Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris
March, 1690

To my dear the Honourable my esteemed colleague Monsieur Crowley:

What an unexpected pleasure surprise to see you at Madame d’Aulnoy’s salon last evening! I had no idea that you shared my interest in les contes des fées, those diverting tales of fairies and enchantment and true love, that the good Countess – well, not Good good, precisely, not as far as Heaven is concerned, still she definitely knows how to put on an entertainment, but I digress – has championed. It is very exciting, is it not, to see an entirely new literary genre spring to life? I am quite overcome every time I behold it – that is, I would be, if I had lived long enough to see such a thing happen more than once, which of course I have not, but still I do hope these “fairy-tales” do catch on.

Anyways!

As you are no doubt aware, Mme d’Aulnoy has urged the guests at her little soirees to compose their own tales in imitation of her own elegant conversational style and perpetuating her uplifting themes. I have no particular literary talent or gift for the fantastical, but it sounds like an amusing project. And of course you are well suited to wondrous storytelling, by dint of your prodigious imagination and certain other, shall we say, endowments of your nature.

Are you interested in an exchange of contes des fées? Do indulge me! I shall begin, with a little tale I call:

Angelique and the Serpentine Spouse

(don’t be alarmed, my dear – this is, after all, fairy-tale!)

Once upon a time (that’s apparently the requisite incipit) there was a princess by the name of Angelique. She was the least and youngest of a mighty House, but nonetheless always strove to bring honour to her family’s illustrious name.

This noble ambition, however, was made more onerous by a plague of unfortunate setbacks that were definitely not at all her fault; as a consequence, poor Angelique had failed at what her family considered her most important duty: contracting an advantageous marriage. In fact, she was perilously close to being deemed that most shameful of creatures, a spinster of advanced years.

Nevertheless she persevered, maintained her dignity, and performed all such good works as came across her path. In fact, it was while embarked upon one such praiseworthy mission that the princess suffered her most significant misfortune yet; the ship on which she sailed sank, a catastrophe which left her stranded upon an isolated island with no means of escape.

(Because I know well your tender heart mischievous impulses, I assure you that the sailors and other persons aboard the vessel seized hold of various bits of flotsam that carried them safely to the mainland; ‘twas only Angelique who had the mischance of being carried out to sea.)

Her situation could have been much more dire.This particular isle came furnished with several freshwater springs, and the abundance of fruit trees (pears and berries and bananas and the like), and the temperate weather spared her from any concern about hunger or freezing to death. Nonetheless, it was very uncomfortable, as she had no soft beds nor chamber music nor even any books (!) nor any other necessities of civilised life.

Worst of all was the complete lack of company.

Princess Angelique was an intelligent and self-sufficient sort of person, and could amuse herself in a pinch. However, it was apparent that it would be difficult to fulfill the requirement of a distinguished (or, indeed, any) marriage when there was no one about to wed.

She was … observing this fact aloud to herself (not “whining”, despite what I know you are muttering under your breath as you read this) when she was startled to hear a sibilant voice intrude upon her solitude.

“If you musssssst marry, you might asss well marry me.”

Angelique, it must be confessed, uttered a most genteel little shriek when she spied the speaker: an enormous black-and-red Serpent, as long as two men were tall, as thick around as her waist!

(I am sure you are properly shocked at this turn of events.)

“Marry you? But you are a snake, a –”

“Monssster?”

“I was going to say, a hereditary enemy of humanity. My family would not be pleased.”

“Not just any sssnake, but THE sssnake,” the Serpent preened. “I am King of the Ssserpentss, and you could conssider our union a diplomatic alliance. A sssort of Arrangement, if you will.”

“Hmmm.” The princess considered. “But what do you get out of it?”

The Serpent shrugged sinuously, despite having no shoulders. (Don’t nitpick, you know very well how it’s done.) “Ehh, look. My people aren’t exactly sscintillating converssationalissstss, you know. All bite and no brainsss. Bessidesss, maybe your realm could cut back on the sssmiting.”

All of this seemed … not unreasonable. “Very well,” Angelique nodded. “However, family tradition demands that you perform a service of my choosing before I can accept your suit, to demonstrate your capability and commitment. Are you willing to undertake a quest for my sake?”

“Sssure, lay it on me. What would you like me to do? Fetch a pitcher of water from the Well at the End of the World? Fly to the moon for an apple from the Tree of Life?”

The princess wrinkled her nose. “Neither, actually. I was actually on an … assignment, I suppose, from my family, when I wound up here.” She sighed. “There’s this nun in Burgundy. She’s supposed to become a saint, I’m told. But she’s not doing a very good job of it. I don’t suppose that you could …” she trailed off with an imploring look.

“Got it. Not everybody’ss cut out for sssanctity. Me, I love a naughty nun; big rebellion fan, me.” The Serpent King smirked. “What’ss the hold-up? Pride? Gluttony?” He winked. “Lusssst?”

“Oh, no, nothing of the sort!” Angelique turned slightly pink.” “It’s just that … oh, she means well, I’m sure but, well, she isn’t very … bright, you understand? And she’s been sickly since she was a child, so she isn’t much good at anything, really, and although she keeps having visions and such, her superiors don’t take them seriously, and whenever she receives a miraculous mortification of the flesh, they only tell her to trot herself off to the infirmary, and honestly, it’s all rather hopeless.”

The Serpent looked taken aback. “All right. I’ll do my besssst.”

“Thank you,” the princess said with a heartfelt smile.

“Ngk,” the other responded (rather incomprehensibly) as he slithered away.

And that was the last Angelique saw of him for a while.

She was not concerned, precisely, since she had more than enough to occupy her time, befriending the charming woodland creatures, savouring the scrummy fruits of the bonbon bushes, and so forth. (I do hope you properly appreciate these touches of whimsy, Crowley; I am not at all “stodgy and pedantic”, despite what certain demons may claim.) Still, she was not at all unhappy when her reptilian suitor returned.

“All ssssorted,” he announced rather cryptically, and refused to elaborate.

Nonetheless, the princess decided to accept his assurances. All successful partnerships rested most securely on a foundation of trust, after all. So she declared herself and the Serpent King formally betrothed, and sealed the Arrangement with a chaste kiss upon his scaly forehead.

Her new husband answered with another unintelligible collection of syllables.

He also – much to the surprise of both – exploded into a sparkling cloud of black and red smoke. Once it blew away, he stood transformed into the shape of a human man, tall and dark and comely (if rather on the thin side, as if he needed to pay more attention to his meals), but with the exact same regal golden eyes. “Huh. Magic kisssssess. Who knew?”

Princess Angelique clapped her hands with joy. “How splendid! Now we can get to the most important part of any marriage!” She shook her head at the erstwhile Serpent’s baffled expression. “The wedding breakfast, silly!”

At this point, her recently acquired be-furred and feathered friends tumbled in, with a veritable banquet of delicacies: tartlets and pastries and jellies and all manner of confections, all to celebrate the joyous union.

And unless they have managed to leave the island behind, I imagine they are all there feasting still.

***

Monsieur Crowley, mon chéri ami connaissance, I hope you have enjoyed this little literary amuse-gueule (and were able to decode the secret message concealed herein). Perhaps it might inspire you to respond with a tale of your own?

Eagerly awaiting your riposte, I am (as always)

Your devoted servant Respectfully yours,

M. A. Fell

Chapter Text

Burgundy
May, 1690

To Aziraphale:

I just sssorted out some business in East France and finally have time to draft a reply. I was in a little place near Dijon, although I’m sure you won’t have heard of it. Absolutely nothing to do there – the nightlife consists of nightingales and insomniac nuns and any place of interest is accessible only by horseback. (…You would probably call it ‘charming’.)

But the idea seems entertaining enough. And while I’m flattered by your opinion of my storytelling, having met you, I think you might be better at making up stories than you give yourself credit for.

Anyway, here’s a little tale of my own – It’s called

The Story Of Good August

and it reads as follows:

Not too long ago, not too far away, there once was a farmhand called August. He was the farmer’s best worker – no load ever too heavy, no day ever too long, you get it. And he was so bloody conscientious about it too, really cared about that farm. Anyway, whenever he was asked to do anything, he did it. So one day, the farmer went away on a bloody long trip to who-knows-where and left his eldest son in charge. But his son was a lazy, dim-witted, vain man, and cruel too, and so he left all of the heavy work to August. Even work that was unnecessary or unnecessarily hard, he let him do without a second thought. And good August would listen and nod and do as he was told.

Now August was good, but he was not a stupid man. He knew that his life could be much more comfortable if he just ignored his orders and did things the easy way. Such were his thoughts as he carried a heavy sack of grain instead of just using the donkey to do it.

“If only I could lie,” he lamented. “Then I could use the donkey and tell the farmer’s son that I carried it myself! Alas…”

“Then do it,” said his sack of grain. “There’s not much to lying. And I don’t care how I’m carried.”

“Oh, but I can’t! He’ll see right through me and then it will be much worse than before!”

“If you say so,” said the sack of grain and fell back into silence.

Not long after that, the farmer’s son approached him again.

“August, how was that business with the grains?”

“Oh, just peachy,” said August. “I’m not exhausted at all.”

“Marvellous, because I just realised that we must start tilling the field!” said the eldest son. “Go out there, get the till and do it now.”

“But we haven’t cleared the field yet. It will be much harder –”

“Just do it the way I told you and kick away the little rocks as you go. It will be faster!”

It wasn’t faster.

As August worked, stones and debris would get into his till and he’d have to stop and clean the gear. Downtrodden, he sat down on the ground for a break.

“If only I could lie,” he lamented. “Then I could clear the field of rocks before I started tilling! Alas…”

“Then do it,” said the till and the rock in unison. “There’s not much to lying. And we don’t care how you plough the field.”

“Oh, but I can’t lie! He’ll see right through me… maybe I should learn it! Yes! That is what I will do. And I will learn it from… the cunning snake!”

“That seems like a stereotype,” said a stone.

“Maybe you’re right. Then I must find the sly fox!”

So after clearing and tilling the field, because he was a little goodie-two-shoes who cared, he told the farmer’s son he was called away on important business. And with his head held up high, he left the farm and set out into the world.

Soon enough, he arrived in a town and walked to its marketplace.

“Is there anyone who can teach me to lie?” asked August, for he thought there was no better place than a street full of vendors to learn just that.

The vendors, however, thought he was playing a trick.

“I wish I could tell a lie!” cried a spirits vendor. “I could sell cheap cider as Port wine and make a fortune! But, the fool that I am, I can sell only the finest of liquors!”

All the vendors in the street soon joined in and paid no mind to August, who had nothing but the shirt on his back and the stick in his hand. And trousers, too. With no one to help him and nothing to trade, he left the town to find his luck elsewhere.

