But before she can object it happens again. And in the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Owner can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
[Meanwhile Rosamund is quiet for different reasons. Firstly to brush off the psychic damage from looking at the Stepmother again. Secondly, she's got to formulate a response.]
I...I will say, I do not condone her actions... [She swallows tightly.] But I do understand why she felt the she did.
... is that where you are from? A world of stories?
[ it does make some of the things she was saying just a few minutes ago make more sense, her demanding to know who made butterfly's tale the way it is and how to change it. ]
[She touches her forehead. She feels wearied, and the conversation has drifted out of her hands and entirely into his. His curiosity only looks idle, she thinks. It's more like he's testing her skin with needles. Does it hurt here? How about here? Ah, and why is that?]
Pardon me, Owner, but it's been quite a long day. I promised I'd meet Margaret for dinner.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ it's said cheerfully enough. ]
If I see him again, I suppose I can give the suggestion, since his current life is apparently unlivable.
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[Rosamund lifts a helpless hand to the air.]
What is it that makes his fate so final? Who wrote that story down? Can't they be convinced otherwise? Can't we take the pen for ourselves sometimes?
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this is a very interesting way to word this. ]
Rosamund-sama... there is no one to convince.
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[Her hand clutches to her chest.]
And maybe there's more you think you can't tell me. But I can't let anyone decide what happens to me, or anyone else.
We all deserve a chance to choose our own path. Whatever happens from there, the blame can lie with us.
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This seems to have hit a nerve with you.
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Is that funny to you?
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Yes.
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Why?
[sounding a little heartbroken tbh]
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That, my dear Rosamund-sama... is a secret.
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But before she can object it happens again. And in the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Owner can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
no subject
well. this does put some things into perspective. ]
So. I see why I hit a nerve.
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I...I will say, I do not condone her actions... [She swallows tightly.] But I do understand why she felt the she did.
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[ it does make some of the things she was saying just a few minutes ago make more sense, her demanding to know who made butterfly's tale the way it is and how to change it. ]
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I suppose there's no denying it.
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[ he has a guess, based on appearances, but he is not an expert on western tales. ]
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Sleeping Beauty. [Then, wryly.] One of those "princess in peril" types.
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[ asleep for years, not being able to do anything until someone wakes her up. no wonder she is so mad. ]
You wish to change that.
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[She cants her head to where the vision has faded.]
I made a deal, too.
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[ he wonders how it's possible, if things like that are apparently prewritten where she's from. ]
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We all did.
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What did you have to offer for the deal?
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We're no longer tied to each other by our stories.
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Is this upsetting to you?
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[She touches her forehead. She feels wearied, and the conversation has drifted out of her hands and entirely into his. His curiosity only looks idle, she thinks. It's more like he's testing her skin with needles. Does it hurt here? How about here? Ah, and why is that?]
Pardon me, Owner, but it's been quite a long day. I promised I'd meet Margaret for dinner.
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Oh, of course, Rosamund-sama. I wouldn't want you to be late! I shall catch you at another time then?
[ he glances up at her, to not break eye contact. ]