#fairy tale retellings

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The Turning of the Year: A Cinderella Retelling

In a long-ago year, in a faraway land, there lived a girl named Alena. She lived in the house of a cruel stepmother, who hated her because she was so much prettier than her own daughter, and who made Alena do all the work of the house. Though the stepmother let her eat only scraps and wear only rags, Alena grew only more kind and beautiful as the year's went by, while her own daughter, Vanda, grew ever more coarse and cruel.

Now one December, it became known that the king of the land would host a grand ball in the city upon the eve of the New Year. Alena, like all other girls, wished to attend, and asked her stepmother if she could go. Her stepmother promised that she could, in order to convince Alena to work even harder in the weeks before.

But when New Year's Eve arrived, and Alena asked if she could dress for the ball, her stepmother cried, "A ball? When there is so much work to do? We must cast out the old year! You shall attend no ball before the house is cleaned. If there is even a speck of dust left in this house at midnight, you shall bring bad luck upon us all--and it shall be very bad luck for you.”

With that, her stepmother left the house, along with her own daughter, Vanda, to purchase trimmings for their dresses at the ball.

Scarcely had Alena begun to clean the kitchen when she heard footsteps near the back garden gate. When Alena peered outside, she found an old woman walking alone, her back so bent she could not stand without her staff, and her hair so white the snowflakes seemed dark upon it.

“Good mother!” Alena cried, rushing to the woman’s aid. “Come inside to warm yourself! It is no weather for traveling.”

The old woman took a seat by the fire with thanks, and gladly shared the crust of bread that was the only meal Alena’s stepmother had given her.

“You are good to an old woman,” the stranger said. “Yet that is no surprise, for you have been good the whole year through.”

“You do not know me,” Alena said in surprise.

“But I do,” the woman replied, “for I am the Old Year. You have shown me kindness near the end of my journey, so I will be glad to do what I can to help you in yours. What troubles you, child?”

Alena said with sorrow, “My stepmother will not let me attend the prince’s ball until I have cleaned every speck of dust from the house.”

“That is easily done,” the Old Year said, “for April shall reign in this house for the hour.”

With that, though the woman remained old and bent upon her stool, she also seemed somehow to be tall and straight, young and beautiful, with apple blossoms in her golden hair. In the garden outside, the snow clouds cleared away for springtime sun, and warm breezes blew through the house, gathering all the dirt and dust and soot and spreading it neatly in the gardens outside. While spring reigned, Alena gathered blossoming branches from the garden and placed them in jars around the house. Before the hour was over, the house shone. The old woman then lost her youthful aura, and winter returned to the gardens outside.

Alena thanked the Old Year from the bottom of her heart, but at that moment, her stepmother and stepsister returned. Alena, knowing that her stepmother would beat her for letting a ragged stranger into the house, hid the Old Year in the pantry just before her mother entered the kitchen.

“You lazy girl!” Stepmother shouted, when she saw Alena sitting on the stool near the fireplace. “Why are you sitting when the house must be cleaned?”

“It is clean, Stepmother,” Alena replied.

Her stepmother protested, but when she inspected the house, she found not a speck of dust.

She returned to the kitchen filled with rage, for she did not wish Alena to attend the ball and outshine her own daughter in the presence of the prince. When there, she saw the sacks of grain that Alena had moved out of the pantry to make room for the old woman.

“Aha!” her stepmother said. “You have forgotten the grain! We cannot enter the old year with bad grain. You must sift through every kernel so you can throw out the bad and keep the good. If this is not done before midnight, it will be a bad year for you.”

With that, her stepmother and Vanda returned to their rooms to prepare their dresses for the ball. Alena wept by the fireplace, and when she let the old year back into the kitchen, she told her the new task her stepmother had given her.

“That is no trouble,” the Old Year said. “Dry your eyes, child, for July shall reign in this house for the hour.”

