Short Story Contest

Once upon a time, in a small, oppressed kingdom there lived a laughable King, and a vain, power-hungry Queen. They were not the noble folk you portrayed them as. While fawning over the gallant knights, wealthy duchesses and handsome princes – the ugly, unfortunate and poor peasants were disregarded with disgust.

One mild evening whilst the Queen was enjoying a soak in her spa and perusing the pages of the latest issue of Goodbye! magazine with a scornful smirk, a frog hopped up next to her champagne flute.
“You shall bear a child within the year” it croaked. “Finally, an heir for your kingdom”.

The Queen squealed with delight and immediately messaged her fertility consultant…

OMG! Tots going to have a baby.
A frog just told me
#surprised #unluckyforthepeasents
BTW you’re fired

(And sadly) The slippery amphibian had told the truth.

The Queen gave birth to a child so beautiful and divine that even the weather celebrated, granting them a stunningly sunny day. The king was overjoyed and ordered a vast banquet prepared by 100 three-starred Michelin chefs. The social media sites buzzed as news and rumour spread on Click-Clack and Critter. Every living being wished for an invitation, including myself and my twelve sisters. Our invites arrived on Tale Mail that afternoon and we immediately began planning our outfits.

On the day of the event, we headed for the palace but upon arriving realized there was a desperate dilemma. The King’s party planner had bungled the numbers and our table was one setting short! Being the least popular of my sisters, (I didn’t have as many likes on EyeTube) I was immediately turned away, while they all traipsed inside without a second glance – what witches!
I hung about the palace gates waiting for my sisters. Hours later most of the famous guests had departed in their pumpkins but they still hadn’t reappeared. I slipped back inside, expecting to see them chugging Dom Pérignon. Instead, I saw something far worse, they were blessing the baby princess with wonderful gifts; beauty, wit, strength and all the rest!

I couldn’t stand it a moment longer – how dare they charm this girl, whose parents had overlooked me? I leapt from the shadows and thundered “When this girl reaches 15, she shall prick her finger on a spindle and perish!”

Now, here comes the bit that enrages me beyond comprehension. My youngest sister, (that little traitor), had yet to bestow her blessing, she chose completely ruined my master curse. Standing over the cradle, she whispered “When you prick your finger, you shall not expire. Instead, you shall fall asleep for 100 years”. I was enraged and stormed out of the great hall, slamming the huge oak doors behind me.

The power of my spell, I am proud to say, meant that she could not undo it entirely. Instead, she could only soften it. However, the King, wishing to save his child from any possible misfortune, sent out the order that every spindle in the land should be immediately burnt.

Nobody disobeyed the King, so when he decreed that every spinning device in the land must be destroyed in a huge bonfire, they were. The smoke curled into the sky like a minotaur’s’ claw, taunting me over and over again. “You failed!” The smoke seemed to hiss… “You FAILED!” All that was left in the morning was a pile of smouldering ash, fluttering away on an icy breeze. The king was supremely reassured.

Older and more beautiful than ever, the Princess’ fifteenth birthday finally arrived. Again, she was plastered across all media and her dreadful parents gloated without any embarrassment. I was now more determined to follow through with my evil prediction than ever. Finally, my moment was here.

Late in the afternoon, when the festivities were drawing to a close, I conjured myself into one of the high towers. There I began to spin with the last spindle in the whole kingdom, a cheap one I’d got from The Warehouse in the next kingdom along. Before I began, I pulled an enchantment from inside the folds of my cloak, uncapped it and sent it swirling down the spiral staircase to find the girl.

As soon as the evil concoction hit her, she had an inexplicable desire to explore. Eventually she found me spinning polyester on a strange device she had never seen before. “How long have you been sitting up here? You look positively ancient!” She said rudely. I opened my mouth to reply but she cut across me, her eyes lighting up. “I want a turn, out the way you old hag”.
She grabbed for the spindle and instantly fell backwards, blood glistening on her manicured finger. And with that, I threw back my head laughing with glee as every soul in the castle, began to slip into a heavy doze.