After some hours towards the North, August saw something red twitch on the side of the road and came closer.

“Hello, cunning red snake. Can you teach me to lie?”

“I’m busy!” said the snake. “I need to tempt a count into cheating on his wife!”

“Never mind, I’m too busy to talk, anyway!” said August and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Oh, if only there were someone who could teach me how to lie!”

Soon enough he encountered a witch’s hut.

“Good sir, I need some help with my roof! I am neither strong nor skilled enough to climb up there and fix the thatching. But you could do it!”

“I’m afraid I really must be going,” said August, looking up at a roof so holey ‘twas unholy.

“Oh, but it will be but a moment, I promise. And I shall pay you handsomely.”

August may not have been able to tell a lie, but he could tell when he was being told a lie. Besides, he was afraid of heights.

“Dear gentlewoman, I am in no need of money. And I must be on my way. But thank you kindly and have a pleasant day.”

Before the witch got another word in, August was already on his way. Disgruntled, she looked inside the house to where she stored her money. What a nightmare it was to find good carpenters in a forest!

Now that witch was a good liar! thought August. But I don’t think she would have been willing to teach me!

After some hours towards the North, August saw a red flash on the side of the road and came closer.

“Hello, sly red fox. Can you teach me how to lie?”

“I’m busy!” said the fox. “I need to get to count Blanc in Toulouse right away.”

“I didn’t want to talk, anyway!” said August and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Oh, if only there were someone who could teach me how to lie!”

Soon enough he came into another town. As he was going about his business and wondering for how much he might sell his walking stick, a child reached into his pocket.

“Thief! Seize her!” cried the townsfolk and circled them.

“There you are, child,” said August presently and led her away.

“She’s yours?”

“As much as any child can be.” Which was to say ‘not at all’, he thought to himself, because he was good and could not tell a lie.

Once they had left the town circle, they parted ways and August continued his journey.

After some time, a thunderstorm broke out. As it was raining and storming like anything, August sought shelter under the giant root of an ancient tree. After a while a deserter crawled up to him and side-by-side they sat in silence.

“What brings you here?” the deserter asked quietly as the storm roared on.

August thought that the new one should explain himself first, but answered anyway. “I’ve been trying to learn how to lie.”

“Oh, do you, like, have a back-ache?”

“What?” August chuckled despite himself. “No. I meant ‘tell a lie'. You understand?”

“Right, right, now I get it. So you really can’t lie?”

“I cannot,” said August and explained his plight, telling him all about the farmer’s son, the two towns, the witch and the animals. “All of this and I still don’t know how to lie. How will I ever return?”

The deserter tilted his head. “You know what it sounds like?”

“What?”

“Like you need a new job.”

“You think so?”

“Takes one to know one, trust me.”

August thought about this.

“You know,” said the deserter after some time, “once the storm clears up, I’m headed West to a different kingdom. I hear people can make a new life for themselves there. You could come with me.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“It is my plan.”

Eventually, the storm cleared up, the sun came back out and the deserter headed West on his own. Just before he reached the horizon, the sound of hooves approached.

“Have you seen a deserter?” asked a soldier.

“No, I have not,” said August without a second thought. “I have seen no living soul in hours. But I heard one was sighted in a town that way.”

They bid him farewell and followed his directions. The deserter came out of his hiding place and August decided to join him. Together they journeyed on towards the evening sun and haven’t been heard from ever since.

***

Yours truly (get it?)

Crowley

Chapter Text

Paris
June, 1690

To M Crowley, that wiley Serpent:

I was entertained to receive your letter, and even more by the message therein. Now I understand the reports I have been hearing from the east of newly popular mystic devotions and liturgical practices. You will be amused to learn that I have recently received a commendation for my “innovative approach”.

Even more diverting was the tale you chose to regale me with – even though it pinched more than a bit, as was no doubt your intent! You do yourself an injustice to denigrate your literary gifts: you have perfectly captured the themes and style of the vernacular folk-tale, and I could almost imagine myself in some forest hut, sharing gossip and ale with the local peasantry.

Yet you must forgive bear with me if I do not believe you quite grasp the nature of Mme d’Aulnoy’s project. The cottager’s plate and the noble’s porcelain may both be shaped from the same clay, but I do not think the former is made any less useful by the artisanry and craftsmanship devoted to the latter. In the same way, les contes des fées aim to elevate and transform the common “wonder tales” of humbler folk. There is a delicacy, an art if you will, to the genre; above all there is a moral purpose.

I know you sneer at any sort of “moral purpose”, my dear fellow distinguished opponent, for such is your remit; but consider for a moment the intended audience! It is all very well for a vulgar Aschenputtel to have no ambitions beyond escaping her wretched life and taking revenge upon her wicked stepsisters; but when you transform her into the gently-born Cendrillon, surely it is preferable for her to be rewarded for virtue as an example to her peers. I confess that “cheerful patience under oppression” isn’t the lesson that you (nor I, for that matter – I imagine we have both have heard it extolled quite enough) would wish to preach to the poor, but it rings a different tone when modelled for the wealthy and comfortable. And to be honest, there is no reason why it couldn’t be replaced with “courage” or “cleverness” or “honesty” or any merit you prefer to inculcate among the elite classes for whom these stories are written.

(Don’t bother to tell me that you don’t like any virtues. I shan’t demand of you any additional examples of how to lie! We both know that, whatever your professional obligations, you do not take any particular joy in human suffering; and wherever “virtue” may lead one, there is only one direction on the path of “vice”, and that is always Downward.)

I freely admit that noblesse oblige is a slender reed upon which to lean one’s hopes for a more kindly world. Nonetheless, I would argue that an ethic of le pouvoir permet tout is infinitely worse.

Humans have spent thousands of years concentrating all meaningful power in a social elite, while the masses spend their lives in weariness and grief – in sorrow shalt thou eat of the ground all the days of thy life. ‘Tis the nature of humanity’s lot, I’m afraid; I cast no blame as such, it is to the benefit of all if those with the means are taught to exercise their privileges with an eye to their own moral worth.

Which, then, serves as a more useful tale: one that indulges an impossible topsy-turvy fantasy that changes nothing, but merely switches those above and those below? Or a carefully crafted piece of art that encourages those among the elite to be more compassionate and just?

Oh, I can see you rolling your eyes as you read this, you know. How many times have we danced round and round this same mulberry bush? Let me demonstrate what I mean, in a story that might be called

Count Soleil and the Jewelled Heart

Many years ago and in another realm, a noble count by the name of Soleil was in a merry mood. He was young and rich and handsome, he was riding his noble horse through his bountiful fields on a bright sun-filled morning, and he had spent the day before with a pretty village maiden called Clairdelune.

He had given her many sweet words, but made no promises; for he was the lord of all these lands and owed his oath to the king, and she was naught but a humble farmer’s daughter, albeit clever and kind. Still, before he had left her cottage and her arms this morning, she had gifted him a sparkling crimson stone the size of a kiss: “This jewel is all that my mother left me on her deathbed, and stands for my heart. Will you take it and keep it safe?”

Count Soleil swore to cherish it as his own, and threaded it on a golden chain. Now he wore it around his neck as he rode back to his manor, singing a gay summer song, and sparing not a single thought for Clairdelune.

Alas for his pleasant mood, a masterless knight blocked his route. He was tall and broad and his armour was of blackened steel, and he sat immobile on a huge coal-dark destrier with fiery breath and iron hooves.

(No, not THAT horse. And I still think he was a gentler beast than you will ever admit.)

“None shall pass unless they pay the toll,” the strange knight boomed from beneath his concealing helm.

“These are my lands and this is my road,” the count replied. “I shall pass and pay nothing.”

“Then you will die,” said the knight. “But surrender that gaudy red stone, and you may pass freely.”

Soleil may well have done as the other bid, and thus avoided all the trouble that followed. Instead, he noted the way the light shone on ebon armour, and it made him remember Clairdelune’s gleaming dark hair; and so he shook his head. “I think not. But I have a purse of gold coins that shall be yours, if you go on your way and accost none on my roads again.”

“Throw me the purse.”

The count did so, and the knight snatched it from the air with one hand. With the other he lifted his great black sword. “My thanks! But I still will have that stone.”

Now Count Soleil was a peaceable man, far more likely to be found feasting and dancing at the king’s court than passing arms on the tournament field. But his heart stirred with righteous anger at this bold demand, and he found the courage to raise his own sword and ride at the rogue knight. Their weapons clashed with a dreadful clamour, and sparks rose from their meeting; still, the count found the strength to overcome his foe, and smote him heavily so that he was forced from his seat and fell to the ground.

Then the knight vanished in a dark-grey cloud, mount and all. The count was left blinking in the bright sun, sore and confused. After a reviving draught from the flask at his hip, he shook himself and rode on.

Towards mid-day, he found himself in the market square of a small village. Soleil was rather peckish at this point, and bitterly regretted the loss of his purse. ‘Twould be well within his rights, he considered, to command some bread and cheese from these peasants; they would not dare to deny him, and he would send back payment once he reached his manor.

He dismounted with this intent when a small child caught his eye. She was ragged and thin, and gazed wistfully at the tempting pastries at the stall before her.

“Little one,” he asked, “have you no coins for food?”

She turned to him with eyes huge and damp with tears. “Nay, good sir. It has been three days since I have eaten one bite.” She gestured shyly towards the jewel sparkling on his breast. “Had I such a stone, I could trade it for more bread than I could eat. Aye, and enough to carry home for my baby brother and my Nan, ere we all perish from starvation.”

The count went hot with shame that a family in his happy lands had fallen to such a pitiful state. He lifted the chain from his neck, yet something in her pleading expression caused his hands to freeze. For a moment he thought he saw the bright eyes of Clairdelune, and the mournful dignity on her face as he had ridden away.

“Ah, child, this stone is a promise to my mistress,” he told her. As she glanced next at the gold ring on his finger, he added “And that ring is the oath I swore to my liege.” He forestalled her shrinking retreat. “But this golden chain is for you. Take it and trade for all the bread you can carry.”

As the girl took the chain, Soleil unclasped his embroidered velvet cloak, and handed it over as well. “It is summer, but the nights still can be cold, and older folks feel the chill more than most. Your grandmother will be glad of the extra warmth.”

Right then, his stomach growled, and he covered his face with embarrassment. When he looked up again, the little girl was gone. The count decided not to commandeer the merchants’ produce after all; it was not that long a ride back to his own home, and the food from his kitchens would surely be tastier. He found a piece of twine and threaded it through the jewel, knotted it securely, and fastened it back around his neck.