Though the woman remained as old as ever, Alena thought she could also see her as a woman of middle age, with roses in hair just beginning to go gray. Through the windows flew every one of summer’s songbirds--warblers, robins, thrushes, vireos, orioles, flycatchers, tanagers, grosbeaks. At the Old Year’s commands, they opened the sacks, and threw the good grain into the barrels and the bad out the back door.

The gardens outside were lush and green, and Alena spent the hour in the sunshine, gathering strawberries, raspberries, and roses by the armful. The birds finished their work before the hour was over, and then flew out the doorway. The sunshine faded, the snow returned, and Alena thanked the Old Year with all her heart.

Just then, her stepmother emerged from her rooms, and Alena hid the Old Year in the pantry once more. Her stepmother and Vanda were fully dressed for the ball, but they had been so absorbed in their own looks that they had not seen even a moment of the summer that had filled the house.

"The grain is sorted, Stepmother," Alena said. "That means I can go to the ball."

With anger in her heart, her stepmother sorted through the grain, but she could not find one bad kernel to blame Alena for.

"You stupid girl!" she said at last. "Just because the grain is sorted, it doesn't mean your work is done. You have forgotten the mattresses! We cannot meet the new year in beds filled with last year's down! You must empty all the mattresses and stuff them all with fresh feathers before you can even think of attending the ball!"

She forced Alena to drag the mattresses to the kitchen, and then she and Vanda returned to their rooms to finish dressing their hair.

With that, Alena fell to weeping once again. The Old Year emerged and asked what troubled her.

"My stepmother demands I restuff the mattresses before I can attend the ball."

"That is no trouble," the Old Year said. "September shall reign in this house for the hour."

The next moment, though the woman remained old and bent, Alena also saw her as a woman not quite so old, with an elegant bearing and iron-gray hair that was woven with autumn leaves. The light outside became golden, while the plants in the garden grew brown and dry, and the trees bore apples among flaming leaves.

The sky grew dark as the air filled with the sound of beating wings, and in a moment, geese and ducks of every kind filled the gardens. The birds filed through the door, and at the Old Year's command, they pulled the old feathers from the mattresses and replaced them with a few feathers pulled from their own wings and tails and breasts. While the birds worked, Alena went to the gardens and gathered sweet apples from the groaning trees.

When the hour was over, the birds flew away, leaving behind mattresses plump with fresh new feathers. Alena thanked the Old Year with all her heart, then flew up the stairs to prepare for the ball.

Her stepmother met her in the hall outside her bedchamber, her hair dressed and ready for the ball.

"I have finished the work, Stepmother," Alena said, "so I will be able to go with you to the ball."

Her stepmother did not believe her, but when Alena brought the mattresses upstairs, she found them so plump and clean and fresh that she could find no fault to blame Alena for.

"You foolish child," her stepmother said at last, so angry she could barely speak. "You cannot possibly attend the ball, for you have nothing suitable to wear."

"I have one dress," Alena said. She flew into her dark, drafty little room and emerged with a gown that had once belonged to her mother. "This dress will fit me, and it is fit to be seen even by a king."

Her stepmother could see that in such a dress, even old as it was, Alena would still far outshine her own daughter in the prince's eyes. She tore the dress from Alena's hands, and with hands made strong by fury, she tore at the seams until the dress tore in two.

"This rag?" Her stepmother cried. "You cannot attend the ball in something so old. I would not have you come and give shame to us all. You must stay here and greet the new year alone."

With that, she and Vanda put on their cloaks, stepped in their carriage, and departed for the ball, leaving Alena weeping in the hallway.

While she wept, the Old Year came to her side and asked what troubled her.

"I am without hope," Alena said. "Though all the work is done, I cannot attend the ball, for I have nothing but rags to wear."

"Nonsense, child," the Old Year said. "You shall be the finest woman there, for you will be clothed in all the bounty of the year."