Cats that lay sunning themselves on the castle walls yawned and closed their emerald eyes. Servants attending to their duties fell to the ground and lay there, breathing deeply. Scribes let their heads rest, their quills bleeding blotches of ink onto the parchment. The flies in the kitchen, the flames in the fire, the dust thrown up by the wind, and the arrow that had just been leased, all froze, as time itself slipped into a slumber.

My work was done. I took a quick selfie with the snoring princess in the background and slipped into hiding…

Top searches on Ogle reported hundreds of dukes and princes attempting to rescue the ‘wonderful maiden’ over the coming century. Thanks to my comprehensive Thorn security system, they all failed. However, a cunning IT consultant from Poison Apple eventually hacked in, located her and shut down my carefully prepared spell work with a nasty virus.

Vogue covered the wedding and the bride was resplendent in a snow-white Marchesa dress. Little did they know that I had woven a little extra something into the bride’s veil and groom’s top hat. Eighteen months later the marriage ended in a messy divorce. I was unapologetically delighted.

I expect to see noticeable alterations to fairy-tale immediately. Unless you wish to test the patience and power of my magnificence.

Yours expectantly,

Carabosse.

And then everything was pitch-black freezing. I took in an instinctive breath. Drowning! Panic took over, and I flailed desperately for the surface. My eyes burned. My waterlogged lungs were agony. This was a thousand times worse than my nightmares. I continued desperately hunting for the surface, until everything went dark.

…

When I woke up, I was draped over a ragged chunk of driftwood, floating on a perfectly calm ocean.

I took a long, slow breath. Air. I was breathing. Everything felt sore and vaguely sunburned, but I was alive.

I reached up to rub the salt out of my eyes, then froze. There was a girl in the water, staring at me with flat yellow eyes. She had scales like a fish, alarmingly violet, and her dark hair draped across her kelp shirt like dead eels. She tilted her head at me, and I saw that she had little fins instead of ears. “You’re alive,” she said, leaning forward. I jerked back. She withdrew. “You’re not very friendly.”

I coughed, feeling the stab of splinters now embedded in my midriff. “S-sorry. Who… what…?”

She narrowed her eyes, and dark slits along her neck pulsed. “That’s not very friendly, either. What are you?”

“I’m a human,” I said cautiously. “A prince, to be specific. My name is Nikolaos.”

She smiled, showing off a mouthful of sharkish snaggleteeth similar to my nightmare fish’s. “Nikolaosssssssss.” She dragged out the s like a hiss, eyes glinting dangerously. “Excellent.”

I was feeling very out of my depth here, in both senses of the phase, so I decided to change the subject. “I don’t suppose you could point me towards land?”

“Land?” She blinked at me. “Why?”

“So I can… not drown?”

“Drown?”

I stiffened. Her expression stayed flat and uncomprehending. She… really didn’t know what drowning was, did she?

We were both silent for a minute. Then I heard a shout in the distance: “There! The prince!”

The fish girl’s expression darkened. “Boat,” she hissed, backing away from me, and I glimpsed one long appendage below the water. Not legs… a tail. I turned to look in the direction of the shout, and spotted a ship—

That was when she attacked.

I woke up that evening at the castle we’d been heading to, with a sizeable bite mark in my neck. The skin around it was turning a horrifying shade of green. It didn’t take a medic to identify that as problematic, though the medic in question brushed off my story of the fish girl as dehydration hallucinations. He cleaned the injury, and bandaged it, and told me not to touch it. Never mind that the green area was going sort of scaly.

Father forbid anyone to mention my injury to our hosts, so I wore a shirt with a high collar to meet the girl I was apparently going to marry next month. She seemed nice enough. Redhead, tan rather than freckly, nice nose. No scales whatsoever. She didn’t talk much, but she smiled at me a few times over dinner. I smiled back once. My mind was more on how weird and itchy my neck felt.

