Like Clockwork

Lacuna

The night is, by all accounts, magical; that does not stop him from wanting to stick his head in an oven.

He is not sure where to find an oven. Convention tells him there has to be at least one in the castle, how else were there pastries baked for the ball? His experience, however, reminds him that several spaces in the castle lead nowhere. Doors that don't open. Rooms that serve no purpose. Blank spaces where the storyteller forgot or simply didn't bother to invent. To describe. He wonders, still, if there are blank spaces within his memory where the narrator didn't bother to fill in. If there are common events, objects, activities, that he doesn't know about simply because it's not useful to the story. To his purpose.

His purpose...

Very little changes, night to night, once the ball starts. What drinks are served, what his mother is wearing, what his friends chat about as the nights progress. Most things stay the same. The guests, his boredom, her late arrival, their subsequent dance, the time at which she gasps and runs from his grasp, leaving only her luxurious slipper (usually glass, though tonight they are fur lined).

Time loops around as if he were living in a cuckoo clock.

When he is not needed, he is kept elsewhere. In a room, perhaps in the palace, perhaps in a vast void, away from the rest of the happenings. The story. The people. He regains consciousness when the narrator has him speak. Act. Think. When he insists that all eligible maidens must be invited. When he chooses who to dance with. When he slips the fur slippers onto the foot of his bride.

The act used to bring a rush of blood to his head. Joy or triumph. Elation or victory. Dancing with her had the same effect as wine or coca leaves. Kissing her was (according to the instructions in his brain) indescribable. Divine.

There's nothing interesting in the insipid gaze of the woman before him ( the love of his life, the story insists, against all odds). Nothing that enraptures him like the paragraph currently says he is supposed to be. Her dress looks to be made of moonlight and fairy dust (and indeed, it probably is), and it stands out amongst the crowds of satin and chiffon. But there's nothing else. Diamond dust sprinkled upon a pile of twigs and leaves. An old grey mare wrapped in silk. The ubiquitous encased in the remarkable.

He is her reward, he knows this now, after infinite trips around the plot. Centuries' worth of waltzes and mazurkas and line dances. He is her prize for a life of piety. Towards God or her father's wishes or humanity. He is the proof that all good deeds will be rewarded in this life. A trophy for her to hold and present to the world. That all one needs to do to have a good life is to allow others to step all over you. To take advantage of you. To keep your head down and do your time quietly. This, he knows. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

And what is she to him?

The loop has him waltz the same steps as all the times before, to the same melody, the same beat, the same audience. They do not speak while dancing, they never have, never will. Though even if they did, he has no idea what on earth they would talk about. The story states Ashwallower ( did she even have a real name? Does he? ) is diligent, kind, and resourceful, but he never gets to see any of it. Never gets to see how she obtains the means to come to the ball, how she grew up, or what her life is like outside of this sphere. This bubble.

He doesn't even get to see what she's like as his wife.

What a bore.

It used to bother him, perhaps, in the beginning when he was still deep under the spell of the narrative. When he looked into Ashwallower's glassy eyes and saw his future, his world, reflected back. He would be left alone, in that room, away from the story. Away from anything he could destroy out of frustration. Never living that happily ever after promised by the tale. Never feeling that satisfaction or fulfilment.

Now, perhaps, he feels somewhat of a relief. No doubt she would have been as boring in a royal gown than she is in the one made from magicks.

Even her great beauty is dull: the shine of her hair and blemish-free surface of her skin inciting no passion or desire within him (did it ever do so?). This time around, she is ivory white with ink black hair, long and swaying with each step of their dance. Her eyes are dark and as infinite as the night sky, under peach petal eyelids. Most of the time she is pink with flaxen locks and eyes so blue, he is made to compare them to the sea.

He suspects, perhaps, that if he looked into the eyes of a pig, he would be just as taken as he is with her. In fact...

He turns his gaze to the left. Away from his parents, their delighted looks (an heir to the throne! One that will never be conceived, much less born), and away from the other nobility. To the crowd of nameless, faceless people who make up this paper kingdom. He turns his gaze to the left and spots one of the maidens left behind.

He spots one of his future bride's stepsisters. Purposefully despised by the narrator. Placed into an ill-fitting dress that washes out her complexion. That purposefully seeks to squeeze her into a space two sizes too small in an attempt to hide the sin of being fat. The other step sister, thin and tall, sometimes finds love– redemption , and makes up with his future bride. But her? She never had a chance. Was never supposed to have a chance. At outshining Ashwallower. At being noticed. At having any sort of relevance outside of the story, beyond her immense cruelty. Beyond being a foil. Beyond being ugly.

He spots the Ugly Stepsister and decides to have a little fun.

-End Notes-

i've always felt for the fat stepsister. as a fat little girl, and eventually woman, i was always taught by cinderella stories that i was undeserving of love and beauty. and it really fucked me up. how my weight always meant i was to be used for comedic relief. how it was shorthand for ugly.

i also really like yanderes.

obviously, yandere behavior IRL is abhorrent. but because i have media literacy, i am allowing myself to safely indulge in a dark fantasy, where i can exit at any time i feel uncomfortable. this piece of fiction is going to be used to see how far i can stretch and experiment with dark themes without crossing my own boundaries. if at any point you feel like you need to stop reading for your own comfort, please put yourself first and close out the tab.

minors, do not interact. it makes me extremely uncomfortable.

if you're here and wondering when i will update another fic of mine........i am wondering that too (sorry to serpentine fans, but lack of community/feedback on that story really demotivated me....as well as jk rowling being a piece of human garbage. trans rights are human rights, baby!!!)

thanks to diana for reading over this<3