Amaranthine: Beauty Within Darkness

The Shattered Mirror: Prologue

((Author's Note: This was an assignment for the Shut Up And Write Club, teaching 1st-person peripheral POV. I honestly didn't know this was a POV, so I did learn something, but I have many questions. If you write a story from the perspective of someone who isn't the protagonist, doesn't that character *become* the protagonist? Or, in the case of a villain as a protagonist, an anti-hero? A stellar example of 1st-person peripheral is Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby". In my mind, the narrator, Nick, is the protagonist--despite the fact he's telling you all about Gatsby and Daisy and everyone else. Labelling it 1st-peripheral makes Gatsby the protagonist and Nick simply a tool through which to tell the story. I'd argue that Nick is actually the protagonist of "The Great Gatsby", and Gatsby is just another character---but that's a debate for another time.

In any case, the challenge was to rewrite a classic faerie tale from the perspective of "not the protagonist", in 1st person. I can't rewrite the whole story, or you'll have a full book, so here's a prologue. It's dedicated to someone who knows very well why I chose this story and will smile. <3 ))

No one will ever know my name.

That's something I think about often these days. Where I live, there's a great deal of time to think, something that's both a blessing and a curse. Every now and then, there's the hoot of an owl or the sound of a baby deer running through crisp autumn leaves. It's comforting, nature's way of reminding a person of the natural order of things.

Autumn is a beautiful time of year, but it mocks me. I sit on the simple white porch swing that decorates the front of my simple cottage, swaying back and forth, watching the apples grow ripe for harvest. It isn't the arrival of Autumn that's hard to bear. In itself, Autumn is beautiful. It is the apples that mock me---shiny, deep red, and utterly perfect.

A perfect apple is rarely what it seems. In fact, it is the most dangerous thing known to womankind. I'm not the first person to caution about the temptation of the apple. Ask that woman, Eve, how easily one apple can destroy a woman's life.

Inside the cottage, I inhale the sweet smell of cinnamon and freshly baked bread before sitting myself at the simple kitchen table. It won't be long before the cottage also torments me with apples, pies and sweet delicacies I wrap in a basket and carry to the village nearby. As much as I hate them, the apples have been my salvation. I am sure those from my former life would be shocked to know of my skill as a baker. It is a modest livelihood, but one that keeps me fed and warm and comfortable.

I am well aware that I am in the Autumn of my life and it will not be too many years longer before I too am overripe and undesirable. When that day comes, I will be grateful for it. The world tells us the best thing a woman can be is beautiful, and if she is as kind and virtuous as she is beautiful, she'll have the world falling at her feet.

I, for one, have yet to meet a beautiful woman who is truly kind and virtuous. Some choose to refine the act so well that it lands them a rich, titled husband and throngs of adoring fans. I was once a beautiful woman who chose to be honest about who I was. I don't think there's a thing wrong with being deceptive, ambitious, and without the constraints of false morality.

My honesty cost me everything, even my name. In the end, people prefer the lie, the pretty illusion that's every bit as vicious as the truth. In the end, the crowd clamours for the apple and the sinful innocence that seduces.

I close my eyes a bit, the warmth of the oven a comfort against my skin. Outside, the bright sunlight that peeks beneath the trees begins to fade to a pleasant pinkish-orange. One cannot fight the arrival of Autumn. It holds its own unique charm.

For nearly two years, I have not seen my own reflection. Underneath my simple black dresses and the black scarf that covers the lustrous copper hair that was always my pride and joy, I know I am still beautiful. I also know how little it matters out here, and that's how it should be. It should have been hard, selling my jewels and even the lace petticoats worn under my gown the day I disappeared.

Drowsing at the kitchen table, my mind wanders, but I don't mind. I picture myself, a drowned mermaid emerging from the sea, bartering the few treasures I have left for the privilege of living out my remaining years in quiet anonymity.

"You're unusually lovely, you know. What's happened to you, madam? Has someone hurt you?" I remember that day because it's the last time someone called me lovely. Once I traded my jewels and drenched silks for what they call "widow's weeds" and a simple cottage, it no longer mattered.

For that, I am eternally thankful.

Most people think I'm dead. I don't really mind that either. As I daydream from within the haze of bread and sugary-sweet twilight, my well-worn hands clasp together and I smile in amusement. The stories of my death are greatly exaggerated, much like every account of my life. If I excel at anything, it's a flair for the dramatic.

Some say that the Prince forced me to dance for his amusement in shoes made of red-hot coals, dancing in my frivolous attire until I burned to death. While a fitting end for a flamboyant woman, I have yet to meet a man who is able to make me do his bidding. I am not above refusing a Prince's orders. A Prince is merely a young lad waiting for his father to die so he can be called a King. It takes a lot more to destroy me.

Others say there was a scuffle with my step-daughter or one of her many suitors, or that I was standing on a cliff and struck by lightning. I've even heard I was crushed by a boulder magically heaved by a childlike figure before going off the edge and into the water.

The truth never occurred to anyone, which is what makes the truth far more fascinating than fiction. It took being dead to become legendary, the one thing I always wanted in my forty-five years of enduring "polite society".

A few more decades, if I'm lucky, and the part about me being dead will be true. Of course, they'll be gone too, and the story won't matter to anyone any longer. The truth will become fiction, fiction will blend with truth, and no one will even remember my name.

I have a name. It is Angelique Ingrid Fournier, a bright-eyed peasant woman living as so many unfortunate middle-aged widows do.

The timer rings abruptly, and my eyes fly open, startling me into reality. I'm reluctant to pull myself to my feet. Days are long and hard in this world. I never knew a sound sleep before this curious life became mine.

I open the oven, cautiously using the thick mittens to pull out heavy trays of cinnamon rolls and freshly baked bread. I sit them on the racks, enjoying their delicious aroma. After forty-five years of avoiding carbs and wrapping myself in corsets, the decadence of the food is up there with rolling around in piles of money on a feather bed.

I am not dead, and I have a name. I even have a life, though it's not one that anyone cares much about outside the walls and forests of this tiny provincial town. History is unkind, and I can never be Angelique again.

Always and forever, I am the Evil Queen.