The Old Year helped Alena to her feet, and through tear-filled eyes, Alena saw the woman change, so she seemed old and young and middle-aged all at once. In the gardens outside, spring blossoms sprouted beside summer's roses, and autumn's leaves blazed over winter's snow. Sun and snow and wind and rain all seemed to fill the little hall where Alena stood. Her limp hair piled high atop her head and was crowned with the blossoms of spring. Her rags became a gown as soft as the petals of summer's roses, and bright with autumn's crimson and gold. A cloak of winter-white feathers stretched from her shoulders to the ground, and her feet were shod in shoes of winter's ice, which through some miracle neither froze her feet nor melted upon the floor.

"Old Mother!" Alena cried in gratitude, throwing her arms around the old woman. "I cannot thank you enough."

"You have earned it," the Old Year said, "but I warn you that I will fade away at midnight's chime, and when I go, my gifts will disappear. You must leave quickly, child, while time lasts."

With that, another wind, warm and icy all at once, wrapped itself around Alena and lifted her through the window. In moments, she found herself before the king's palace, which was all lit up for the festival.

At the ball, her beauty far outshone every woman there, and the dancers stopped dancing to whisper about this strange foreign princess who had arrived with no escort. The king, seeing her, was enchanted at once, and asked for her hand in the dance. For the rest of the night, Alena danced with no other, and found the king as kind and handsome as all the tales had claimed.

The hours flew by in what seemed like moments, until just as the king led her out toward a balcony, the palace clock began to chime the midnight hour.

"The new year has come!" the king declared, but Alena fled from him, out of the palace, down the stairs, and to the dark and snow-covered city streets. The Old Year's wind--what was left of it--found her and carried her through the midnight sky, but at the stroke of twelve, it faded away, dropping Alena into her house's back garden, clad once more in her rags. A single shoe of winter's ice clung to her left foot--though the Old Year's gifts had faded, winter still reigned, so only that season's gift remained.

The king, when she fled, ran after her, but he could find no trace of where his partner had gone, save one token, dropped in the place where the wind had picked her up--a single shoe made of winter's unmelting ice. The king declared that he would marry no woman save for the one who fit the miraculous shoe, and at the first light of dawn, he left the palace in search of her.

He had not gone far when he came across a girl child, barely old enough to walk, with hair as soft and golden as the sun's first rays.

"Where are you going?" the child asked him, in a voice too strong and clear for one so young. The king knew at once that he spoke to the newborn Year.

"I search for the woman I love," the king said, "though I have nothing to find her save the shoe she left behind."

"I know her well," the New Year said, "for she was a great friend of my mother's. You will find her in a house at the edge of the city, where spring's blossoms sit next to summer's roses and autumn's fresh apples."

With many thanks, the king swept the child onto his horse, wrapped her in his cloak, and sped off toward the far edge of the city. Before long, he came upon Alena's house, and knew it by the baskets of blossoms, roses and apples she had kept by the kitchen window.

When Alena's stepmother had come home from the ball, she had seen the signs of autumn, spring and summer in her kitchen, and knew that Alena had been the princess at the ball. She searched in Alena's room and found the partner to the shoe the prince held, then she seized Alena by the hair and locked her deep within the cellar. As she saw the prince approach, she fetched Vanda--her own ugly, cruel daughter--and perched her near the window with the blossoming roses, with the shoe of ice upon her foot.

The king rode to the house's entrance and presented himself by the main doors. Alena's stepmother greeted him with warm joy and welcomed him inside. While she took the king's cloak and tended to his boots, she did not see the small child toddle from the prince's side and make her way to the room where Vanda sat waiting.

Once there, the New Year reached her tiny hands toward the loaf of bread that Alena had baked only that morning. "Might I have something to eat?" she asked Vanda.

"Go away, little girl," Vanda said crossly. "Don't you know that the prince is here?"

The New Year asked for bread again, and once more, Vanda scolded her. At last, the child began to cry, and Vanda hit her on the ear and sent her tumbling to the floor.

Red-faced and crying, the New Year rose to her feet and told Vanya. "You are a cruel, selfish girl. Your heart is cold as ice, and so it is winter that will reign in this house today."

With her words, all the doors and windows of the room flew open, and a wind as cold as death blew in. Snow blew into the room and fell in drifts upon the floor. Before long, Vanda's lips and hands were blue, but her feet, encased in blocks of freezing ice, were black as coal.