The green around the bite kept spreading. The next morning, the damage was all over my neck. Father dragged me to breakfast anyway. By evening, my cheeks were going visibly scaly.

Nothing stopped it. The best our medic could offer was antivenom, which did nothing. I got webbing between my fingers. My legs became weak, barely able to stand, and my eyes went a horrible shade of yellow. My neck ached constantly. The scales spread everywhere, even onto my eyelids.

Finally, three weeks after we arrived, I woke up around midnight in a cold sweat. My neck no longer hurt. I got up to check a mirror, dreading what I’d see…

My neck had split open into gills. They were purple, the same shade as the fish girl who’d bitten me. The fish girl. The cause of this entire problem. I smiled, seeing my now-pointed teeth shine in the moonlight. The fish girl had done this to me. She’d know how to fix it.

I wrapped a towel around my neck, snuck out of the castle, and stumbled down to the beach. It was a new moon, but I could see everything fine. Better than fine. It was like being in broad daylight. Only it was too cold. The beach was empty at this time of night. The fish girl was nowhere in sight. The only sound was the gentle back-and-forth of the waves, rearranging the sand for the coming day.

I hesitated, then began wading into the water. It felt warm. Cozy. I relaxed. The blanket lay in the sand behind me, forgotten, and my new gills pulsed eagerly. The dark ocean no longer looked dangerous. It seemed… inviting.

I paused again. What… what was I doing? What did I think this girl would do? I should—

I gritted my teeth and ducked into the water. Everything lit up, like I’d turned on the sun. I could see the sand and fragmented shells around me clear as day. I took a deep breath, and my lungs filled with comforting ocean. I grinned and began swimming.

I left the shallows easily. My body felt strong for the first time since I’d been bitten, and my scales cut through the water like a fish. The ocean around me now resembled my dreams: an empty green void. I knew now what my nightmares had been preparing me for. I swam down, down, down, to where I knew my light was waiting for me. This time, I didn’t turn back.

This time, I found my light. The girl. Purple and scaly and beautiful, glowing like a full moon. I smiled at her. She smiled back, and her eyes were deep and golden.

We knew pipes only the things the boys made from willow-wood, which made shrill, tuneless shrieks and rarely lasted long before parents confiscated them. The music tugged at us in a strange way that we had not felt before, as if a string in our hearts drew us closer. We came forward off the grass and onto the cobblestones.   

As I stared, I noticed that though his hair was not grey, there were lines around his eyes and  mouth. When he saw us staring, he raised his eyebrows and winked, before finishing his tune with a final rippling trill and taking the pipe from his lips.  

“Do you like my music, children?” he asked. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper; yet all of us heard him clearly.  

We talked over each other, as children do, all trying to tell him how much we had liked it. “ 

“That is good,” he said, smiling at us before continuing up the road.  

Johan, the boldest among us, called after him. “Sir, who are you?” 

The man looked over his shoulder. “I?” He shrugged. “I am a poor wanderer in search of some work.” 

“My father is looking for someone!” nine-year-old Blaise said. “He owns the best stables in town,” he added proudly.  

“Perhaps I will try there,” the man said. “Could you direct me?” 

The boy stood tall, puffing out his chest. “You can’t miss it, sir! It’s just off Bungelosenstrasse, the street we’re on. Take the first left and then look for the sign with a horse on it.”  

“Thank you kindly, sir.” The man doffed his cap to Blaise and went off up the street. Just before he turned the corner, he lifted his pipe to his lips.  

*

The man stayed as a stable-hand, employed by Blaise’s father. No-one seemed to know his name, so everyone called him the Piper. He told us stories while he forked hay, of bold children who left their parents and journeyed out into the world, slaying dragons and fighting bad people and standing up for what was right. Often the enemies were tall, proud adults who scorned the idea of children beating them; but the children always won.  

After the story he would play his pipe. In his music we could almost see ourselves riding boldly into the face of adversity. The dreams filled us with power, making us believe that maybe we didn’t have to grow up to do great things.  

