your nod, he investigated, but found the tasks were all completed.  Returning, he glared down at you, unsatisfied.  "Tomorrow you must do the same tasks and then you must go to the store room and sort out the dirt from the poppy seeds."

With the help of your doll, you managed to finish the tasks, and still have time for a small nap, a luxury hitherto not experienced since the death of your father.

In the evening the old servant returned and checked everything.  Upon seeing that it was all done, he turned to you, this time with an appraising eye.  “Well done,” he admitted, awkwardly, before turning around and leaving without another word.

And that is how you were sent into the kitchen, and made to fetch wood and water, to blow the fire, pluck the poultry, pick the herbs, sift the ashes, and do all the dirty work.

One morning, while you were in the garden picking herbs for that night’s dinner, a shadow fell over your basket, and you looked up to see the prince looking curiously down at you.  He crouched, and, feeling a frisson of surprise to see him so close, you scrambled to your feet to make a graceful curtsey.

Grinning, he stood.  “Pretty manners for a servant.”

Your face heated.

The prince smiled momentarily, before his expression grew earnest.  “Back in my home country, I had a little sister like you.  She never could speak, from the moment she was born, so I devised a system whereby we could talk with our hands.”  His expression when he looked at you was almost shy.  “I could…teach it to you, if you’d like.”

Without thinking, you reached out to grasp his hand and clasp it ardently, nodding enthusiastically.

Smiling almost shyly, he mirrored your nod, looking down.  “Well then…”  Looking around, he plucked a nearby flower and playfully slid it into one of your braids.  Making a sign with his hand, he said, “flower”.  He did it again.  “Flower.”  

You repeated the gesture and he nodded, smiling.  Lightly touching your hair, he made another sign and said, “braid.”  You quickly imitated it, and his smile grew wide.

Then his fingertips brushed your cheek.  “Yeppeo…” he murmured.

Confused, you frowned.   You didn’t know that word.  

Grinning, he shook his head.  “You don’t need to know.”  He quickly sat on the ground, before reaching up to pull you down beside him.  “Let’s start with the alphabet.”

***

So time passed, as time does, and to Prince Minseok’s delight, you were an apt and intelligent pupil.  

And, in the way of things, you quickly fell in love.  How could you not?  The prince was handsome, intelligent, kind, playful at times, and though he always exuded nobility, he was polite, and considerate of all, often saying, “Manners maketh man.”

Despite the new tenderness of your heart, however, very soon it was said that the prince must marry, and that his betrothed was soon to arrive.  You tried to comfort yourself with the knowledge that, as a servant, at least you would always be able to look upon him, to gaze at his beauty, listen to his words, and remember how sweetly he had always spoken to you.  To have this…  That would be enough.

But it was not enough.  It would never be enough, could never be enough.  

Having a rare moment to yourself, you were spending it lounging in one of the trees when a trumpeting fanfare caught your attention.  Lifting your head, you peered down the winding road, only for your blood to run cold.  

A carriage approached the palace, and in it - oh curse your far seeing eyes - in it sat one of the last people you wished to ever see.

Your stepsister, Duschenka.  

But, how?  Your family was neither a noble one, nor one that lived close to the palace.  Then again, your stepmother was a scheming, conniving woman, and you could certainly believe that, had there been a way to manipulate her daughter’s way to the throne, she would have found it.  Shivering, you pulled your shawl closer about your shoulders.  Even something as loathsome as striking a deal with the witch of the wood…

Now that the carriage was closer, you could see your stepmother riding opposite her daughter, looking as cold and lovely as ever, dressed in aristocratic finery, the only jarring note…a black leather glove that covered her left hand.

Shaken at seeing her, you climbed down from the tree and ran to your alcove under the stairs, weeping piteously.  

“Why are you crying?”

Shocked to find yourself not alone, as everyone else had leapt at the chance to run outside to see the prince’s prospective bride, you looked up to find Sergei curiously looking down at you.  Though he had initially been cold and aloof, in the months that you had worked at the palace, he had begun to give you a grudging respect, even learning some simple signs so that he could more effectively communicate with you.  

Shaking your head, you huddled further into your nook, turning  away, and sighing piteously.  

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice a bit gentler.  "If you will not tell me, then write your woes, and place them in the iron oven," he said, and walked away.

Taking a piece of paper from Cook’s book of receipts, you crept into the large iron oven, and began to weep and to lament, at last opening your heart and writing down what you had suffered at the hands of your wicked stepmother, and evil stepsisters.  

Too soon, the sound of returning servant’s chatter about the next night’s feast preparations caught your attention, and you hurriedly climbed out of the stove, leaving behind your tale to be burned as so much kindling for the night’s dinner.  

Now, unbeknownst to you, the old servant had stood outside the oven-door listening to your cries, and he crept in behind you, snatching up your tale, and reading it with increasing anger.  Carefully folding the paper, he put it in his pocket, vowing to help you in any way he could. 

That night, in your alcove, you fed your doll a bit of meat, and after she had eaten, she sighed and said, "If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart, but fear not. Tomorrow night, as soon as the feast is well underway, indicate to the cook that you would like to go up a little while and see what is going on.”