Vanya's screams drew her mother to her side, and the king, alarmed, trailed in after her. He saw the girl with blackened feet, and though one foot wore the slipper of ice, he knew she was not the girl he sought. He feared that these cruel women had done her some great harm.

While Vanya's mother tended to her and sent for the doctor, the king saw the New Year standing in a drift of snow. He lifted her onto a stool, wrapped her in his cloak, and asked her, "Where is the woman I love? You promised she was here, yet I do not see her, and there are no other women in this house."

"You will find her in the one place where winter did not touch," the New Year said, "for her heart is too warm to be touched by ice."

The king waded through the kitchen's drifting snow and opened the door of the pantry. There, he saw all the house's food stores covered in snow and ice, but with not a flake covering the small door that led to the cellar. With a few blows, the door broke open, and the king pulled Alena out into the morning light.

"I have found you at last," the king cried in joy, and knelt before her with the slipper of ice. "You have my heart," the king replied, "and if you are willing, I would make you my bride."

With a smile, Alena said, "I will gladly be your wife."

With joy, the king took Alena to his home and introduced her to his court as his chosen bride. The people were charmed at once by her beauty and her kindness, and before the month was over, she was wed to the king and became queen over all the land. Her stepmother and stepsister, with Vanya maimed and their food frozen, became paupers, because they, in their pride, refused all of Alena's charity. Their cruelty gained them no friends, and before the winter's end, they were found, frozen to death, in winter's snow.

Alena, reigning as queen by her husband's side, became beloved by all the land. She and her husband remained pure of soul and warm of heart, and together they all lived happily for all the rest of their years.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #cinderella #have one last fairy tale #i've wanted to do a new year's eve cinderella #and one that mashed it up with the story of the twelve months that i've liked since i was a kid #i came up with the angle when i woke up the morning of the 30th #and decided i had to pull it together before the end of the year #i had wanted to do a full story but it only seemed to work as a fairy tale #(i also wanted to have the twelve months as separate men like in the fairy tale) #(but in practice hiding twelve men made the story ridiculous) #(and the new year as one woman seemed to work both from the fairy godmother angle and the new year angle) #i hope it's not too boring or trite #i just had to write it as quickly as possible #this was just how it came out so i'll have to go with it

[ekbelsher]

I always prefer the line art to the finished piece

#book characters #fantasy illustration #fairytale retelling #fantasy romance #viking braids #line art #ekbelsher #fairy tale retellings

[fictionadventurer]

I love "Cinderella" for the innocence of the romance. I hate deconstructions that assume their love isn't real and is only based on shallow exterior things.

But I would kind of be interested in a retelling where Cinderella isn't in love with the prince. He's an impulsive romantic who fell head-over-heels and proposed marriage after a dance or three. She accepts for purely mercenary reasons--she's not going to refuse a guy with so much money and power, especially when he can get her away from her horrible stepfamily. Which, of course, leads to a story where she has to fall in love after the marriage. Which is such an excellent trope that it could make up for the more cynical set-up.

#fairy tales #fairy tale retellings #cinderella

[confetti-cakemix]

Tale as Old as Time

A synopsis of a fic I'm working on:

When reader's father is taken by one of Namor's warriors, Reader offers herself in her father's place. Destined for servitude miles beneath the surface in exchange for her father's life, she doesn't exactly know what to expect from her new...imprisoners? Owners? Will they be cruel? Punish her for what they see as her father's wrong doings? She can't quite blame them, she too has been a victim of those on the surface, they treated even their own kind with cruelty, so she certainly understand where these people where coming from. But what she doesn't expect, is to meet the leader of this under water world. And even more so, to find a...friend in him.

Would y'all read this?