“Could we do anything like that?” Germaine asked one afternoon.  

The Piper looked up, leaning on his pitchfork. “What makes you think you can’t?”  

“I suppose…my parents wouldn’t want me to leave. They’d tell me it was my place to stay home till I was grown.” 

The Piper looked at us. All we could see of him was a silhouette against the sun, and the pitchfork he leaned on looked like a sword. He resembled a warrior, old and experienced in the world, generously offering us a taste of his wisdom.  

“But your life is yours,” he said. “No matter your age, you have the right to choose. Your parents should support you through all your decisions. If they prevent you from following your heart, break off your chains and flee.” 

The Piper put down his pitchfork and leaned against the wall. Lifting his pipe to his lips, he began to play. But this music was fierce, defiant, determined and bold, a march to war. I can do anything, it said. The world is my oyster, and I will dare to open it. I am free! 

*

Summer waned, beckoning autumn. The whole town was busy buying stores and making sure everything was ready for the winter. Through all the hustle and bustle, the shouted instructions on market-day, the laden carts full of produce from the nearby farms rumbling through the streets, the Piper was there in the background, a secret smile filling his eyes.  

One day he told us he was leaving.  

“What? You’re going away?” Johan put his hands on his hips.  

“I’m a wanderer,” the Piper said. “I never stay in one place long. I want to be on the road before the first snows come.” 

“Where will you go?” Germaine asked him.  

“Wherever the wind takes me.” He smiled. “Every journey I take is a different kind of adventure.”  

The next day we saw the Piper off. As he went down Bungelosenstrasse, we heard his pipe for the last time. The notes tickled our toes as we sat on the wall; it caught our heels, tugged our hands.    

Before we knew it, we were on the street and running. Germaine and I caught up Robin and Susan, the youngest, and piggy-backed them. Our feet were bare, and the cobblestones bruised them. But we kept going.  

The Piper continued to play, without a backwards glance. But somehow he knew we were following, and he managed to keep ahead of us without ever lengthening his stride. People in the street stopped to stare at us. We heard our names called, but we kept going.  

The Piper had just reached the main gate when we caught up with him. He looked at us over his shoulder, but didn’t stop walking.  

Behind us we heard shouts. Our parents had heard of our running, and now they were coming to catch us. Mothers who had come from kneading bread, their hands still covered with dough; fathers with dirt on their knees from the gardens. On their lips we heard our names: Germaine! Johan! Robin! Blaise! 

“What are you doing?” they cried. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

We paused a moment and Johan spoke for all of us.  

“The Piper told us about freedom,” he said. “We are leaving to follow our hearts.” 

And we turned without a backward glance, and started off again after the Piper, running barefoot down the dusty road. In our ears were the pipes, shrill and triumphant; but underneath the music we heard bitter lamenting.  

My parents’ tears haunted my dreams.  

*

The Piper made good on none of his promises. He promised us adventure, but each day brought nothing better than another long walk. He promised us riches, but every night we slept shivering in muddy ditches, and every morning we woke to live another day with little food. He promised us freedom, but we could do nothing and go nowhere without him.  

For many days we travelled, lonely and bone-weary. Even the Piper’s music lost its thrill. Just before the snow set in, we crested a hill and saw before us the sea, stormy blue. We wanted to stop and rest, but the Piper would have none of it. “Keep moving!”  

It was hard to describe exactly how he had changed since we first met him. We were afraid of him, though he had never struck or hurt us, because we did not know where we were being taken. The smile in his eyes was gone, and in its place was something else when he looked at us. I only realised what it was later: greed.  

When we reached the town at the hill’s bottom, the Piper led us to an inn, and after speaking quietly with the publican for a few minutes he returned and told us he had rented two rooms upstairs where we would spend the night: one for the boys and one for the girls. He would be off on business, but would return in the morning. The landlady showed us to our rooms and we fell onto the mattresses on the floor.  

