“Bid that gent wake from his reverie…”
A Faerytale
Most fairy-tales begin "Once upon a time". This is not most fairy-tales. This is this fairy-tale. This tale begins "And they lived happily ever after."
See what I've done there? I've subverted a paradigm. I know that subverted paradigm sounds like a misspelt Gold Coast holiday destination. The verbal dexterity is admirable but please, let's all hold our applause and let’s see whether I can pull this off.
Are we all sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin ...
"And they lived happily ever after.
Having finally disposed of the fiendish wizard Adzeltwang, the prince cut the princess free of her bonds. He administered the antidote to the wizard's Eternosom spell, wiped her mouth, and waited. It normally took about ten minutes.
He gazed upon the fair maiden he'd journeyed so far to save. She had hair of finest flaxen. That's a fancy old way of saying blonde if you're not sure. I don't want any of you sitting through this whole thing with inaccurate mental pictures. Not a redhead, not a brunette, not a woman riddled with alopecia. Blonde.
And while we're on it, flaxen is a cracking word in Scrabble. 20 points. The x is the murderer, but the f is a willing accomplice.
Her flowing, flaxen hair framed an almost flawless face. She had a small mole halfway between her chin and that unique spot on her face where she could justifiably label the budding skin cancer a "beauty spot". Other than that however, she was flawless. They all were.
He'd never been called on to save an ugly princess. "I wonder what happens to the ugly ones", he pondered. "There must be some. Maths and inbreeding dictate that.” Maybe the homely ones didn't get saved? Maybe the homely ones didn't get kidnapped.
Eventually the princess’s eyes fluttered open and he peered deeply into their still waters, green as a stick of celery. What? Don't judge my simile. That's what colour they were. Should I lie just to evoke more romantic imagery? They were Celery Green. It's a real colour. One-forty-one in your Daddy-pack of Derwents.
"You saved me," she uttered, staring into the eyes of the prince, the cloudy brown of month-old celery.
"At your service m’lady", he replied.
Pulling out a clipboard, he added "Before we proceed any further, could you please sign this indemnity form here, here and HERE. Here’s a quill and inkpot."
His expert hand swiftly x'd three spots on the page.
"Indemnity? Quill? I am perplexed." she replied, perplexed.
"Tis nought but a concord absolving me for pecuniary or somatic injury suffered during this rescue. Regrettably ‘tis standard procedure these days. I would say fie were it my ward, verily it seems to me more minstrelsy than chivalry. But as ever, some foggish churl hath nyssed it for the rest of us."
She scrawled a jumble of hasty lines at the three points indicated, then, collecting her thoughts, smiled, gazed into the eyes of the prince and probed.
"Now, heroic prince, wouldst thou kiss me?"
"I should do so with the greatest pleasure m’lady!" he replied, "the instant aft’r you scribe one further x.”
“What?”
“Tis merely the standard form virtue indemnity. For verily, nae means nae."
Her eyes narrowed. He hedged.
"Churls! Churls who require it I say! But ‘tis all my title is worth to return to court without it."
Snatching the quill, she condescended to give the parchment the most cursory of scribbles.
"Any more paperwork?", she shot back.
She was vexed. This job had been much easier before the privy council got involved. It was a good gig three years ago. Ride in, slay bad guy, kiss girl.
Now you needed comprehensive insurance before they'd let you on a horse and reams of red tape and paperwork before you could peck a princess on the cheek.
"And now, about that kiss", he enquired.
"The moment has passed me by. Take me back to Castle Greyskull."
"As you wish m’lady"
They rode back to her parent's castle in Vernon’s hollow. The King and Queen professed their appreciation for the prince’s heroic deed by promising their daughter's hand in marriage to a man she'd just met. This was the style at the time.
They were married on the morrow, which is the medieval term for double. The wedding was a lush affair. The chef roasted both pheasant and peasant and it was widely agreed that both were delicious.
That night, they retired to their quarters for their first night as a married couple.
"Husband, tell me the man you are", she enquired. "How do you pass time?"