When Soleil finally arrived at his manor house, he was very hungry indeed, as well as weary and dusty from travel. He summoned the servants, hoping for a meal, a bath, and his bed. To his surprise there was a company of fine palfreys already in his stables, and he was informed that the king and his retinue had visited unexpectedly. So he quickly washed his hands and face and went to meet his liege.

The king stood in the great hall surrounded by his guards, and greeted the count’s appearance with anger. “You dare come before me in all your dirt? There has been no feast to welcome me, no entertainment to honour me, no gifts to show respect!”

Humbly, Soleil bowed before the monarch. “My lord, I regret that you have not been received as you deserve, but I have just arrived myself. Please take any comfort you wish from my home, for everything that I have I received from your hand.”

Barely mollified, the king scanned him from head to toe. “You speak the truth. All that is yours was mine.” His eyes narrowed. “Except that rock on a shabby string. Hand it over to me, and I shall forgive your rudeness.”

The count grasped the jewel in a trembling hand. The king’s sharp tone and threatening manner was nothing like Clairdelune, but in his regal bearing he thought he saw a hint of her proud carriage and keen intelligence. He found that he could not release the stone to the king’s command. “Forgive me, my lord. This is not mine to give, but mine only to cherish. I cannot in honour surrender it.”

“I am your liege!” the king thundered. “Your oath binds you.” His voice became cold with rage. “Give me that pitiful trinket, or hand back the ring upon which you swore your allegiance – and with the ring, this manor and all the lands and wealth and honour that came with your pledge.”

Soleil trembled, and his hands shook. Still, he did not hesitate as he twisted the ring off his finger and held it forth with a courteous bow.

The king’s thin mouth curled with contempt as he took the ring. “Throw him out,” he commanded his attendants. With great roughness they hurled the count – well, the former count now, one must say -- out of his grand home. Between shock and hunger and pain, he lost hold of his senses and saw darkness.

When some time later he had been restored to himself, Soleil saw his hands were gripping the crimson jewel. The stone shone as bright as his lover’s eyes, and felt as warm as her touch. He laughed a little at himself and said, “Well, I suppose I have no recourse left but to return to my lady’s cottage. Perhaps she will look kindly upon me, and give me food and shelter; in return, I can learn to farm her little plot of land. I wonder if I shall prove to have any skill at sowing and weeding?”

He struggled with his conscience a bit, but permitted himself to lead his horse quietly from the stables. It was a good thing, too; for Soleil was sick and faint. When after an exhausting night he finally reached Clairdelune’s humble home, he all but collapsed on the threshold. It seemed as if he had fallen into a fever dream; he dimly sensed gentle hands carrying him inside, bathing him in rose-scented water, feeding him delicacies off a silver plate, and finally laying him to rest on silken softness.

Soleil awoke in a magnificent bed of carved ivory with rich hangings. His sweetheart reclined beside him, eyes shining and hair loose, a soft smile on her lips; her elegant robe was embroidered in scarlet and silver, and a silver circlet rested on her brow. She tapped the crimson jewel he still wore. “Did you come back to return my heart to me?”

“I can not,” Soleil answered honestly. “For I have discovered that I have given my own heart away, and I can no longer live without yours.”

Her smile widened. “And who is the lucky recipient of your heart?”

He said nothing, but kissed the back of her hand. “I have lost all my wealth and honour, so I came here to beg my village maiden for a crust of bread and a corner of her hearth. But now I know not whom she might be; for she is dressed as a fine lady, and her little cottage seems to be bigger on the inside than the outside.”

“Ah!” she sighed, “Behold here none but your own Clairdelune! But see also a queen of the Fey, who was captivated against my will by a sunlit countenance and a joyful manner – for you must know that my people are of serious mien, and prefer the shadows. Still, I saw that you were careless in your ways and shallow in your affections, and so I took care to conceal my true nature.”

Soleil grieved, for he could not deny her judgment. “I am not worthy to hold your heart.”

“Shhh,” the Fey queen said, placing one finger on his lips. “Yet I could not resist surrendering it to you. Three times I tested you, sure that you would betray me, and I could take back my heart; three times you demonstrated the courage, generosity, and faith that I could not help but love.”

“What tests?” Soleil cried, greatly astonished.

Clairdelune laughed merrily. “I was the knight in black armour, whom you risked your life to combat. I was the starving child, whom you fed and comforted with the last of your wealth. And ‘twas I who took the likeness of your king and demanded from you my very own gift, whom you loyally withstood even at the cost of your title and your lands.” She patted his arm soothingly. “I am sorry that my attendants abused you so cruelly. They could not believe that a mere mortal would show such honour. They have learned shame, and hope that you are consoled by your tender reception last night.”

“So I am not banished by my liege? I am Count and rule these lands still?”

“You are, and well worthy of your position,” she assured him. “And worthy to hold my heart as well.” Clairdelune then grinned, less like a great queen and more like a mischievous scamp, “But do not think to reclaim your ring. You gave it to me, and I have no intention of returning it.” She waggled her right hand before his face, displaying the ring on her finger.

“Wear it as my pledge to you,” he declared, and sealed their troth with a kiss.

And so Count Soleil and his Queen Clairdelune reigned each over their realms with wisdom and love, for all that remained of their days – and their nights as well.

***

There you go, you ancient fiend slithery snake skeptic. Go ahead and laugh at me for being a sentimental old fool.

Fondly Respectfully Fondly,

A Fell

Chapter Text

Paris
July, 1690

To my the most noble defender of virtues, A Fell:

You seem to have a bit of an aptitude for the ‘art ‘of storytelling yourself. And I would almost applaud you if the point of your most recent tale actually made sense.

Because the main difference that I see between ‘vulgar Aschenputtel’ and ‘gently-born Cendrillon’ is that at least Aschenputtel wouldn’t proclaim herself as the saviour of the masses for handing out soup once a month. You may deny it, but you seem to be working under the assumption that the rich and powerful have some sort of moral high-ground. That to share or show a modicum of decency is some kind of achievement they should celebrate and congratulate themselves over. Born with anything one of them could want, they still want to feel superior even on a moral level. Honestly, this is the kind of thing I should be whispering into their ears.

How is it not a double-standard to judge some for wanting to escape poverty and aspiring for what others already have? All people on God’s green this blue planet want an easy and carefree life, just that some are born with it. And most are not. So no, I see no difference between them at all. As you so keenly observed: Clay is clay.

You’re saying that asking them to not be completely selfish by appealing to their egos is going to do much? Enough to actually change things? You’re smarter than that! And the last person I need to explain economic disparities and wealth distributions to. By design, the rich would have to give up their lifestyle, which – in my professional opinion – they won’t.

Really, if the poor want a fair slice of the cake, they are just going to have to stand up and take it. That’s what it’s going to come down to, in the long run, if you ask me. And maybe, to offend you personally, they’ll be fuelled by that unsophisticated and crude thought of ‘what if I were like them?’ ‘What if I had it better?’. Because isn’t that what they’re all thinking of? Every last one of them? The poor’s ‘what if I had a house’ is the wealthy’s ‘what if I had a guarantee for Heaven’? (Letters of Indulgence I think they called them, remember those?)

I see no morals in any of that. Just want and take. Fortune and misfortune. Maybe some fun in the interim, if I have my way.

And now here you are, promising them that just that for a ‘good deed’ they can have their enormous fortunes doubled . With just one kindness, they’ve bought themselves into heaven. Simply guard the stone and get the girl. Haven’t you heard the news? Taxing starving farmers less is à la mode right now!

Listen, I’m not saying that your intentions aren’t good. But theirs obviously aren’t. And you’re giving them a reason to feel virtuous about virtually nothing. It doesn’t help them, and it certainly doesn’t help those at the receiving end of their sporadic charity.

Anyway, here’s a little tale. Reading it might amuse you, if you’re not too cross with me to read it in the first place.

Hans In Riches

There once was a fellow named Jock, who had  nought but a most enormous let’s call him Hans. And Hans only worked as much as he had to and spent as much of his days as he could in a hammock. In the village they called him lazy, but in his mind he was simply more suited to the lifestyle of the nobility. So one day, while he was earning his day’s bread collecting acorns to sell as pig feed, a knight passed him.

“How do you have so much when I have so little?” called Hans.

“Here,” said the knight and reached into his pocket. “take this and be on your way. Tell the others of me, the noble Sir—” but before he had finished proclaiming his name, Hans had already turned around to leave, uninterested in the gift.

“You ungrateful hoodlum! You want to know why I have more than you? I deserve it! For I am rich and I am virtuous. And you get what you deserve.” He said and threw his flint stone after Hans in anger. “Let this be your lesson.”

Hans caught it and put it in his pocket. “Hm. Yes. I will think about that.”

With the stone in his pocket, Hans walked down a large forest path. It wasn’t long until he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. It was quite the congregation, he thought to himself, and watched them from the side of the road.

“Wait,” called a voice from inside the carriage, just after it had passed him. It jumped to a halt.

“What is your name?” said a woman in expensive clothes. “What are you doing here?”

“My name is Hans. I am travelling through this forest.”

“And where is your luggage? Have you no belongings? Are you a thief?”

“I have nothing but this stone in my pocket,” said Hans and pulled it out. “Have you got anything to trade me for it?”

“Look at this poor wretch,” said the woman rudely (Hans thought) to her travelling companion. “Nothing but a stone. Barely a coat. And it is St. Martin’s day today, isn’t it?” She remembered the story of good saint Martin, who shared his coat with a freezing beggar, who was actually God in disguise. A feeling seized her. “This must be an omen!” she exclaimed and ordered her men.

“We shall clothe him!” she called. “Give him half a coat!” 

“What am I to do with half a coat? I already have a whole one. And I won’t be able to sell only part of one,” called Hans.

But that didn’t satisfy her.

“Then you shall have a goose.” She thought herself clever, as the geese were the animals of St Martin. And she didn’t want to run the risk of turning God himself away. “And I will hear no more of it!”

She got back into her carriage and Hans was handed a live goose by a servant. And a nice one at that. He had barely wedged it under his arm, when the wagons drove off.

Hm, he thought. I’m lucky today is St. Martin’s day or I would never have received a goose. But clearly, he must deserve it, or it would never have found its way to him.

And as he walked on, he wondered what other geese were waiting for him to come and collect them. After some time, Hans came through a village. As he walked past the vicarage, he gazed over and saw a pig pen.

“Vicar,” called Hans, “trade me one of your pigs for my goose. It is all I own except the shirt on my back and the flint stone in my pocket.”

“Why should I do that, son?”

“You call me son yet won’t treat me as one.”

“I don’t just give away pigs. If I did, I wouldn’t have any!”

“But you’d have plenty of geese! Besides, it is St. Martin’s day and surely you can afford to spare less than a tenth of your pigs.”