“Where is he taking us?” Germaine asked. No-one answered. Though we were all so tired we could barely move, we sat up and ate gladly when we were brought trays of food. After we had eaten we, overcome by exhaustion, lay down and slept.  

I was woken by a hand on my shoulder. “Celeste!” It was Johan, and Blaise was with him.   

“We have to leave,” he whispered, but would not tell us why.  

In our world of broken promises and shattered hopes, all we thought we could cling to was our trust in one another. And we trusted Johan. We woke the little ones, muffling their sleepy cries.  Carefully we opened the ground-floor window and climbed out, passing the little ones through. We wrapped ourselves in blankets for extra warmth.  

“Where are we going?” Susan asked sleepily as Johan lifted her.  

“We’re going home,” Johan said.  

*

We walked as far as we could before dawn, and then hid in a cave and slept through the day. The boys foraged, but found little to eat. On the fifth day snow fell, and our bare feet turned white and numb. We knew if we continued like this, we would never reach home alive, so at the first town we came to we asked for shelter at the church. I don’t recall what story we used – Johan took charge – but the clergy fed us and gave us shoes and warm clothes. After a couple of days we caught a lift to Aerzen. From there we found others who took us to Hamelin.  

The day we returned was a blizzard. No-one was outside when we arrived, and suddenly fear filled us. Throughout our travelling we had dreamed of this: the day we came home. But now we wondered: after our disobedience, after our disrespect and folly, would they want us? 

Softly, the church door opens and ten children creep inside. They curl up underneath a stained-glass window, and the youngest fall asleep instantly. The older ones sit up and talk quietly, all apprehensive but reluctant to show their uncertainty. Johan tells them at last what made him realise they had to run. He had overheard the Piper talking to the landlady about the slavers in port.  

The children shiver, grateful they escaped, before lying down and sleeping.  

In the morning the cleric comes in to light the candles for the Sunday service and sees them. For a moment he is frozen, about to call for help. But then he recognises the faces and silently retreats, closing the door.  

Outside it is a wonderful day. The cleric stands in the street and shouts. “The children! The lost children of Hamelin have returned!” 

People with faces grey and grief-shadowed come out into Bungelosenstrasse. Parents who searched for their children, but could find no sign – for the Piper was subtle in his travels – run to the cleric and ask, desperately hoping.  

The cleric points to the church.  

The children are just waking up when their parents arrive. At first they think they are dreaming, because who could believe that the love in their faces is really for them? But arms reach out and voices cry their names: Johan! Germaine! And in a moment they are wrapped in a hug so strong it could go on forever.  

And from the window above them, set alight by the first rays of the sun, Jesus smiles.

Six months later, the world had just about given up. Hundreds of thousands had died, and millions more suffered on.

That was when it arrived. We didn’t have a name for it then. We still don’t. It is known only as the Harbinger. It was taller than most of us, and whiter than polished marble. Mist seemed to writhe around it, weaving patterns in colours that made some nauseous and most dizzy. It stood, quiet, watching, judging. When it finally spoke, its voice came from nowhere and everywhere, a rasping whisper that started in the language recognised by many but understood by none. As it spoke, the sounds seemed to writhe and morph, forming words that travelled like ice down the spines of every breathing human in the world.

“Earth.” Anyone who was looking at it would tell you it smiled then, though the only thing that moved was the ever swirling mist. “I can rid you of this curse.” The mist surrounding its body swelled, intricate patterns forming and collapsing. “I only ask for fair payment in return.”