Chest puffed out with pride, the prince quipped, "I am the court's premier jouster"
"Jousting?" she said, dispirited and disinterested. “Tis the most wearisome of sports to me. My brother Athelstan travels and jousts. My mother being fond of aphorism calls him a joustabout. I call him a fool! Father is currently selling his lances, as Athelstan must have keener regard to his duties as heir."
Lances for sale? The prince’s pate was piqued at the potential procuration.
"Your brother’s lances are available?! At what price?"
"Five gold pieces" she replied.
"Five?!” He scoffed visibly. "Bid that gent wake from his reverie!"
“I’m sorry?”, she asked.
“Tell him he’s dreaming!”
The more they talked, the more it became apparent that they weren't compatible at all. If anything, they seemed to be opposites.
He liked hunting, she refused to eat meat. She had a great interest in empowering the peasantry, he saw them as a ever-simmering threat to his family's power to be crushed at all costs.
He took two steps forward, she took two steps back. But they must have been lacking an animated cat, because opposites did not attract.
And so it went. Although they presented a happy front to their subjects, their marriage was a strained affair.
Her youth made her fair to gaze upon, but a nightmare to deal with. On any given day it wasn't unusual for the prince to receive over 25 heralds, often written cryptically in a strange, eastern tongue he didn't understand. What in the devil did "LOL" mean?
She seemed to enjoy omitting vowels from words, substituting numbers for certain letters and utilising acronyms he neither understood nor wished to.
To butcher the Queen's English was bad enough, but when the Queen was your mother, it was personal.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and years, which then turned into nothing but disappointment. The idea of them turning into decades became pure fancy.
One fateful day, the prince entered the living room; dressed in full armour, riding crop in hand.
"Off to work are we husband?"
"Aye."
"How long shall we be in your absence this time?"
"‘Tis a quandry. Perchance weeks?"
(En Garde!) Pricked and hurt, the princess unsheathed her rancour from its scabbard and pointed it princeward.
(Lunge!) "So which damsel requires your liberations and libations today? Guinevere of Canterbury? Elspeth of the Valley? Princess Toadstool of Marioland?"
(Duck!) "Your green tongue does you no credit, wife."
(Parry!) "And each month you seem to spend more time rescuing!"
(Dodge!) "It is my job! I have a duty to the realm."
(Riposte!) "I was better off trapped in the castle with Adzeltwang. I lived under lock and key, but ne’er did I feel unwanted!"
(Attack!) “You were a prisoner!"
(Touche!) "Well I feel like a prisoner here!"
Stony faced, he turned his back to her and walked towards the door. "I must away."
"You shall return to an empty chamber." The ultimatum escaped the Princesses mouth and reverberated across the kingdom.
He administered the antidote and peered down.
There was something different about this princess. Her eyes were skewed and slightly too far apart, her nose was crooked. Her teeth were imperfect, both in orientation and number. This princess was - dare he say it - plain.
Her eyes fluttered open, mouth black as year old celery. She stirred groggily. "You saved me."
"I did m’lady" he parroted, as so many times before.
"How long have I been in this mage's dire custody?" she enquired.
"I know not m’lady, but the morrow’s sun rises upon the feast of St Swithen's "
"St. Swithen's! Oh woe, I have missed so much! The dawn of spring, the harvest festival and, foolish as it might sound, the home-counties jousting tourney. I love jousting. Any decent woman must.
And with that, the princess’s eyes moved closer together, the crook in her nose straightened, and she was as beautiful to the prince as a premium jousting rod, a snip at two gold pieces.
For she had something that no beauty in the universe could replace, a shared interest in sports.
"Why do you hold a clipboard and parchment?", she enquired.
"Ah!", the prince muttered, quickly discarding it. "It is a mere bagatelle. Shall we ride home?"
"Indeed" she replied. "I have been gone too long, and those peasants won't crush themselves".
The prince smiled, kicked his heels into his steed, and made for the horizon.
And they lived forever after with the normal ups and downs that reasonable adults endure.
THE END
Yianni Agisilaou
28 June, 2022
(Parry!) Brilliant