So the next night, you did as the doll had bade, and the cook said, “Yes, you may go, but be back again in half an hour’s time, to rake out the ashes.” 

So you took your little lamp, and snuck into the deserted laundry room, where you washed the soot from your face and hands so that your beauty shone forth like the sun from behind clouds. As your doll had instructed, you opened your shimmering nutshell, and pulled out a glimmering dress that shone like the stars.  The dress fit perfectly, and as soon as you were in it, your doll dressed your hair faster than you could even blink.  Thanking her, you then put her in your pocket as she had instructed, for she was to sit in your pocket, and speak aloud your thoughts throughout the adventure, lest your muteness alert the prince as to your identity.

After mounting the stairs, you took a deep breath before entering the ballroom, closing your eyes to gather your courage.  Exhaling slowly, you opened the door, and walked inside.  Though everyone made way for you (for nobody knew you, and they thought you could be no less than a king’s daughter), Prince Minseok came to you as if drawn, held out his hand, and invited you to dance.  When the song was at an end you curtsied, but fled the moment Prince Minseok looked away.  

When he looked round, you were gone, no one knew wither. The guards that stood at the castle gate were called, but they had seen no one. 

Heart light, you ran back to the laundry room, pulled off your dress, folded it neatly back into the walnut, dirtied your face and hands, and were once more just a little maid. After returning to the kitchen to continue your work, you began to rake the ashes, but the cook said, “Let that alone till the morning, and go to bed.  I need you well rested for tomorrow’s feast.”

So you curled up as small as a mousekin in your little alcove, clutching your memories close, the recollection of the warmth and strength of Prince Minseok’s hands - as he lifted yours aloft, as he gently held you by the waist to to spin and whirl you about the dance floor - warming you better than any night’s fire. 

The next night, there was another feast, and you once more asked the cook to let you go and see it as before. “Yes,” said she, “but return before the soup course, to prepare that soup the prince likes so much.” 

After running once more to the laundry room, you quickly washed yourself, and from the pale, shining walnut pulled a dress bright as the silvery moon.  

When you entered the ballroom, looking once more like a king’s daughter, Prince Minseok yet again abandoned his betrothed without a single backward glance, his expression alit with joy as he approached you, his gaze locked onto your own.  

When the music commenced, you once more danced together, but upon the conclusion of that dance, the prince began another.  In fact, Prince Minseok continued to dance with you, and only you, for half the night. But when one of the courtiers approached him to ask a question, you took the opportunity to slip out so slyly that the prince once more did not see where you had gone.

In the laundry room, you again made yourself into the poor little maid, before skipping to the kitchen to cook the soup.  As you stirred, you sighed, your heart full of love for the man who had held you close all night.  Thinking of how he hadn’t taken his eyes off of you the entire time you had been in his arms, you were overcome and wept with joy, the tears from your eyes falling into the pot.  

When the dish was brought to the prince, he ate, and it pleased him as well as before, so he sent for the cook, who confessed that it was you who had prepared it. At that he looked thoughtful, wistful.  

Upon seeing his expression, Duschenka leaned over, dipping her little golden spoon into the prince’s bowl to taste the soup for herself.  As soon as the liquid hit her tongue, she made an awful face.  “Ugh,” said she, “it is bitter!”

Taken aback by her lack of manners, Prince Minseok gently laid down his spoon, and waved his hand for a servant to take away the soup.  In truth, he did not like his betrothed.  Though she was pretty enough, she was loud and brash, opinionated - which should have been good - but her opinions were always backed by nothing more structured than her feelings, which seemed to be as capricious as an ill wind.  She was haughty, petty, vindictive, simple, small-minded, and jealous, and the thought of spending his life with her was truly horrid.

He thought of you, of your sweet face, and open, soft expression.  He had been captivated by the beauty with whom he had danced the past two nights, true, but only because she looked ever so much like you.  He wished…he wished somehow that she could be you.  Your dark eyes, so warm, so inviting, so comforting, and so lovely, staring up at him as he danced with you in his arms.  

At his side, Duschenka held out her goblet for more wine.  Since she had arrived, he had watched her drink far more than she ate, yet she never seemed drunk, just truculent.  

Sighing, he lifted longsuffering eyes to his parents, who returned his gaze with sympathy.  In truth, none of them could figure out how this genuinely unpleasant woman had come to be his betrothed, but every time he thought about it too deeply, his thoughts would begin to wander…

Prince Minseok blinked with a start.  The musicians had begun another song, this one lovely, wistful.  It stirred his soul, and he felt a tear slip unbidding from his eye.  Surreptitiously, he brushed it away, unsure of why he suddenly felt so melancholy.  Catching the eye of the lead musician, he gestured for them to change to something more lively.  

He couldn’t imagine why he had felt so mournful…

***

The next night was the final feast, after which the betrothal would be officially announced.  You begged your leave of the cook a third time, and she agreed.  After locking yourself in the laundry room, you chose the gilded walnut, and from it pulled a dress that shone as golden as the morning sun.  