#namor x reader #namor smut #namor #black panther wakanda forever #wakanda forever #tenoch huerta #beauty and the beast #fairy tale retellings #kukulcan #k'uk'ulkan #i have so many wips

[wangxianficrecs]

One for Heaven and Earth by cerbykerby

One for Heaven and Earth

by cerbykerby (@cerbykerby)

T, 7k, Wangxian

Summary: An incredulous "Whoa," behind Lan Wangji yanks him out of his meditative state. He spins around fast enough for his wet hair to stick to his cheek. His eyes widen in horror. On the shore of the Cold Springs, Wei Wuxian stands, half-dressed in his own robes. He holds up Lan Wangji's heavenly robe, the fabric shining like spilled stars at midnight. "Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian breathes, a whole constellation reflecting in his eyes. "What's this? It's so—" ---------- On the night Lan Wangji's mother left, she gave him a divine robe and told him to never let anyone see or take it from him. Kay's comments: Absolutely loved this re-telling of MDZS where Lan Wangji's mother was a heavenly maiden and made heavenly robes for him and his brother. A very creative look at the backstory between Lan Wangji's parents and I love the subtle ways it affected his relationship with Wei Wuxian as well. Beautifully written too! Excerpt: The Gusu Lan forehead ribbon means self-restraint. It is not meant to be touched by anyone other than one's fated person. Only with one's fated person can one truly be free. The heavenly robe is a gift bestowed on Lan Wangji by his mother. It is a status symbol as much as it is a part of his identity. Celestial blood flows through him. The robe is proof that he is entitled to walk among the heavens as he does on earth. To steal his robe would be to deny him his birthright. To even have permission to touch his robe would be a sign of complete trust. A forehead ribbon from his father. A heavenly robe from his mother. Both hold heavy significance. Neither can be given away without careful consideration. Which, to Lan Wangji's alcohol-riddled mind, is the perfect reason why Wei Wuxian should have both items.

pov lan wangji, canon divergence, madam lan lives, lan family feels, chinese mythology & folklore, fairy tale retellings, canon compliant, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, grief/mourning, loss, angst with a happy ending, supernatural elements

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

#Wangxian Fic Rec #The Untamed #Wangxian #MDZS #Kay's Rec #March 2024 #teen #short fic <15k #One for Heaven and Earth #cerbykerby #pov lan wangji #canon divergence #madam lan lives #lan family feels #chinese mythology & folklore #fairy tale retellings #canon compliant #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #grief/mourning #loss #angst with a happy ending #supernatural elements

[of-the-way-and-wildflowers]

I know we’re all excited about the Jurdan moments in Prisoner’s Throne but I gotta circle us back to Wren and Oaks story for a sec. Has anyone else noticed the Snow White undertones of the story? It very, very loosely based where it is more subtle nods but it’s there. Wren as a child being corpse pale, the hunt for her heart and the deception of an animals heart!?! Those are the one I remember in Stolen Heir. In Prisoners Throne, Oaks kiss brings her back to life!?! I love when Holly Black does this. Like with Cruel Prince it was Alice in Wonderland. Did y’all notice any others cause their story already has me in a puddle in the floor then there are these nods and aaaaahhhhh

#the prisoners throne #prisoners throne #the stolen heir #stolen heir #holly black #jurdan #wren x oak #fairy tale retellings #yes I’m alive #I need to rant and scream about this

[aliteraryprincess]

#fairy tale retellings #robin mckinley #gail carson levine #juliet marillier #gregory maguire #jessica day george #shannon hale #angela carter #anna marie mclemore #edith pattou

[kanerallels]

For the past year or so, I've been mulling over this writing idea that I thought would be pretty fun, and I feel compelled to share it. Partially because @accidental-spice told me to, but also for other reasons that will become clear later in this post

So, picture this: fairy tale retellings, but with platonic relationships

Don't get me wrong, I adore romantic retellings! But there are. A lot of them. And I think that retelling some of those stories as platonic relationships could be super cool

It also occured to me that this is the sort of thing some of my Tumblr friends might find interesting! So-- would anyone be interested in writing a short story retelling or two with me? It would be platonic focused, but romantic stuff in the background would be totally fine!