“You’d do better to put that silver tongue to use elsewhere. But you may sleep in our humble shed tonight. It is the day of St. Martin and I shall be welcoming.”

As evening came and Hans lay in the shed with the goose for company, an idea struck him. Quietly, he snuck out of the shed and to the vicar’s open bedroom window. He spread a few of the church’s candles in the nearby trees, took cover in them and started shaking their branches until he saw the vicar appear in the window. With the goose and its wings, his shadow appeared to belong to an angel.

“Gabriel?” said Hans with a deep voice. “How is the vicar doing? Report to me! Is he kind and pure in heart?”

“He is not unkind, but he won’t share with the poor. He did not pass the test today,” said Hans in his normal voice.

“How disappointing. Let’s watch him until morning to see if or if not he deserves a heavenly reward.”

In the morning, Hans awoke to find the vicar at his feet, who wouldn’t let him go until he’d traded the sow for the goose and given him some money.

“How selfless of you to make a bargain like this.”

“Isn’t it? But be on your way, don’t let me stop you. Where are you headed?”

“Right to the king's castle!” said Hans and bid him farewell.

As it grew late, Hans stopped near a different village to warm himself in a pub. Before he walked inside, he tied the pig to a tree farther away so no one would see it.

“Have you seen a pig?” Hans asked after a while, acting like it was a big secret.

“A pig?” said the barman.

“A big sow, with spots around the ears. I had a dream in which I brought the Lord a sow just like that and he welcomed me right into Heaven. …Oh, but I shouldn’t tell you. Promise me this will stay our secret for I want to find it,” said Hans and the barman reassured him.

Hans eventually left and spent the night in the forest nearby, next to his pig. When it was morning, he travelled on, but not too far, and waited in a bush right near the road. And soon enough, a woman with a cow came closer from the direction of the village. Hans picked up the pig and stumbled onto the pathway where she was coming.

“Good day to you, miss! It must be my lucky day. I just found this pig running around the forest. I will eat well tonight, let me tell you that.”

The women seemed to consider this. “Oh, did you? And does it have spots around the ears?”

“You bet it does! Why? Do you know it?”

“What? No. … But how about this: Let me have your pig and in exchange I will give you my cow.”

“Your cow? But my pig is so small. That’s no fair bargain for you!”

“You have so little and a cow will do you well. Let this be a kind gesture from a stranger. May the Lord be with you.”

“Kind indeed. And with you.”

And so Hans journeyed on with a swing in his step and a cow of his own.

In the evening, he came to an inn. He was just binding his cow to where the horses stood, when a rich man approached him and tossed a coin at him.

“Here, give my horse some water and food.”

“Of course, sir. And thank you for your most generous donation. It may not be much to you, but it is to me. I shall pray for you, sir,” Hans said and looked over to the rich man’s friend. “It must be humbling to be a friend of a man so generous and giving and Good.”

The first man grinned, but the second man pulled out his wallet. “Here, there, you have two coins. That is twice as much as he gave you!”

“Two coins? Sir, I can’t thank you enough. I already thought your friend generous, but you are even more giving! God looks kindly on the Good and you must be one of his favourites.”

This angered the first man, who now gave Hans his entire wallet. And Hans praised the Heavens above until his friend gifted him in kind.

In the end, Hans walked away from the fighting men with two gift horses and pockets full of money.

Eventually, Hans came to a castle and found it appropriate. He went to the courtyard to ask for work and a place to sleep until he could form a plan. But then he saw a familiar face: the vicar! Before he could say much, he was escorted to have an audience with the king.

Unbeknownst to Hans, the vicar had followed him and reported to the king the wonders he’d seen him do. As he waited outside of the throne room, he could just overhear the conversation inside:

“Wherever he goes, he asks you to trade. Then you feel the Holy Ghost in him and are overcome with generosity. And then you are rewarded.”

“Is that so?”

“I have seen it myself. A goose for a pig, a pig for a cow, a cow for two horses! He will come and want to trade you something valuable for the two horses. You must show him kindness and do it. Whatever it is, it is just a test. He is an angel. He has no interest in your crown, but we will both go to Heaven."

“And you are sure?”

“I am. I met him and I have been blessed.”

So soon, Hans stood in front of the king and waited.

“Don’t you want to ask me something?”

“I have come to ask for employment,” said Hans. “And I have come to trade.”

“What will you trade me?”

“Two horses in exchange for your crown.”

There was anger on the king's face, but it vanished before Hans could fear for his life. “Then take it.”

The king took off his crown and Hans took it from him, before sitting down on his throne. Eventually, the former king realised what game had been played with him and tried to get his guards to arrest Hans. And before the end of the day, the former king was hanged.

Over the years, when beggars would come knocking and wanted to trade, Hans would remember his own plight and how no one would have helped him without his lying. Then he would turn them right away and throw his flint stone after them, because he knew that trick already! 

***

You should know me well enough to guess the tone with which I write all of this. And if it bothers you anyway, even better.

Don’t be a stranger. Slyly,

Crowley

Chapter Text

Toulouse
August, 1690

To Crowley, that Foul Fiend:

I do hope that you will forgive the shakiness of the script on these pages, because (as you no doubt intended) my hands are trembling.

Not, however, with rage, but because I cannot control my laughter. What an exceptionally witty tale you have conjured up!

My very dear intemperate adversary, did you really think I’d take offense at your jibes? Particularly when they serve my own position so well?

I must say, I am exceedingly flattered that you consider my modest efforts at storytelling so artful that I might have ambitions of re-ordering the entirety of human society to be just and fair. But no, I have only heard of one creature who, with just a few well-chosen words, was able to up-end the Divine Plan completely. I certainly do not pretend to possess the ability to set things right-side-up again!

My aims are more modest. I recognize that humanity is Fallen and likely to remain so: the world will continue to be unfair, society unjust, and its members selfish and greedy. Yet, as we both well know, they can also astonish with their compassion and generosity. A single gift to a beggar will not right all ancient wrongs, but it can undoubtedly provide a good meal and a warm place to sleep for one night, and that is nothing to curl one’s lip at. I remember well times past when both you and I have been grateful for such kindness.

And should the giver favour the Heavenly side of their double nature simply because it has become “à la mode”, as you sneer; well, what of it? Bread from the oven of a pretentious hypocrite is just as nourishing as that baked by a saint. Daydreams of vengeance and “what if?”, no matter how amusing, fill no one’s belly. (I don’t begrudge anyone a hearty chuckle, mind you; I myself will have difficulty not thinking of goose-wings the next time I encounter a certain fellow angel of our acquaintance, and that is entirely upon your head.)

Still, it seems uncharacteristically simplistic of you to divide the populace into a simple binary of “the elite” and “the poor”: the former all with “enormous fortunes” and carefree ease, the latter an undifferentiated mass of misery. My dear Madame d’Aulnoy, for all her exalted title and current acclaim, has suffered greatly from an abusive spendthrift spouse and the vagaries of political affiliation. The common people, as your own tale makes clear, vary wildly in status and wealth: burgers, clerics, artisans, merchants, farmers, as well as peasants and the indigent. I see no call to pit them against one another as enemies, when it is possible to encourage harmony.

You will see from the heading of this letter that I have retired from the summer swelter of the capitol to Languedoc, and I beg you to remember the tradition of the troubadours which began here not so many centuries ago. It was, like these little stories, an artform of the “elite”, adapting the songs and verses of the common people to promote a more elegant, loving, and philosophical manner of life. It was also one – and this is central to my point – that conspicuously elevated those who were left out of the privileges of that harsh and brutal age: women, masterless men, and the elderly. Did it usher in a period of universal charity and social equity? Of course not; yet the courteous ideals it espoused are still held dear. If they are honoured more in the breach than the observation, they are honoured nonetheless.

And so with les contes des fées. Surely you have noticed in these tales the way that despite earthly pomp and circumstance, the real agency lies with the women, that real magic is possessed by the outcast, that the celebrated virtues are not those of force and power but of loyalty and kindness. I am not such a fool as to believe that a few young nobles exchanging stories in a Parisian salon will utterly transform the morals of a nation – yet every act of generosity and justice, no matter how small, is a real and measurable boon to the recipient, the performer, and society as a whole.

You may have encountered the Memoires of the Prince de Marcillac, where he observed that “hypocrisy is the tribute that vice pays to virtue”? Yes, the well-off may flatter themselves outrageously over their pretense of piety, but how preferable is that, compared to boasting of their honest cruelty!

Indeed, the proof of the pudding, as they say, is in your own tale of Clever Hans. We see how the moralistic fables of the institutional Church (honestly, if you recall Martin, he may have been a saint, but dreadfully dour as a supper-guest) translate into very real generosity of behaviour, despite the questionable worth of the beneficiary. Whether the motives for charity were sincere, or mere masks for greed, competition, foolishness, or fear, nonetheless the gifts were tangible and true. As you yourself conclude, cynicism may make for a less naive ruler, but hardly a kinder one.

But perhaps another story may more effectively convey my argument:

Prince Prideful and Faithful the Page

It was a late winter night at Prince Prideful’s castle, and the young page Faithful kept rubbing his hands together to bring warmth to his fingers. He watched the old beggar woman, a ball of rags and bones, that he had allowed to shelter in the Great Hall as she huddled by the roaring fire; and he hoped that his master would continue his carousing through the night. Prideful, he knew, was not a good man; but as selfish and vain as his name, with little love for the people in his care.

Suddenly the front doors banged open, and the prince himself came striding in amidst a whirl of snow. He threw his sodden cloak to one of his men, angrily dismissing the rest. Faithful sank into the shadows that clung to the walls, but failed to escape the prince’s notice.

“Why is there no hot wine and –” he cut himself off as he spotted the old woman. “WHAT is this … thing? Who let it in here?”

“My lord,” Faithful stepped forward. “It is a chilly night, and I thought it no harm…”

“You thought? YOU thought? Who are you to be thinking in MY castle?” the prince roared. “I have standards, you know! Throw the wretch out; and stay outside the rest of the night yourself. That should give you plenty of time for thinking!”

“Yes, my lord.” The page suppressed a sigh as he went to help the poor grandmother to rise. He knew there was no gainsaying Prideful when he was in his cups.

To his surprise, she refused his hand. As she stood, she seemed to grow taller than a tree; she shook out her rags to reveal an elegant white robe. She crossed her arms and turned a stern face to Prince Prideful, who was gawping in a most un-regal fashion. “I have seen it for myself. Despite all the gifts that Nature and Heaven Above have bestowed upon you, you are cruel and merciless. No more shall you wear the handsome face of a Prince; all shall see you for the monster that you are.”