Sweeping into the ballroom, you searched for the prince, and within moments, your eyes locked.  Striding forward, Prince Minseok bowed, and held out his hand, gracefully accepting yours before dancing with you again, only this time throughout the night and into the dawn. When the festivities finally came to an end, he would have held you fast, but you slipped away, springing so quickly through the crowd that he lost sight of you.  

Not everyone lost sight of you, however.

Sergei had been observing you since the first night, watching, considering, and pondering who you could possibly be.  Though Sergei could be a bit high-handed, Sergei was clever, and by the second night, he had been positive that he knew exactly who you were.  Following you, he saw you rush into the laundry room only for the mute kitchen maid to emerge some moments later.  

He wasn’t perfect, but Sergei was a good servant, who loved his master.  He wanted to see him happy, and more importantly, he wanted to see the realm in good hands.  

He wasn’t sure what this…Duschenka had over his masters, but he saw her clear and plain, and if there was anything that he could do to both make his prince happy, as well as thwart this horrid woman in her attempt to graft herself into the royal line - not to mention fulfill his vow to support you - then he was willing to do it.

Rushing to his prince’s side, he whispered low, “Your Highness, do you wish to know the identity of the mysterious girl with whom you have been dancing every night?”

The Prince looked at him in surprise.  “More than anything,” he answered, putting a hand on his servant’s shoulder, and guiding him to a private nook where he could speak freely.  

“Then come with me, and stay silent, lest we alert her to our presence before you are ready.”  With that, he moved forward, cutting silently and easily through the crowd as the prince followed in his wake.  

Opening the secret door that you had taken, he led the prince down the stairs, to the kitchen where you were just about to settle into your alcove, your face once more covered in ashes and soot.  

Before you could react, Sergei had strode forward, and reached into your apron, pulling out the three magical walnuts.  A slip of gold peeked out from the golden shell, and Sergei tugged on it, only for the shell to spring open, disgorging the shining contents at your feet.

Prince Minseok looked at the dress lying at your feet, glittering in the banked light of the oven, then back at you, his expression bewildered.  “Chernislava, was it you?  Is it true?  Are you she?  The one who has danced with me, and stolen my heart every night?  But I don’t understand...”  

At that, Sergei pulled out your crumpled piece of paper, handing it to the prince, and bidding him to read.  Horrified, you reached for it, intending to throw it into the fire, but a shifting in your pocket told you to hold your peace.  

Within moments, the prince looked back up at you, his eyes searching.  “Ah… So you have been through all of this.  I am sorry for it.”  His jaw tightened, his expression darkening as he looked off into the distance.  “So this is the kind of woman my betrothed is.  Now, I know all…”  He turned to his servant, the light of determination in his eyes.  “Sergei, we must have another feast tomorrow.  Return to the great hall, and announce that I have declared it.  Then, go to my mother’s dressmakers and have them make a dress for my little one that rivals the morning dawn.  By this time tomorrow, I will put all to right.”

So Sergei did as his master bid.  Meanwhile you were taken to the noble’s quarters, bathed, scrubbed, pampered, and scented.  The maids who attended to you were warm and friendly, and freely chattered about your lovely skin, your thick, lustrous hair, and great, dark eyes.  

By the time the final feast was underway and you had entered the great hall, even your step sister did not recognize you, so dazzling were you in your new finery.  

With a great fanfare, Prince Minseok entered the room, and crossed to his false bride.  Lifting her hand, he called for attention as he plucked a goblet from a waiting servant.  “My bride,” he began smoothly, “everyone here is dazzled by your beauty, but they have yet to know the true depth of your wisdom.  And so, I put a question to you.  Your answer will decide a woman’s fate.”

Inflated by the prince’s words, Duschenka preened under the eyes of the assembly.  “Of course, my prince.  It is as you say.  Please, continue.”

He kissed the back of her hand, but you didn’t miss the cold intensity of his dark eyes as he regarded her.  

Then the prince gave Duschenka a question to answer, as to what such an one deserved who had deceived her betters in such and such a manner, teling the whole story with enough changes so as not to cause her to recognize the tale, and ending by asking, "Now, what doom does such an one deserve?" 

"No better than this," answered the wicked stepsister, "that a pair of shoes, sharp as knives, be fashioned, and that she should be made to wear them and dance at the wedding of the prince, and his true beloved." 

“Very well,” said the prince.  "Thus you have spoken, and thus it shall be done." With that, he motioned for his guards, who dragged away the evil stepsister, shrieking and howling, to the dungeons.

Then, gently pulling you close, Prince Minseok looked deeply into your eyes, an enchanted smile lifting the corners of his beautiful mouth.  “This is my true bride.  My life’s companion.  Masha; my Beloved.”

You gasped at the sound of your true name, even as a sharp, piercing wind blew through the hall.  Wonderingly, you took Prince Minseok’s hand in your own.  Looking up at him with tears in your eyes, you smiled.  “You…have freed me.  ”

Tears sprang to his eyes at the sound of your soft voice, and he bowed his head, held you close.  

And somewhere, a crooked someone howled so loudly, and stamped so viciously, that he broke his own legs.

But this isn’t his story, and no one cares about him.