Meetings were called, and leaders from far and wide weighed in with their opinions. Plans were formed and rejected, confirmed and refused. Through it all, the creature stood still, waiting. They say even the air crackled with tension, the world laced with nervous anticipation. Some wanted to drive the creature away, force it to flee with a rain of lead. Others begged the world to accept its offer, those with mothers, sons, daughters, husbands suffering in their beds. It took a while, but agreements were made, plans were drawn up; who would pay this percentage, who would pay that; who would do nothing at all. When the decision had been made, the creature seemed to nod, though again no movement was made. It rose and hovered slightly, the mist growing and flashing with flowing light and darkness combined. In one sudden burst of light, the mist parted, spreading at the speed of sound in one white, wispy loop over the world. All with ears to hear heard one sustained note, laced with thousands of other tunes, whispers in every language known to man, and even more that were not. It wriggled into brains across the world, held it up with a hook of delicate pleasure. As suddenly as it had begun, the mist retracted, and silence reigned. Earth seemed to breathe one collective breath. All who had been on death’s door suddenly sat up in their beds.

“Name your price,” the world seemed to say, as sons hugged fathers and sisters sobbed over brothers.

It named a price that no one could pay, and they say it knew that. They claim the words had a darker tone to them, a thousand tiny knives that stabbed and twisted.

“Every living child that walks the earth.”

For four days and four nights, it stood there like a statue, awaiting the payment that would never be delivered. On the fifth day, something inside the mist shifted, and anyone close by would tell you that there was something sharp and cold inside it. “We will take what is owed us.”

They will tell you the mist flared, and the brightness of the patterns etched itself into the eyeballs of everyone who watched as it released another sound, screeching and horrible, laced with hard whispers that growled and snapped and snarled, crawling its way into every listening ear. Crackling black mist enveloped the world, scraping past skin like a hurricane of sand, grabbing and stinging and squeezing. The agony lasted mere seconds, and when it stopped, when the mist had disappeared, the creature was gone. So too was every single child ever to stand on the earth. All but one, who lay and still lies deep in a coma, never to wake.

No one knew where they had gone, and no one knows where to look. They call it the day the earth wept. The day the oceans rose a metre in depth so much were the tears of the world.

Those who were there claim they can still see the patterns when they close their eyes, still feel the biting sting of the mist.

We were left with only ghosts. Ghosts of the little lives that used to walk the land; a window smudged with small handprints, an empty crib full of soft blankets. For some it was the plastic slide sitting empty in the yard, or the scooters forever lying on their sides. With others, the teddy bear forever waiting to be hugged.

They say the creatures came from the stars. Some say they returned there, with the children. Others say they killed every single one of them, vaporised them in the mist. No one thinks they will return.

It was a year after that when the linguists finally translated the words. Too late, the world sobbed, too late. Orp sirebil suminev. We come for the children.

The second time Prince Henry attempted to rescue Princess Rapunzel, her hair snagged on a tree branch, allowing time for an ogre to slice her in half.

The third time, a goblin used her hair as a lasso to tie them both up. That was the first time Prince Henry had died.

By the fourth time the day started over, Prince Henry had gotten the hang of it. Before he even attempted to leave the tower with Princess Rapunzel, he chopped her hair off. They’d gotten further since then.

But here he was on the 378th attempt to rescue the princess, and things were looking pretty bleak. He honestly was getting quite tired of the princess, and didn’t even think he wanted to marry her at this point. Still, he couldn’t abandon his mission. She was still a damsel in distress, and the fact that every time he tried to walk away he’d either end up back at the tower or she’d fall from the sky into his arms was a contributing factor.

That time he’d broken more bones than he’d realized he possessed.

Prince Henry shivered at the memory and revitalized his determination. If he didn’t convince himself each attempt was the one he’d succeed and break out of his cycle, he might simply lose his will to live.

He clawed his way up the tower’s side and collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Oh, my. Are you here to rescue me?” Rapunzel’s wide eyes peered down at him, hands clutched to her chest. “How wonderful! I’ve become tired of this dreadful tower!”

“Me too, lady,” Prince Henry muttered as he pulled himself off of the floor.

She blinked those innocent eyes at him. “Huh?”

Oh yes. This would all be better if the princess at least realized what was happening. But while every time one of them died, and he woke up to restart the day, Rapunzel seemed to have no idea what was going on. To her, every day was the first day.