She pulled a wand from her sleeve, tapped Prideful on his head, and behold! His elegant figure swelled into that of a malformed beast: the body and horns of a wild bull; the head and wings of an immense eagle; the mane, claws, and tail of a savage lion. Then she poked her wand straight into the chest of the hideous creature, and said “Your heart is as hard and cold as a lump of ice. If you should ever perform a kindly deed, the ice will shatter into a thousand pieces and you will die.”

She next touched Faithful with her wand and announced, “Your compassion shows your nobility. You deserve to be the prince of this realm.” He recoiled in horror as he grew taller and older, and his ginger hair paled to white-gold: the very image of the erstwhile Prince.

Then she swirled her wand about herself, and disappeared in a blossom of fire and smoke.

The beast let out an enormous howl of outrage.

The guards burst into the Great Hall. “Our prince is under attack!” they shouted, advancing with swords drawn.

Showing more good sense than he ever had in human form, the creature hurled himself out the nearest window. At the last minute Faithful managed to seize upon his rear paws, and was carried off into the winter sky as his cursed master unfurled his mighty wings. The last thing he heard from the castle was “The monster has stolen the prince!”

After a terrifying flight (Prideful had not yet quite figured out these new appendages), they landed with a bump in a snow-covered clearing outside a small town. The transformed prince whirled upon the page to demand “Why did you catch hold of me? You could have taken my place!”

“I … I did not think of it,” he answered honestly. “You are my lord, and I am sworn to your service. No matter what shape you wear.” His master’s stormy eyes, he noticed, had not changed at all.

“Hrmph. Do not expect me to thank you for that,” Prideful warned. “Gratitude might be considered a good deed. It will make my icy heart crack into a thousand pieces and I shall die.”

Faithful bowed in answer.

“Now find me someplace to sleep,” the prince commanded. “I am weary and would rest.”

The page dutifully began to weave together willow branches into a makeshift mattress. He spread his cloak on top, and Prideful manoeuvred his bulky body into place. Faithful made to curl against his back.

“What are you doing?” the prince complained.

“I have also had a very long day, my lord. It is cold, and we can keep each other warm.”

“I cannot share my bed or keep you warm. That might be considered a –”

“Good deed,” the page interrupted. “My lord, I may be the only person in this world who wishes to help you. I cannot do so if I freeze to death. A stupid gesture is not the opposite of a good deed. We shall think more on this in the morning.”

The beast grumbled, but went to sleep.

When Faithful awoke in the early dawn, he was alone; but there was a dreadful sound in the nearby clearing. There he saw the bloodied carcass of a stag, and Prince Prideful crouched next to it, retching and gagging.

“My lord?”

“I was hungry!” the prince whined. “These wings and these claws” – he displayed them proudly – “made it easy to hunt. But my bull’s belly won’t tolerate even a morsel of flesh.”

The page considered the problem. “Have you tried grazing?” he suggested delicately.

The prince snorted. He snapped at the grass, but his eagle’s beak could only tear at a few blades. “This mouth is not made for chewing.”

“Hmmm.” Faithful crossed his arms. “Nothing for it. I shall dress that deer properly, find a town, and see if I can trade for bread.”

“I do fancy a fresh brioche.” Prideful sighed and let the grass fall from his open beak. “But trade? Whatever for?”

“I quite forgot to collect any coin before abruptly leaving the castle. How about you?” the page answered, finding it rather refreshing to be snide. After all, he was in very little danger of being sacked.

“Why should you pay at all? My town, my bakery, my bread,” the prince grumbled.

“Do you wish for me to proclaim your identity?”

“NO! No one must know of this shameful curse!” Prideful roared, rolling upon the ground. “But –”

“I assure you, to offer venison in trade will be quite the wicked deed. For all anyone knows the meat was poached. Which is a capital crime.” Faithful efficiently dealt with the deer and bundled it up in the cloak. He did not wait for permission before leaving.

It wasn’t a long walk to the nearest village – a matter to be worried over later. He was happy to see two bakeries in the prosperous community, but the proprietors of both refused to deal with obvious contraband. The second baker, however, took pity on a stranger, and pointed him to the charcoal-burners’ hut on the outskirts of town. “Their wives often use the kiln to bake when it’s not otherwise in use,” he said. “Tis only peasant food, but they will probably accept your meat in exchange.”

This turned out to be the case, and the page returned to the clearing with his arms filled with loaves by the delighted colliers.The prince at first turned up his nose at the gritty burnt bread, but Faithful paid him no mind and broke open a loaf for his own meal. Soon enough Prideful was devouring another in great chunks, and admitted the coarseness added “a certain extra something.”

The page worked out an arrangement with the charcoal burners. He helped to drag downed trees from the forest, and chop them into logs; while the colliers tended the kiln, he broke fresh ground and pull out rocks to extend their tiny garden; he slung pebbles at squirrels and birds and occasionally a rabbit to add meat to the stew pot; all the while the wives mended and cooked and told stories to their near-feral pack of children. In return, he was given all the bread he could carry at the end of the day, and sometimes a bowl of soup if there were enough left over.

The prince complained constantly. He was tired of bread, but could stomach little else. There was no wine, and the ale Faithful had once brought him was vulgar and undrinkable. It was cold and wet and the willow bed was lumpy and itchy. More than anything, he was dreadfully bored.

After a few weeks, the page returned to find the beast in the midst of a rage, beating his great wings and using his monstrous strength to fell sturdy trees. Faithful shouted, “My lord, STOP, before you bring the foresters down on us both!”

“They’re my trees, I can knock them over if I want to,” the prince said petulantly. “What else am I supposed to do? Can you not find me some books? Or a musician or two? Why must you desert me all the day?”

The page folded his arms. “Tomorrow you shall help me bring these trees to the charcoal-burners. And you will stay and work for your supper.”

“Shan’t,” Prideful contradicted him immediately. “Sounds far too much like a good deed to me.”

“All right,” Faithful sighed. “You shall tempt the colliers into stealing timber. And you shall further distract their wives from their tasks, and amuse yourself by mocking their low-born pastimes.”

The prince scoffed and sulked, but eventually agreed.

The charcoal-burners were startled to see a hulking nightmare monster half-fly, half-drag a large tree to their kiln, but not nearly as terrified as Faithful had expected. A life spent in the forest had left them accustomed to uncanny creatures, or at least too wise to comment. Their wives were likewise wary but respectful, although the page had to clear up an unfortunate misapprehension as to who was the servant and who the master before the prince pitched another tantrum.

And then there were the children.

The little ones were obviously fascinated by this exciting interruption into their ordinary lives, but mostly stared with wide eyes … until one intrepid youngster toddled close, stuck her finger in her mouth, and whispered “...kitty?” This proved to be the signal for the rest to descend upon Prideful, clamber upon his back, pull his wings, plunge their hands into his mane, tug on his tail, and inspect his claws with admiration.

The prince bore this assault with admirable bravery, keeping his beak shut and only rolling his eyes at his servant in an agonized plea. Faithful rewarded him by observing what a terribly wicked deed it was to teach children to ignore obvious dangers and court destruction.

The subsequent weeks were, oddly enough, among the most serene of Faithful’s life. Every day might be filled with hard physical labour, but it produced practical results among congenial company: the charcoal burners, who chopped wood and tended their kiln with taciturn good humour; and the bakers, who toiled at an unending rota of domestic chores while singing and telling stories. Even Prideful, for all his complaints, seemed to find pleasure in amusing the children.

The rapidly dwindling supplies of preserved vegetables and meat were of greater concern. The collier families had not planned on two extra mouths to feed, and Spring was yet weeks away. The additional charcoal the page and the prince (mostly the latter, to be fair) had made it possible to sell provided some extra coin, but purchasing more flour helped little when the kiln was rarely free for baking. Faithful took to roaming the woods for hours, foraging for mushrooms and nuts; when Prideful dropped another deer carcass by the hut, there was nary a whisper about poaching.

Still, the page was surprised when his master joined him in turning over more ground for the Spring planting, even though his lion paws were of limited use. Faithful was skeptical when the prince turned to the great pile of stones, declaring his intent to build an oven dedicated to baking. To the page’s astonishment, Prideful gave every indication of knowing what he was about: he outlined detailed plans to Faithful each night, and kept a watchful eye on the children who gleefully took on the muddy task of mortaring together the rocks that the page dutifully rolled into place.

Nobody could have been more amazed than Faithful when the women, trusting in the work of a stranger and a monster, pulled out the first set of loaves from the newly finished hearth. He did raise an eyebrow as Prideful greedily snatched one and gulped it down before it had a chance to cool.

“What’s with that face? S’not a good deed; I was hungry,” the prince said smugly. “Besides, they’ll be able to set up a good side business with the baking, and who will the exorbitant taxes come back to?” He grabbed another loaf. “I miss the taste of charcoal, though.”

Just then two of the children came running towards one of their mothers. “There are soldiers in the forest, and they are heading this way!” the elder announced in great excitement.

Page and prince exchanged glances. “My lord, swiftly, to the trees!” Faithful urged. “And the rest of you, into your hut and make no sound, as you value your lives!” The adults needed no second warning, scooping up the little ones as they ran inside, slamming the door. Faithful prayed that the soldiers might recognize the face he wore. He would plead having lost his memory; perhaps they would be content to bring him back alone, and not search further.

But Prideful hesitated. “I am no coward. I should not have to hide from my own men.”

“Truly you should not,” the page agreed. “But do they know that?”

And then the soldiers were upon them, and there was no more time. “Behold, tis the prince!” one shouted. “And the foul demon who stole him from us!” cried another. “Kill the beast!” they all roared.

Shaking, Faithful stepped forward and raised his hands. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “It’s complicated…”

The men looked at each other, confused. Then, “He’s been ensorcelled,” said one. “Aye, the demon has corrupted him,” another agreed. “Kill them both, and redeem the prince with a fine Christian burial,” a third recommended. They all raised their swords.

There was a dreadful SHRIEEEEKK from behind and above. Prideful dove at the soldiers with a flurry of wings and claws and horns, gouging and beating and tossing them in the air. One or two attempted a defense, but they were no match for his fury and strength; within minutes they fled the scene in terror, leaving to their fate those too wounded to escape.

The beast feinted in their direction, as if to finish them off; then he stiffened and crumpled.

The page ran to him. “My lord!” he cried in anguish. He tried to boost the other upright, but sank beneath his weight. He put his arms around the prince and begged him to stand.

“Who would have thought that attacking my own guards would count as a kindly deed?” Prideful attempted a chuckle, but it came out as a gasping cough. “Alas, I feel the ice that is my heart has shattered into a thousand pieces. Soon I shall feel no-” he slumped to the side and was silent.

Faithful wept.

After a few moments, he realised that the creature in his arms had shifted back to the likeness of the prince, and he himself had reverted to his own proper form. The curse had indeed been broken.