I don't know if this would be some kind of Inklings/ Whumptober styles thing, or just something a few people thought sounded fun and did together. I just know that I like this idea, and I like the idea of posting such stories on here!

Let me know if any of y'all are interested. If there's a lot of interest, I can look into providing some better guidelines. Tagging some people who I thought of beneath the cut! (Don't feel any pressure to respond, of course! But if you feel like tagging someone not tagged in this post, you're welcome to do so)

@christian-latte-anon @musewrangler @fairytale-lights @sailforvalinor @taleweaver-ramblings @imissthembutitwasntadisaster @magpie-trove @swinging-stars-from-satellites @fortes-fortuna-iogurtum @hollers-and-holmes @winterinhimring @friendrat @bluebellwren @silverpaintedstars @authorofemotion @bookdragon1811 @laughingphoenixleader @freenarnian @dimsilver @firefletch @o-lei-o-lai-o-lord

#fairy tale retellings #salt and light #feeling unreasonably nervous about this one lads #and sorry if i tagged you and we don't really talk. i just threw in some people that this idea made me think of! #hazel rambles about her original writing

[godzilla-reads]

One fun aspect of Beneath the Moon by Yoshi Yoshitani is that some of the fairy tales and myths overlap through different areas of the world. Many countries and cultures have similar stories.

I’m also a fan of fairy tales adapted into different cultures to showcase their own storytelling, like Six Crimson Cranes by Elizabeth Lim.

#godzilla reads #beneath the moon #yoshi yoshitani #six crimson cranes #elizabeth lim #the dragons promise #fairy tales #fairy tale retellings #reading #booklr #bookish #book blog #bibliophile #my pets

[fadedfrost]

@theladyragnell … I have more? I just never thought anyone else would care, until I made an offhand comment about having these to another author and they did.

#Rumpelstiltskin #fadedfrostmoodboards #ao3 #lady ragnell #fairy tale retellings #keep me searching for a heart of gold

[vanessaroades-author]

Thank you to @thewhumpyprintingpress and all the authors involved for bringing this anthology together!

My contribution is In Bloom, a retelling of Sleeping Beauty with a monstrous princess and the folktale-hopping prince whose memories become her newest fascination. Lots of blood and plant horror, muah!

🌹Ko-Fi (eBook and Paperback) 🌹Kobo 🌹Amazon

#Whump #Whump writing #writeblr community #writeblr publishing #fairy tale retellings #vanessa writes

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #the farmer's clever daughter #theme: eros #story: complete #this one was *so much fun* #i was grinning throughout the brainstorming process #faith and alistair just *loved* telling me their story #and especially in the first scenes i kept stopping just because i was having so much fun with the lines #maybe it's horribly boring to read but as a writing exercise it was fantastic #i love these two so much #i haven't had this much fun since writing last year's epistolary story

[friendrat]

14, please!!

A retelling that twists the plot of the original fairy tale?

So one of my favorite books from last year fits that I think. It's called Song of the Selkies by Sarah Pennington. It's the Little Mermaid, but with Selkies and political intrigue with a dash of mystery, and it's delightful!

Also, not a book but a series, but Kendra Ardnek's Once Upon a Twisted Time twists the plots of the fairy tales really well! They are short stories told from the villain's perspective. I *highly* recommend the Little Red Riding Hood one. It was the first one I read, and I love it!

Finally, The Fairy's Mistake by Gail Carson Levine is from the first collection of retellings I ever read, and it *fascinated* me! It's a retelling of Diamonds and Toads, which has always been one of my favorite fairy tales, and in it the fairy blesses the good sister, and curses the bad one, but the blessing turns out to be a curse when people around the good sister abuse it, and the curse turns out to be a blessing when the bad sister realizes that she can use it to intimidate people into doing whatever she wants them to. The fairy then has to figure out how to fix it. It's honestly a brilliant concept, and where my love of retellings got started.

#asks #asks answered #fairy tales #fairy tale retellings #ask games

[fictionadventurer]

Fairy Tale Retelling I'll Never Write: King Thrushbeard as 1930s screwball comedy

The "princess" is the daughter of a business magnate who has managed to hang onto his wealth in the midst of the Depression.