Rapunzel may have been trapped in a tower, but Prince Henry was trapped in time, and that was quite honestly worse. At least she had someone she could complain to.

Grimly withdrawing his knife, Prince Henry stalked towards her. Princess Rapunzel backed away, but not before he could grab her hair and start hacking away at it with his knife.

“Hey!” she squawked, the most unladylike he’d ever heard her. “My hair has magical properties, you know!”

“Don’t care.” Prince Henry sliced through the last of the strands, then scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder.

“I can walk, you know!” she yelped.

“But can you climb?” He mounted the windowsill, swinging a leg over.

“You don’t have a dragon, or a magic carpet?” Her eyes grew even wider with alarm.

He was getting quite tired of these conversations. “Nope. Just me.”

A harpy flew at them, and he tossed a throwing star at it. The creature fell with the weapon.

Princess Rapunzel went silent, allowing him to focus on his work as he made it down the tower safely.

Home stretch.

Prince Henry picked up the pace, outrunning an ogre despite the added weight of the girl. He started jumping across rocks to cross the lava river, careful not to trip or lose his balance even with the heat causing rivers of sweat to stream into his eyes.

“There’s lava here??” Rapunzel whimpered.

“Foul prince! How dare you try to steal my daughter away from me!” Mistress Gothel shrieked.

The final boss. He always wiped here. Or at least, the last 50 or 60 times he had.

Prince Henry found sure footing on solid ground and carefully released the princess. “Stay here. You’ll be safe. I have to do this alone.” He turned and faced Mistress Gothel, unsheathing his favorite weapon. His sword.

Mistress Gothel cackled, dancing forward. A wild look in her eyes, she swung wildly at him with sharp claws.

Henry ducked, although the edges of her bladed nails caught the edges of his hair, hacking away half of it. Hairs fluttered down around him, but the prince’s attention would not be shook. A barber would be horrified. Prince Henry was not.

After all, they’d be back tomorrow. Or, today. Just not this today.

A long, drawn out fight followed. An onlooker probably would be bored to death by this point. Henry muscles screamed at the end of it, barely able to move his sword forward. Yet the prince wouldn’t give up. Heroes never gave up.

Despite his longer reach, Mistress Gothel managed to push forward and land multiple attacks, one claw dragging through the skin on his cheek. Shrills of laughter escaped the evil hag, but her reign of terror would end today. One of these todays, at least.

He gritted his teeth. He had to be faster, stronger. Mustering his will, Prince Henry pushed himself into one, final, desperate attempt. Blade flying, slicing off her claws, the force behind it everything he had in him.

He slayed Mistress Gothel.

Panting, he grinned, adrenaline slowly dying off. But he had been fatally wounded. Yet another dud of an attempt. Pain ached through his chest, and for the first time, he looked down.

Mistress Gothel was dead. But one of her deadly claws stuck deep in his chest, poisoning his heart and probably some other internal organs.

He yanked it out to Rapunzel’s sobs. Poor girl. Her sorrow would be gone tomorrow, gone today, all forgotten as time rewound.