The prince stirred. “Why are you making that horrid noise?”

“My lord! Prince Prideful, is that truly you!”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Prince Prideful died, did he not?” The man grimaced. “I suppose I shall have to be known as Prince Grateful now. A dreadful thing.” He opened familiar eyes. “I might as well start out with these generous peasants. A golden rake to stir the charcoal, perhaps; and jewelled spoons for their wives.”

Faithful had to laugh. “They would prefer a milk cow, I think.”

“Boring,” Prince Grateful complained. “But I’ll take your advice.”

And so Prince Grateful and Faithful the page returned to the castle. The prince reigned for many long years, as generous and merciful as he was wealthy. And for all that time, Faithful remained his wisest advisor and his dearest friend.

But the prince never did lose his taste for burnt bread.

***

Ha! I trust my point has been made.

I’ve no doubt you have a counter already, you old deceiver.

Do your worst,

Aziraphale

Chapter Text

Toulouse
August, 1690

To Aziraphale:

What an original tale that was. 

So you think you can successfully trick people into being good if you’re just persistent enough? Maybe sometimes. But I fail to see how that’s an argument against good old folk tales. Those also usually have a moral, in case you hadn’t noticed. (Remember Aschenputtel? She only got her dresses because she was so sickeningly faithful and tended to her mother’s grave.)

You’re all about individual blame and change, that’s how you see things, I get it, but you’ve got to look at the bigger picture. You also say you have no aspirations to restructure human society as if that’s some kind of unreachable goal. But some problems can’t be solved with small actions. If most people are miserable, then the system needs to change! And changing their human laws? That’s very possible. Obviously, they’d have to do that themselves. Either way, there are more effective ways to make things better for more of them.

A story about a farmer becoming a king might be amusing, but it also makes them wonder: Why not? Is there a real difference between the king and me? Does he deserve that power? I could just go there and take it.

You accuse me of pitting the rich against the poor, when you sort people into good and beautiful, bad and ugly in your tales (that’s how he gets punished, isn’t it? Seems like a bit of a harmful stereotype for an educative tale, if you ask me. It’s not like your lot actually mark them anymore, do they?). By your own standards that’s worse than my economically-well-founded observation. And seeing as you always make them the heroes of your story, you can’t tell me you don’t see this as a binary too. When you look at a tailor, a farmer, a brewer and a king, one of them stands out. Tales in which the rich (yes, I’m gonna keep calling them that) are morally superior are almost always a justification for their status. You’re going to try and tell me you’re saying ‘with power comes responsibility’ but what it comes across as is yet another ‘the powerful are noble’. Didn’t Prideful earn his status and beauty back in the end? Even changed his name.

And regardless of the prince’s goodness, who the hell was that witch, anyway, to just prance in, take one look at him and ruin his entire life? Deform his body? Cast him out of his home, tell him he will die if he has one friend and take away all of his hope?

What does she get off on?!

Who gave her the right to do any of that? She could have just taken his money and status and sent him to Timbuktu to live out his days in peace there, but no, she has to go down the sadistic route. And no one ever questions if that was fair. What she did is hubristic, degrading and cruel.

Also, who calls their kid ‘Prideful’, I wonder what kind of parenting he got. 

What a mercy he didn’t also have to slither out of the castle, eh?

Anyway, my point was folk tales give people validation – the world is unfair – and catharsis. If you’re dissatisfied, you get angry and start hoping for a better world. And when no one gives it to you, you jump to action and make life better yourself. Where that leads is a different question, but it’s better than just sitting there and taking it.

There’s only two things I don’t understand: Why Faithful stuck with him in the first place, when he would have done a much better job as Prince himself. And why you made Prideful a revolting chimera when snake was right there. Too obvious? That why you changed their haircolours?

Hideously

C

P.S. 

The toad and the woodpecker

There once were a toad and a woodpecker that shared a little hut in the forest. The toad would go out each day and return with fresh berries and water, which he would carry in his large mouth, and the woodpecker would dust the house with his wings and make the bed with his feet.

One day, the woodpecker overheard some travellers walking past their house. They spoke of the Wise Owl that always knew best.

“It really knows everything.”

“Yes, and everyone knows to listen to it!”

Excited, the woodpecker told the toad when he came back and pleaded with him until they ventured deeper into the forest to find it. The trip was harder on the toad who could only hop slowly and not glide through the sky as his friend. It took them six days and six nights and six hours to finally find it, for there were many owls in the forest but nought but one was Wise.

It was almost midnight when they knocked on its tree (well, the woodpecker did).

“Are you the Wise Owl?” asked the woodpecker, perched on a branch at the top of the tree.

“I am,” said the owl.

“Are you the Wise Owl?” cried the toad for he was too far down to hear. And too far down to be heard.

“Dear owl,” said the woodpecker.

“I am the Wise Owl,” corrected the animal. “Do not forget.”

“Dear Wise Owl, we have travelled far and wide to ask you a question: How can we be happy?”

The Wise Owl thought for a moment. “Change things up.” And then it flew away for it was nighttime and it was hungry.

The woodpecker told the frog about the conversation.

“That is all? I regret travelling so long for that,” said the toad.

“No, the Wise Owl is just much wiser than us. Look, it lives up there and can see everything. How could it not know more than us? No, we have to be grateful and listen.”

“What does it even mean?” asked the toad, but the woodpecker did not know either.

After another week of travelling, they finally arrived back home. Tired, the toad wanted to go inside and empty his mouth of the berries and water that he had collected on the way. But the woodpecker stopped him.

“Wait! The Wise Owl said we needed to change things up. What is always the same? Our chores! So today I shall carry in the berries and water and you shall dust and make the bed.

Toad was angry and tired. Why should he listen to that owl and follow its rules? Why should he give in to the woodpecker when he knew better? But in the end, he agreed and dropped berries and water onto the ground outside. Too great was the fear of losing his friend. But as he tried to dust the hob, not knowing what was up there, he jumped into a big pot that was filled with water and drowned. When the woodpecker came home and couldn’t find his friend, he assumed he had abandoned him out of anger. Saddened, the woodpecker left their former home to seek out the Wise Owl once more to ask for advice.

***

I had half a mind to let the owl eat the toad for dinner and die from the poisoning, but there you are. 

Chapter Text

Paris
September, 1690

Oh, my dear:

Such a terse story that you have sent, and so filled with rage and hurt. Did you think that I would not notice? Did you mean it to pain me so?

I cannot credit that. Not of you.

Yes, I was angry at first. I had spent all that paper and ink to create a window for you to glimpse my beliefs and dreams; but you insist on seeing only a mirror. And a warped, clouded mirror at that, that shows an ugly and deformed reflection. That’s a twisted form of vanity, I suppose, and as such, not inconsistent with your origin. But it isn’t you.

You have always been the clear-eyed one of the pair of us, after all.

That’s odd for me to say, when you are so optimistic as to contend that anything about humans in the aggregate can actually significantly change. I thought so, once; that was a long time ago. I suppose I must professionally deem “hope” to be a virtue. But honestly, has anything ever significantly improved over six thousand years in the way that people treat each other? I must content myself with tweaking around the edges, as you say. I have heard you argue many a time and oft that neither of us truly makes any difference. In that case, teaching people to wonder and to hope and to agitate for societal amendment is more cruel than otherwise.

And whatever else you have been, my dear, you have never been that. Except to yourself.

You asked questions. From me, you deserve answers, even if we both know you won’t like them.

Who the hell was that witch, anyway? Technically, she is our good friend Narrative Device (and isn’t that a fine name for a witch?), since the tale needed something to get it started; a random supernatural crone dispensing moralistic blessings and curses has been a popular trope since stories began. But neither of us are stupid enough to pretend that’s what you’re actually asking me.

I could fall back on the old standby of “don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to” but neither of us have been children for… well, for a very long time.

How many times will you keep asking me this same question? Do you think that you will ever receive a different response?

There is Good, and there is Evil – even you admit that, even if you call it “better” and “worse”. Choices have consequences. Why did our friend Miss Device choose to bestow this particular consequence on that particular prince, and not upon the even more despicable ruler of the next country over? Because this is the story that is being told.

And perhaps it is just as much blessing as curse… oh, don’t scowl at me, you have seen it yourself. That which appears as punishment turns out to be opportunity. Every human has the freedom to create a new life for themselves.

I have heard some scholars say that the angels and demons were likewise created with free will, but could make a choice only once; with that single aye or nay, their natures were then fixed for all eternity. I’m sure that they had no more notion of the immensity of the repercussions than did poor Prideful, on what seemed a perfectly ordinary evening.

Yet he, like every human, must constantly make choices; and at any moment, can always choose differently. As your charlatan Owl reveals, they can always “change things up.” What a heavy burden! What an incalculable gift!

Why did you make Prideful a revolting chimera when snake was right there? Oh dear. Do you truly find the combination of human, bull, eagle and lion to be “revolting”? Candor is its own form of compliment, and I will strive not to take offense. Prideful was ashamed, Faithful was horrified, and the guards were terrified; but the other individuals seemed to take his appearance in stride; and the children in their innocence saw beauty.

Transformation is a staple in fables to remind the audience that appearances can be deceptive. Who is the uglier: Prideful the prince, in all his glory and splendor, or Prideful the beast, digging stones in a muddy field? This isn’t a tricky one, even if you’re determined to be contrary.

Why did Faithful stick with him in the first place? Why would any person want to stay loyal to such a pompous, hedonistic, self-righteous, lazy excuse for a prince? Especially when the latter continuously belittles the other while taking advantage of their generosity? For what possible reason would they choose to indulge them, keep them safe, find excuses for them to do what they secretly desire? What reward could a clever, imaginative, kind individual find in the company of someone who fails again and again to live up to a literally God-given responsibility?

I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea. If you ever figure it out, perhaps you’ll tell me.

While I’m waiting, I’ll share another tale. Is it a window or a mirror? Or just the fatuous hootings of an old fraud who deserves to be poisoned by those he pretends to assist?

Lord East and Lady Grey

It was a splendid Midsummer morn as Lord East rode out to survey his lands. His mood was as sunny as the cloudless sky, for he stood in the favour of his people, his king, and Heaven above, and he was prepared to do his best for all three.

As he came to a flowery meadow, he was surprised to see a maiden seated alone on the grass. Her gown was the black of midnight, her tumbled locks the scarlet of sunset, and she was fair beyond any woman he had ever beheld.

“Are you lost, lady?” he asked, dismounting beside her.

“In truth, I scarcely know,” she answered. “All I remember is sitting here watching the sun rise, and listening to the song of the birds.”

Her tone was light and dismissive, but when he looked into her golden eyes he glimpsed echoes of a terrible grief and loss. Lord East found that he wished for that sorrow to go away more than he wanted anything in his entire fortunate life.