Girl has some kind of "coming-out" ball where she insults all the men with the best '30s zingers available.

Including our young, handsome, witty hero (son of an even richer business magnate) who can go toe-to-toe with her in arguments, until she slaps him with a Thrushbeard nickname that sticks.

Her outraged father declares he'll marry her off to the first tramp who shows up at their door.

Thrushbeard, who's really attracted to this difficult girl, learns of this from his cynical, sharp-tongued, somewhat-socialist journalist friend, and makes some remark about how he'd be willing to live as a hobo to have her. Journalist friend retorts that Thrushbeard couldn't last a day outside his life of luxury.

Because this is a rom-com, this leads to A Bet. If Thrushbeard can successfully wed this girl in the guise of a hobo, he has to live like one for a certain amount of time, without drawing on his father's resources or letting her on to his true identity.

Thrushbeard shows up in disguise, there is Witty Sparring between him and the princess, and the princess winds up marrying him mostly to spite her father--if he thought this threat would make her apologize for her behavior, he had another think coming. Now his family legacy's tied to a hobo and he's got to live with that.

Unfortunately, so does she. The newlyweds are out in the street within moments of the wedding.

There is Comedy about how the princess haa no clue how to function outside her clean and glamorous world, and Thrushbeard's not much better.

With some assist from Journalist Friend (who is not about to let the story of the century slip out of his grasp) they manage to hop a freight car and settle down in a shanty town.

More Comedy about her total inability to complete domestic tasks. So it's not Totally Sexist, she gets the upper hand when her husband also proves unable to complete these tasks he claims were child's play.

There are various attempts to Find Jobs and Make Money, which are all humorously thwarted by Comedy Shenanigans. Journalist Friend has his work cut out for him just to keep these two idiots alive. (He wants to win the bet, but he also doesn't want to be responsible for his buddy's death.)

At one point, the couple winds up in a boxcar again and share a heart-to-heart where they finally see each other as people instead of sparring partners.

Princess finally starts a sidewalk stand where she starts to make a bit of money. In an Unfortunate Coincidence, Thrushbeard's dad shows up in the area, and Thrushbeard has to meet him as himself to keep him from finding out about this cockamamie scheme. During this confrontation (with his father who thinks he's shirking his responsibilities), Thrushbeard is inadvertently responsible for destroying his wife's stand.

To Thrushbeard's horror, his wife responds by demanding a new job to replace the one she lost, and his father gives her a job working in one of his houses.

Now Thrushbeard has to live a double life as himself and as the hobo husband his wife knows.

At a Glittering Party, Thrushbeard as Wealthy Heir is the center of attention while his wife is working as a servant and frugally trying to swipe scraps for his supper.

He tries to avoid her, but Tangled Comedy Mishaps lead him to stumble over her, sending her scraps flying and causing her major embarrassment as some members of the press recognize her.

In trying to help her, he acts too much like her husband, and the secret slips.

His wife slaps him silly.

She subjects him to a scathing tirade about what a heartless nutcase he is, and how the worst part is that she had fallen in love with her hobo of a husband, but he's not even real, and you can die in a ditch for all I care.

She tries to storm out, but he catches her by the wrists and tries to explain that he did it all out of Love for Her, and he did everything wrong and she can have her divorce if she wants, but he loves her more than ever and he'll love her until the day he dies.

She just stares at him, and finally she's like, "You're worse than a nut. You're a sap. And I'm the nut who's falling for it."

(It's a screwball comedy rom-com. Emotional realism has no place here).

Kisses, reconciliation, big proper society wedding. Journalist Friend wins big with his inside scoop (which Mr. and Mrs. Thrushbeard allow him to publish because he did keep them alive (even though this is all his fault) and the story's public anyway so they may as well get the facts from a friendly source.)

Thrushbeard and his wife both take steps to improve their fathers' business practices and help out their hobo friends.