He may have beaten Mistress Gothel, but here, he bled out.

~~~~~~

379th repeat of the day.

Most people would have given up by now. An entire year, spent in a day? No company but Rapunzel, who didn’t understand the trials Prince Henry went through. Unable to experience any new things. Even he was getting bored, now.

Prince Henry solemnly scaled the tower, climbing in and just sitting at the base of the window in utter silence.

Weary bones, weary soul.

“Oh!” Rapunzel gasped as she rounded the corner, then giggled. “Hello, handsome stranger. Are you here to rescue me?”

He lolled his head around till he met her eyes, and sighed. “I almost defeated Mistress Gothel.”

“Almost? You mean she’s still around??” Rapunzel squeaked.

Prince Henry shook his head but didn’t elaborate. “Come closer. I want to cut your hair.”

“My hair?!” The amount of panic radiating from her could fuel a factory. “Y-you can’t do that! My hair has incredible magical properties–”

“Yeah, whatever. Just put it up or something then.” Prince Henry stayed in his slump. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to climb down the tower. He didn’t want to rescue the princess.

Princess Rapunzel hummed to herself as she busied herself with some braided bun. The length of her hair wrapped up impressively tight, relatively close to her head. “Alright! I’m ready! You can call your pegasus to pick us up now!”

“I don’t have a pegasus.” Prince Henry hauled himself to his feet, swung the princess over his shoulder, and began the climb down the tower. Why did she always think he had some sort of magical vehicle?

He’d beaten these trials before. Dodging, leaping, striking, running. Princess Rapunzel’s hair pressed against his back, but he ignored it. As long as it wasn’t in the way, he really didn’t care.

His muscles remembered this battle. His eyes were almost unnecessary this the way he confidently stepped out of the way for every obstacle in his path, the way his sword found his enemy without him needing to confirm their position. Such was the number of times he’d completed this challenge.

Ogre. Harpies. Lava.

Mistress Gothel.

“Rapunzel, wait here. You’ll be safe.” Prince Henry gently set her off to the side, kissing her hand when he noticed her betrayed look.

“I can help!” she said with a pout.

“No, not with this.” Prince Henry set his jaw grimly and drew his sword, racing towards Mistress Gothel.

He’d beat her before. He could do it again, minus the cost of his life, right?

He could do it again.

And so the prince tried again. If the third time was the charm, and it reset after the third time, every time, then at this point he’d wracked up 126 charms and that was surely enough to defeat just one witch.

Mistress Gothel gave it her all, horrible claws speeding towards his face. It took all he had to fend her off, barely even managing a simple counter attack.

But in her frenzied fury, she left openings. Prince Henry could take one, slice her in half; but not without leaving himself briefly defenseless. It was the same game as the last time, and he was just her pawn.

Once again his strength slowly began to leave him. Mistress Gothel must be practically inhuman, the amount of stamina she had.

Alien or not, she was going down. One last attack.

Prince Henry threw himself into his swing, adrenaline firing through his veins.

Mistress Gothel fell.

Prince Henry barely remained standing, pressing a hand to his soaking wet chest, trying to halt the flow of blood. Once again, he had been stabbed. Once again, he would die. Once again, the story would be over.

He lost his balance, and his consciousness slipped from his fingertips.

~~~~~

“Henry? Henry!!”

Something wet fell onto his face, sliding down one of his cheeks. A tear, only he could not see it and he was not crying.

Blearily he managed to peel his eyes open, staring into the sobbing face of Rapunzel.

What? How was she here? He hadn’t gone to her tower yet. This wasn’t how the day started! In fact, this almost seemed like another day entirely.

“Thank God you’re alive! I thought I lost you. You did it, Prince Henry! You defeated Mistress Gothel!” Rapunzel wiped tears from her face, trying to smile. “You won!”

He won? Killing a witch but dying himself wasn’t classified as winning in his book.

Sure, he had, but it didn’t solve anything. “I was dead.”

Rapunzel managed to laugh. “Well, you almost were, silly. But my hair has magical properties, remember! I healed you with my hair!”

Her hair had magical properties this whole time?? And Prince Henry had been chopping it off like a vegetable top. What a fool he’d been.

He bolted upwards, chest heaving. “We’re alive. Mistress Gothel is dead. What day is it?”

“You were unconscious for a while. You got hit yesterday, now it’s Moonday.”

“Moonday… tomorrow is here.” Prince Henry exhaled slowly.

Rapunzel nodded. “Well, of course, silly. What, did you think yesterday would happen again? That’s not how time works.”

He would have said that before yesterday.

Yesterday.

Prince Henry laughed, the healing wound on his chest aching as he did so. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. “You’re right. It’s not. Let’s go, Rapunzel. There’s a whole new day ahead waiting for us.”

A whole new day. And after that, another day. New days, days Prince Henry had never experienced before.

Thank goodness this time Mistress Gothel hadn’t sliced off some of his hair.