Because she was willing and had no place else to go, he placed her on his horse and brought her home to his own castle. Discreet enquiries around the countryside revealed no family who had lost a daughter or a sister or a wife. And so, because she was willing and had no place else to go, Lord East married her and cherished her well.

She had no name to give him, so he told the priest his mother’s name – that was Grace, and he knew of none more beautiful. But each time he called her so, she winced as if he had struck her.

“What would you be named, if you could choose?” he asked.

“Ah, I’d go only half the distance, and call myself Grey.” Her lips smiled, and it almost, almost, reached her eyes.

Every day Lord East found himself more enchanted by his Lady Grey. He bought her beautiful gowns, although she chose to wear only mourning hues. He served her the choicest meals, although she only ate mere morsels, contenting herself with wine.

Her behaviour differed from the ways he had always known. She did not busy herself with household matters; but he was Lord East and had plenty of servants. She did not mingle with the other ladies or join in their chatter; but she was Lady Grey and had no need of friends. She did not attend Sunday services; but the church was old and ugly, the sermons dull, and the choir usually flat; and anyways a Christian soul could pray just as well under an open sky.

Instead, all the day long Lady Grey would stroll in their beautiful garden, conversing with the flowers; late in the night she would wander the halls or gaze at the stars. If the gentry thought her uncanny and the peasants whispered and muttered, Lord East and Lady Grey harmed none, lived as they chose, and were content.

Yet Lord East still could not bear the pain in the back of his lady’s eyes. He finally bought her extravagant smoked-glass lenses from Venice so he should not have to see, but he always knew it was there.

A year after their marriage, Lord East awoke and Lady Grey had disappeared. He searched the castle and scoured the garden but she was nowhere to be found. So with dread in his heart, he mounted his horse and rode to the meadow where first they met.

There was his wife, reclining casually on the grass, watching the sky and listening to the birds. He knelt before her, and the grief and loss in her eyes was so devastating that it nearly came to the front and ran down her cheeks as tears.

“Return to our home with me, my dear,” he said; and she took his hand and rose.

The next week Lord East disguised himself in shabby clothing and rode out to visit his old nurse, who had retired to a modest hut near the forest’s edge. She grew herbs in her garden and offered advice to the sick and the troubled, and some called her a witch. She stood in her doorway to greet him, for she had foreseen he would come to her.

Lord East had brought her flowers from his garden and delicacies from his kitchens. He carried also a small purse, in which he had placed a lock of his wife’s hair and a scrap of her sleeve, secretly gathered while she slept. The nurse weighed these in her hands, observing their texture and scent; then she cast them into the fire, where they burned with a green flame and small musical sigh.

“It is as you suspected,” she said. “Lady Grey is of the Fey.”

Lord East wanted to protest, but he knew it to be the truth. “What does this mean?”

“The Good Folk are not like us,” she said. “They and we cannot be together. I know not why your lady’s own have left her behind. Perhaps they have cast her out; perhaps they sent her to make trouble; perhaps they merely forgot, for they are a careless people. But while she may not remember them, she will never be free of them. And every Midsummer, she will be compelled to return to the meadow where they dance in the moonlight.” She shook her head. “Nothing wholesome can come from this marriage.”

“Nay, I love her!” Lord East drew his sword, and held it against his own breast. “I would die for her!”

The nurse pushed his sword down. “Love is strange and powerful,” she said. “Love your Lady Grey well, and pray that a miracle may occur.”

With this advice, Lord East had to be satisfied.

During the following year, he made every effort to shower his lady with even greater affection. He bought the finest jewelry for her, delicate swirls of silver and bold chunks of bright stone; she thanked him politely, but wore none but the wedding ring he had given her. He sent for exotic plants from foreign lands to be added to the garden; she rolled her eyes and scolded him for subjecting the poor things to an unsuitable climate.

He thought “Perhaps she will be pleased with my time more than gifts.” So he hired expert musicians to play for their meals together; and after dinner he asked her to dance. “I never dance,” she said. “I do not know how.” He invited her to sit with him while he read to her from his library. She agreed, but would always nod off to sleep after a few chapters. He fought against his own embarrassment and wrote her a sonnet. She read it with a raised eyebrow, pointed out mistakes in the metre, then folded it carefully and put it away in a drawer.

Still, she never turned away from his company, and seemed pleased enough with their life together. He clung to this thought, and tried not to notice the sorrow that remained behind her gaze.

When the next Midsummer came, Lord East pretended to retire early. But he secretly watched as darkness fell and Lady Grey slipped out of the castle. As she melted into the night, he quietly saddled his horse and followed.

He knew where she was going.

He slid off the mare and tied her to a tree some distance from the meadow, so she would not be spooked by the Fey. He crept near on silent feet, then stood frozen in fear and wonder.

Dozens of the Good Neighbours danced – if you could call it that – on the grass, all silver in the moonlight. They were of every size: tall and slender as a willow, round and stocky as a boulder, and tiny flitting creatures like moths. They sported antlers and wings and scales and hair of every colour. They dressed in rags and silks, hung with jewels and cobwebs. The music came from thin curling horns that squealed and honked, strangely-shaped lutes that wailed and screamed, driven by the thunder and jangle of drums large and small. To these melodies, barely recognisable as such, the crowd stomped and clapped and chanted with a frenzied energy.

Yet it was easy to spot his own beloved lady, with her black gown aswirl, her long scarlet locks floating about her pale face, and her wild uncanny grace. She whirled and swayed in the very center, a queen among her people; yet also somehow apart, as if the other Fey did not dare to touch her.

Lord East knew how they felt. He was terrified to approach. But he was even more terrified at the idea of his castle without her presence.

He worked his way through the churning mob until he could gently lay a hand upon her shoulder. Startled, Lady Grey spun to face him; her eyes at first wide in shock, then narrowed with sly amusement. He searched her face, and for the first time since he met her he saw no hint of grief or loss. He took her hands in his and gripped them tightly. “You told me that you did not dance, yet here you are. Will you dance with me?”

“You should not be here. This is no place for mortal men.” She tugged at her fingers, but he did not let go.

“Will you not at least introduce me to your family?” he pleaded.

At this she threw her head back and laughed. “My family would steal your name and your soul. They would eat your heart and spit out your bones. Is that what you want?”

“I want only to be by your side,” Lord East said simply.

“My side! You do not know me. Look at how even my own hate and fear me!”

“I know you. You are my Lady Grey. There is nothing about you I could ever hate and fear.” He stepped closer. “Come away from this place, and return with me to our home.”

“This is my home. These are my people,” she said, then raised her voice. “My sisters! My brothers! This foolish mortal would have me come away with him. Tell him what I am!”

All at once, the Fey stopped dancing and turned to stare and gibber. As one they called, “You are poison, sister. You are venomous.”

The fingers interlaced with Lord East’s melted away, as Lady Grey’s elegant figure grew long and sinewy, rippling with black scales, and he found his hands encircling an enormous serpent. The spade-shaped head drew back as if to strike, and the jaws gaped to show needle-sharp fangs.

He shuddered, but did not loosen his grasp.

The watchers hissed their displeasure. “You are hard, sister. You are unyielding.”

The snake shot up tall and thickened, the scales growing rough and brown. Lord East was pressed against a mighty tree, taller than he could see. He could feel a great wind tearing at the upper branches, causing the trunk to quake.

He circled the tree in his arms and held tight, lending it all the strength his smaller human body could provide.

The Fair Folk cried out in anger. “You are fire, sister. You are burning.”

The tree collapsed into a globe of light, shining so bright that Lord East had to squeeze his eyes shut. The flame glowed with a heat he could feel sear his flesh down to the bones.

He knelt down and turned his face away, but cupped the fire in his hands and kept them steady.

The multitude growled with wrath. “You are many, sister. You cannot be contained.”

The fire suddenly exploded with fur and claws and shrieking. Lord East was nearly overwhelmed by a swarm of rats, all scrabbling and biting and seeking to escape.

He clutched the struggling mass all the closer to his chest, scooping up each irate rodent as it attempted to slither free.

The assembled throng howled in fury. “You are nothing, sister. You are everywhere and nowhere.”

The rats vanished into a cloud of smoke, scented with cloves and ashes and lightning. Great black puffs writhed upwards, where they could spread out and disappear.

Lord East despaired, then thought, “I need only to keep my lady until sunrise. Then she will be with me for another year, and I can seek to love her better.” So he took a great gulping gasp, and breathed in as much of the smoke as he could hold, pressing his hands against his heart as his lungs demanded air.

The Good People wailed their surrender and vanished.

Suddenly Lady Grey was back in her human shape, held close to his breast. “You are too strong for me,” she said. “I cannot leave you.”

Lord East coughed, then asked, “Would you leave me if you could? Do you miss your people when you are with me?”

“I do not remember them,” she admitted. “But I know that I do not belong in the mortal realm. I know that I have lost something, and it pains me.”

He smoothed his hand through her hair. “And when you are with the Fey? Do you think of me?”

She shook her head. “I remember you only as one might a dream, distant and fading. I do not love my people, nor they me; but that is my right and proper place, and I am content.”

Lord East sighed, and was silent for several minutes. Then he kissed the top of her head, and pushed her away gently. “My dearest, I would never wish you to suffer even one moment of grief for my sake. Go then, and return to the Fey. I will pray that you might find joy and love wherever you are.”

Lady Grey drew back and looked at him uncertainly. She touched his cheek once, then leapt upright and disappeared into the moonlight.

Lord East climbed to his feet more slowly. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, and walked heavily towards where he had left his horse. He was in no hurry to ride back to an empty castle.

The sun was rising as he drew near his home.

[ Several lines here are unreadable, heavily scribbled over with such force that the pen nib left tears in the paper ]

***

It seems that I cannot complete this tale. Forgive me.

– A

Chapter Text

Paris
October, 1690

Aziraphale:

I think I’ve had enough of fairytales for now. Let’s draw a curtain on that particular window and leave it to the people. Call me cruel, but I’d prefer that to cementing it shut. 

But so as not to be in your debt, I’ll pass along a folk song I heard the other day.

Hope is the thing with talons 

Hope is the thing with talons

That claws into your soul

That pecks you raw and watches out

For any chance at all

A prisoner will lift his head

Look darkness in the eye

To gaze upon its feathered down

Which promises the sky

I’ve heard it in the chillest land 

And on the strangest sea 

Yet never, in extremity

I’d ever set it free 

I will be leaving Paris tomorrow in favour of Venice, now that my work in France is officially done. I’ll probably get there just in time for Epiphenia and the ensuing festivities. It’s the one where they wear masks, if you remember. I haven't been there for a while, but I have been assured that there will still be plenty of music, debauchery and wine. Who knows, maybe I’ll get another commendation. 