Journalist friend gives them a wedding present of an unpublished photo of them standing in front of their shanty looking all gooey-eyed at each other. The couple hangs it in a place of honor in their fancy house, and the story ends on that image.

#fairy tale retellings #king thrushbeard #adventures in writing #this is my compromise because i can't decide which of my many ideas to work on #so i'll just publish the one i'm only interested in sharing in summary form #(i hope you're envisioning this in black-and-white because that's its true format)

[confetti-cakemix]

Tale as Old as Time (pt. 1)

Authors Note: This story is gonna be a slow burn of sorts, just like Beauty and the Beast is. It also take place after the events of Black Panther, but in a kind of AU universe at the same time, hope you like it!

Synopsis: When reader's father is taken by one of Namor's warriors, Reader offers herself in her father's place. Destined for servitude miles beneath the surface in exchange for her father's life, she doesn't exactly know what to expect from her new...imprisoners? Owners? Will they be cruel? Punish her for what they see as her father's wrong doings? She can't quite blame them, she too has been a victim of those on the surface, they treated even their own kind with cruelty, so she certainly understand where these people where coming from. But what she doesn't expect, is to meet the leader of this under water world. And even more so, to find a...friend in him.

The beach was your only place of privacy, and you visited as often as possible. As a child you had loved having such an expansive backyard. It was a place of exploration and fascination. And with all the tales your father had told you, of underwater cities and unimaginable creatures, it had captured your heart as well.

But now, it was a hideaway from just about everyone and everything. Here, the ocean lapped lazily at the shore, approaching your position on the sand but never reaching it. The warmth of the sun lingered in the soft grains of sand and you relished in the feeling. You were alone but never lonely, the sun, breeze and the crystal waters were your friends in these quiet moments.

You always stayed here in the sand until you could see the soft glow of the moon glitter on the dark ripples of the water. You stayed as long as you could, until you could hear your father calling for you from the crooked window of your small, two bedroom home. A home your father had built from the ground up when you and him, still a babe barely able to walk, had stumbled to this town in Mexico all those years ago.

It was a faint memory framed in grief. You mother had passed just months prior from cancer, and your father, wrecked from grief and the responsibility of caring not only for himself, but for a bouncing baby girl, had moved to Mexico, running from his home in hopes of outrunning his own grief.

But fortunately, with the aid of time and the brightness that radiated from his beautiful little girl, his grief lessened and his heart was once again blooming with love, and his world, with color.

"Y/N!". Your father's faint voice interrupts the memory and you amble up from your sitting position.

"Coming Papa!" you shouted back, sighing slightly, starting the short trek back to your home, and leaving behind your quiet little haven.

#namor x reader #namor x you #namor #talokan #black panther wakanda forever #black panther #fairy tale retellings #beauty and the beast #slow burn

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Been thinking about different approaches to retelling fairy tales/folktales/classics, and I'm curious what y'all's take is . . .

Elements include plot and specific plot beats, characters, items, locations, specific scenes, themes, and so forth.

For further clarification:

A Snow White retelling written with the thought that all elements must be included would have all the iconic elements (princess, wicked queen, magic mirror, seven dwarves, poisoned apple, prince waking Snow White somehow) but would also work in the elements that are less iconic (the queen's blood falling on the snow and prompting her wish for Snow White, the huntsman bringing the queen an animal's heart in place of SW's and the queen eating it, the enchanted/poisoned laces and comb, the iron shoes, etc.).

A Snow White retelling written with the thought that only the most iconic elements have to be included would have some form of wicked queen, princess, magic mirror, and poisoned apple and the same basic plot, but would leave out or change other elements, even major ones, if they didn't serve the story (e.g., dropping the laces and comb, changing seven dwarves into a trio of androids, letting someone other than the prince wake Snow White).

Feel free to reblog and put thoughts in tags/replies/reblogs/whatever.

#polls #taleweaver speaks #I tend to land on the 'most major elements must be included' or 'the most iconic elements must be included' #I have a friend who will try to include every element possible (down to the color of a minor character's hat) #fairy tale retellings #writing