Sorry it's been so long, been busy. Here's something old.
But First a little explaination:
I love fairy tales (blame it on having grown up with Disney movies), and my absolute favorite story was beauty and the beast. This is a fairytale rewrite idea I was playing with. It's pretty true to the original, but I threw in some ideas of my own. I'm not sure that I like it, I don't think that character is developed nearly enough, but on the other hand fairy tales are often really vague. Tell me what you think.
Once upon a time, a young boy was born to two kind and wise people, and in their hearts they named him miracle, but hew was introduced to the world as Prince Philippe, heir to the throne of France.
A great procession paraded through town that day, the army marched, trumpets blaring, and drums beating out a slow steady rhythm. In front of them criers screamed “Make way for their majesties the kind and queen of France and his majesty prince Philippe!”
Children threw flowers before the gilded carriage in which rode their majesties, covering the ground with their fragrant petals and brilliant colors. Mothers stood on the side of the street their hands and faces smudged with dirt and flour, and their eyes shining with joy. Pieces of sweet candies, and imported fruits were thrown onto the street where the children collected and devoured them their faces glowing as they enjoyed the special treat.
The gaudy procession stopped before a ragged hovel on the outskirts of town. The building was dirty and unkempt, as was the ragged old woman standing outside it. In her crooked hand she clasped a singe rose in full bloom,. its color a perfect blood red.
The king stepped from his carriage, his young son clasped in his arms. Behind him men began to remove food from wagons, rich tasteful food, cakes, and pies, entire turkeys and pigs, more food than the woman cold eat in a lifetime. They piled it in huge mounds around her each one exactly her height, and when they had finished there stood around her nine complete piles each falling into the others in a colorful jumble.
The king stepped forward and presented Philippe to her. She stared at him intently for a moment and then nodded wordlessly. She tucked the beautiful rose in among his bedclothes careful not to touch him, and then turned and walked back into her miserable shack.
The king climbed back into his carriage and the procession returned to the castle where a feast awaited them.
The boy later found out that it was a tradition for the ruling family to take their newborn child to the old woman. The rose she gave them, it was said, was enchanted and would stay in full blossom until the day of their deaths.
The only other time during the year the old woman was seen was on the beginning of the year, a time of death and birth celebrated with feasting and dancing, but before the celebration could begin, at exactly the stroke of midnight the king would once against present food to the old woman who would give him in return a single white rose, a sign that the kingdom would prosper the following year.
It was whispered that if the king did not give the food gift to the old woman she would curse the kingdom, bringing famine and destruction to the people. The rose she gave them would bloom until the stroke of midnight on that same day the next year but as the bell chimed to announce the new year, it crumbed to ash in the glass dome were it was kept in the center of the palace.
The prince grew up as an only child, spoiled by his doting parents. He was naturally clever, and studious, but his accomplishments nourished a feeling of superiority and he became cynical.
His parents thought kind, were strange, and to his critical eye, full of faults. His father, William, was the younger brother of the kind of England, His marriage to Christina, the younger sister of the king had been at the time for political reasons. Christina’s brother, Louis, died after having ruled France for a single year, and William was set unwillingly on the throne.
William wasn’t stupid but neither was he clever, and the intricacies of ruling a kingdom escaped his grasp. Christina was quick and cunning. Using her husband as a facade she assumed power in the kingdom.
When he was young Philippe doted on his father, who was softer and more affectionate than his serious mother, but as he grew older he began to appreciate the intelligence in her conversation and soon something like contempt crept into his love for his father.
When he turned sixteen. an age at which he was considered by society to be a grown man, his father passed away. He had lived a quiet life, well known, but quiet, and his death was also quiet. He had been plagued by ill health for months, and breathed his last as he slept.
Philippe found the traditional year of mourning restraining and dull. His ever darkening heart confessed that he did not miss his father. As the year of blackness ended he was glad to be set on the throne.
He spent the next year constantly in the company of his mother, who still in all but name, ruled the country. He learned much, including one astounding fact, his mother had loved his father, and this fact alone placed a seed of disgust his heart for the only person on the earth for whom he felt any love.
He stepped into his ceremonial role easily, enjoying having all eyes on him, but there was yet one duty he really hated: the duty that came at the beginning of every year.
He in his greedy heart felt it wasteful to give so much to an old woman in exchange for only a rose. He hated standing there staring into her searching eyes, being judged by a repulsive slumped hag, and though his actions were correct in his heart he rebelled.
As the years passed he watched his mother age, saw her mind wander, and her iron will bend. Her back bent with age, and her strong features sagged. He watched anger, and strange satisfaction, as he became her superior in every way.
At the age of twenty three he had assumed complete command of the kingdom. From almost the first moment he realized he was in power, he planned how he’d to do away with the tradition he so hated, and when the new year began he set off from the castle with the great supply of food.
In the center of town he stopped, and climbed out of his carriage. In a loud voice he suggested to all the bystanders that they forget the new year’s flower, and instead they feast, for what better way to bring in the new year, than full bellies, and happy homes.
The response was at best uncertain, but Philippe was determined to have his way. Great tents were unfurled and food generously given to the people, dancing and laughing resumed, the joy of a full stomach driving away the fear of the old woman’s wrath, and so in his mind King Philippe had won, but that night when the white rose withered there was no rose to replace it.
Two months after the new year, the rain stopped, For months there was no freshwater, animals fell dead in the fields, children died of the oppressive heat that swamped the land.
The white roses that Philippe had shipped in to fill the beautiful glass dome withered whenever he entered the room in which they were kept, and people pleaded with him to go to the old woman, but his proud heart would not bend.
Six months after the new year, there had still been no rain, and his mother had disappeared from her room, despite his efforts Philippe could not find a trace of her. It appeared to all that she had vanished into thin air.
Seven months after the new year, the rain began again. Philippe announced to his people that the old woman had no sway over the sky, and it had opened up it’s bounty once again.
Eight months after the new year, it rained still, the homes of the villagers had been swept into the sea, and most had fled for their lives, but still the little hovel stood like a tree in the middle of the desert, it stood unmoved, untouched by the unrelenting downpour.
Ten months after the new year, the seemingly inexhaustible supplies of the castle’s stores was running low, and the servants had hidden from Philippe’s wrath, and so it was that when the knocking began, only he was around to answer the door.
Philippe pulled it open hiding behind it from the lashing rain, and there on his doorstep stood the old woman in her hand was clasped a single white rose.
She stared at him her ragged cloak doing nothing to protect her form the cold and rain of the outdoors, and there on his doorstep she uttered the first words anyone had heard her speak.
“Shelter an old woman for the night highness, in return I will give you this precious rose.”
Philippe stared at her cold rage in his eyes, he reached down and plucked the rose form her hands, he whirled around and threw it into the fire, “That is what I think of your rose” he spat at her.
“You do not learn highness, a terrible fault.” she whispered, and in her hand appeared the rose, still on fire, it’s flames licking her gnarled hands. “But perhaps you have not had the right teacher.”
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