Until the next time

Crowley

Chapter Text

Soho, London
October, 2090

Crowley huffed a bit as he walked back into the bookshop. He didn’t mind using the Bentley to transport particularly delicate items to their new (old) cottage in the South Downs; but boxes of books were heavy, and Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of simply snapping them into the boot via miracle.

And there was the fussy angel, displaying ridiculously perfect posture while seated on the floor, sorting out volumes, wrapping them, and storing them safely in an open crate. He was engrossed in some dusty old tome and didn’t hear Crowley’s return. Crowley dropped down and wrapped his arms around the other from behind (he could do that now!) and peered over Aziraphale’s shoulder, digging in with his pointy chin. “You can’t re-read every book before packing it, angel. I’d like to finish the job sometime this century.”

Aziraphale didn’t startle, merely hmmmed and leant back into the demon’s embrace. “Do you remember our little epistolary exchange in Paris, some three centuries ago?”

“Er. The fairytale nonsense?” Crowley remembered, of course. That is, he remembered how it all ended, and didn’t care to dwell on it.

“The very same,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I was so utterly embarrassed by that last letter I sent you – I shouldn’t have been so brazen, but I simply couldn’t have you thinking… well, the long and the short of it is, I buried the whole thing from myself and hid from you for a hundred years.”

“Until the Bastille.”

“Yes. You were such the dashing rescuer!”

“And you a dainty damsel in distress,” Crowley retorted. “Why bring that up now?”

“The thing of it is, that particular encounter reminded me of our stories; and more important, why we had written them in the first place. To inspire the humans to be more virtuous, I said. To make them question the injustice in the world, you said. And so I dug them up and had them printed.” He displayed an elegant book with a marbled cover. “Commissioned illustrations and everything.”

Crowley took it and turned to the first page. THE USES OF ENCHANTMENT, he read: Being a Dispute between Two Gentlemen as to the Proper Style and Theme of the Fairy-Tale; and Told in the Form of an Exchange of Stories, Charmingly Illustrated, and Suitable for the Edification and Delight of Persons Young and Old. “Catchy title,” he said. “You didn’t include all of our correspondence, I do hope?”

“Long descriptions were the style of the times,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And of course not! Only the tales. I found that I hadn’t been nearly as subtle in the personal parts of the letters as I thought I had been.” 

“You shock me.”

“Also, I concluded with the lovely poem you wrote as an epigraph,” the angel went on. 

“Didn’t write it,” Crowley muttered reflexively, putting no effort into the lie.

Aziraphale ignored this. “I … rather desperately needed the reminder. That no matter how much it scratched and bit and tried to escape, there’s a reason that Pandora never let Hope fly away.”

Crowley tightened the arm he had slung about his angel’s waist. “Yeah. Those last two stories were a bit on the gloomy side.”

“Gloomy? Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “Oh, you never read the end of that story, the final one I sent!”

“I read enough. Hereditary enemies can never be together, I get it. I got it. Yet,” the demon squeezed again, “here we are. Still prefer the funny ones.”

“No, no, no…” Aziraphale ruffled through the pages, almost to the end. “You don’t understand. Here,” he thrust the book into Crowley’s hands.

Crowley automatically looked down to the passage in question.

Just before Lord East reached his own castle, he came upon a figure trudging along the road. To his great shock he recognized Lady Grey.

“Oh my husband!” she cried. “I do not know what happened. I awoke to find myself in that meadow again, and my clothes in such a shocking state!” She lifted the heavy hem of her gown, soaked from the dew. “I was all alone and frightened; but here you are, and now all is well. Take me back with you!”

Lord East slid off his horse and gazed into his wife’s eyes. There he saw no pain, no sorrow, no loss; only his love for her, and her love for him, and their love for their lives together.

“Yes,” he said, holding her close before helping her to mount. “Let us go home together.”

“You see, now? How I could not bear to write it?” Aziraphale’s voice trembled with remembered pain. “It… it hurt too much! It wasn’t fair! Characters that I made up, but they could have the happy ending we never could! Or… or so I believed…” he faltered. “Then.”

“But we could, angel. We did. You’n me.” Crowley circled around, so he could look at Aziraphale directly. “Us.”

“We did, indeed.” Aziraphale nodded. He took the volume and placed it carefully in the crate, giving it an affectionate pat. “I was wrong about other things, as well.”

“Many, many other things,” the demon nodded.

“Fiend. I meant in the letters that I sent.” Aziraphale glanced up from under his lashes. “Not that you can expect any dance from me.”

Crowley poked at him to continue. “Like what?”

“Mostly that society can change. It’s rather humbling, isn’t it? Thousands of years of kings and tyrants, and then va-voom! People get the notion into their head that things can be different, should be different, and all of a sudden we have equality breaking out everywhere.” Aziraphale smiled ruefully. “All on their own. Without any help from either of us.”

“Book sales that bad, eh?”

“Dreadful!” the angel confessed. “Only three copies, and two of them were to me!”

“Buck up, that’s still one human who might’ve been inspired. Or at least propped up a wobbly table.” Crowley smirked, then sobered. “Besides, it’s not like human society has changed that much. We still have just as many absolute monarchs, sarrum or huangdi in all but name.”

“But that they hesitate to claim the title … that’s important, my dear. You more than anyone know that names matter.”

“Ehhh…” The demon ducked his head, the tips of his ears a little pink. He rapidly changed the subject. “You weren’t entirely wrong. Names matter, but so do stories. Who cares whether our stories caught on? People changed, the world changed, and I’ll be blessed if it wasn’t somebody’s stories that made the difference.” He nudged the crate. “Hundreds of stories, angel. Thousands of stories. All thanks to those who collected them, preserved them, shared them.” He shrugged. “Even if they refused to sell them.”

“Oh, my dear. You always know what to say to me.” Aziraphale’s affectionate smile trembled slightly. “Tell me a story, darling. I seem to recall that it’s your turn this time.”

“Ngk. A fairy-tale, you mean? Just make up one on the spot?” 

The angel nodded. “One that begins in a garden, say. Or out among the stars. Or even in a dusty old bookshop.  You know, once upon a time there was an angel and a demon…”

“A demon and an angel, you mean.” Crowley took in Aziraphale’s shining eyes and melted. “All right, fine fine FINE. Uhrk. But you come here.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale in so that his back was against Crowley’s chest. (He’d never get through this if he had to look the angel in the face.)

The Rabbit And The Hare

Once upon a time, on a brisk and starry (there, happy?) spring night, a young rabbit and a hare met in a meadow. Unable to sleep, the rabbit had snuck out of its burrow and the hare out of its nest to go and explore. 

“What are you?” asked the rabbit, never having seen another creature before. 

“I am a hare, can’t you see my big ears? What about you?”

“I’m a rabbit. Just look at my pretty white fur and fluffy round cheeks.”

They both began comparing themselves to one another and found difference after difference. By the end of their exhaustive list they were quiet, for there was nothing more to say. And in that silence they each found that despite all their differences, the other made for good company. 

The next night, they met up in the same place and passed another night under the stars. They soon became inseparable and spent all their nights together, and their days cuddled up close all throughout spring.

One of their adventures happened to be the first day of summer, when they ventured out to the river, which they knew was especially low lately. 

“Let’s go to the other side!” said the hare. “Right now we can jump over, and I can see blueberry bushes.”

“I don’t think we should. I’ve  heard it’s dangerous to cross the river.”

“Me too, but why not? The water is low, so there’s no danger!”

“I don’t know, but I shall stay here.”

And so the hare went on its own, promising to bring back blueberries for the rabbit. It jumped over the river in one big leap and began to look at all the new plants and berries. 

They were too young to know this yet: every year on the first day of summer the river was at its driest and easiest to cross – but only for a single night. 

The hare was so excited that it did not pay attention to the river. Meanwhile the rabbit watched in fear as the water levels rose. When morning came, and the hare finally decided to return, the river had filled up with water again. It was trapped.

Both collected leaves and sticks and tried to build a bridge, but all their attempts got carried downstream; until finally the young rabbit had to leave its friend and go home, promising to return later at night. 

That night they waited for the river level to go down again, but to no avail. The next night the hare brought some new plants to show to the rabbit, and the night after that they invented a game they could play despite the barrier; and so they still spent all their nights together, knowing that the other was under that same starry sky. 

But even though some things stayed the same as the seasons changed, the hare found its heart growing cold along with the weather. It slept most of the time, only waking to meet its friend, whose heart grew heavy in turn. It was then that they felt their separation most sorely, as they realised that they had now been apart longer than they had been together. 

Then, one winter night, the hare stopped coming out completely. And it wasn't until the last bit of snow had melted that it crawled back out again – to the sight of its friend still there on the other side, awaiting its return. And suddenly the world was brighter again.

As the sun returned to their meadow, they celebrated their birthdays and the rabbit visited every day, despite having given up hope of ever being reunited again.

But the first day of summer came as it must, and the river became as low as it had been before. At first, the hare held back and picked some blueberries from the bushes to bring to the rabbit, just as it had promised. But when it turned to leave, it hopped into someone: the rabbit!

They rejoiced and spent the entire day together, the hare showing the rabbit the other side of the river and the little nest it had made in winter. 

The rabbit suggested it stay on the far side for the rest of the year. Or that they go away to see what was beyond the meadow. The hare didn’t even know what lay behind the bay, since it hadn’t dared to leave the river (nor the rabbit), and agreed.

As they lay in the hare’s nest that night and looked up once more, they realised that as long as the last year had felt, it had only been the first of many, many more to come.

And if you look up into the sky at night – just below that bastard Orion – you will see the constellation Lepus, ‘the hare’. It contains a double star system called Gamma Leporis. So even today the rabbit and the hare are still together. Only that now, they are up in the sky and look down at their meadow.

Aziraphale’s voice was soft. “Oh, Crowley.” 

“Too sad?” Crowley’s head whipped up and he tilted his head to look at the other. “I can get you one of your books, just say which one. Here how about – eh, maybe not Hamlet, but –” Crowley moved to get another book, but Azirphale was clutching the arms around his chest.

“No, I liked it.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale hummed and they stayed together for another moment.

“Would you show me that constellation tonight?”

“Sure. That double star's easy enough to spot too; an orange and a white one. Although, what with light pollution, I don’t think we’ll be able to see it from here.”

“... Is that your way of saying I should get a wiggle on?”

“Much better stargazing in the South Downs.” Crowley kissed his cheek and stood up. “So, how do you think this story ends?”

“I don’t think it shall ever end. Their story will just continue on and on and on, becoming lovelier and lovelier.”

“Yeah, that’s a classic,” Crowley nodded. “And they lived happily ever after.”