Fireplace - "Cinderella" retelling

[tigriswolf]

Title: Fireplace 
Fandom: Cinderella
Disclaimer: I didn't think up the fairy tale.
Warnings: spoilers for the basic story
Pairings: canon
Rating: PG
Wordcount: less than a thousand
Point of view: third

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She misses the fireplace.  She knew who she was there.  Cinders.  Maid.  Servant, less than a toy, slave.

Now the world is full of the unknown and she never knows what is expected. She has a fleet of servants in her service and she hates commanding them. The food is fancy and tasteless, and she misses the broth of her own kitchen. The dresses stretch forever behind her and she can barely move in them.

She has no freedom here. Even when she was a penniless slave for her sisters, she had time to herself. Now all she has are the scant, dark hours of early morning, alone in her bed. She thinks back, remembers the days before the ball.

This life does not compare. Cannot.

She is more of a slave than ever and there is no escape.

Huddled beneath the silk covers on a bed that could hold a family in the most beautiful wing of the palace, she longs for the hard floor of the kitchen and the ash of the fireplace.

The ball was magic and all the jewels hid the truth. The prince is handsome but his blue eyes are cold in light of day. The queen is molding her into aristocracy but they both know she will not survive.

The palace is stifling. Somber. For all its beauty, it is not kind. She is not happy.

She is not Jocelyn, though they call her that. She is not the princess of a forgotten land, last of an ancient royal line. They can clothe her with the fanciest, most expensive dresses of the kingdom. She can say the lines they give her and smile. But she is not Jocelyn and everyone knows it.

She is Cinders, the maid from the fireplace. Her fingers are stained with soot. Her hair is limp, dull. She looks in the mirror and sees her world as it was, before the ball and the dance and stroke of midnight.

Her godmother no longer answers her calls. Her sisters have wed above their station. Her stepmother kisses her cheek when they see each other, her eyes shining with glee.

She wakes into a nightmare every day and she’s falling ever farther. She cannot see a way out.

In the scant, dark hours of the morning, she knows there is none.

This is what she dreamed of, curled up near the cold fireplace. She longed for this. Now she has it. She will be queen and yet still a slave. Always a slave. Only her attire and name have changed. She is who she always has been, silent and bright Cinders, except instead of a drab shift she wears white gowns and instead of a cold stone floor she sleeps on the third softest bed in the land. And she answers to Jocelyn.

She rarely laughs and to hear her say a word is even rarer. She smiles and nods and curtseys. She dines and dances and sits beside the prince. Her prince. Her betrothed.

Hers. But not. For she has nothing. Nothing in the world is hers. Nothing is for her. Her cage is encrusted with rubies and pearls, gilded with flowers and courtiers.

In her mirror, she sees the world that was. She sees the girl she still is, only the outside has shifted. Her fingers are heavy with rings and her neck with elegant chains. Her dress drapes over her, full of history, and there are always eyes, watching, judging, damning.

She went from a slave to a queen, yet she is still a slave. Beautiful, fragile, pale with powder, still stained with the light of the sun. Her hair is washed and brushed each day; it shines golden beneath the thin circlet placed on her head when she leaves her room. Her eyes are set off by paint until they seem to almost leap off her face, large and green.

Only she knows they’re dull compared to how they used to be.

They make an attractive couple, she and the prince. When they dance, she remembers that first time, how exhilarating, how fun, how it felt to be held in the prince’s strong arms. But she looks into his eyes now and sees him for the man he is. The cold, aloof, spoiled man.

He will not be a fair ruler. He will not be a king beloved by his people. She looks in his eyes and leans against his chest, caught in a web she can never escape, and she misses the stone floor in front of the fireplace.

She will become queen. The circlet on her head is crushing her with its weight and her gorgeous green dress is constricting around her. The light chains pressed against her throat freeze her skin. His eyes are even colder.

The people on the streets call her his beloved, but those who live in the palace know.

She will always be the girl from the fireplace, young and innocent Cinders, even when she rules as Queen Jocelyn.

She dreads the wedding night and his arms tighten around her. They keep dancing, whirling and twirling, appearing a couple fully enthralled with each other. She gazes at him and longs to shudder at his touch.

The ball will end and the wedding looms and she is trapped in someone’s web.

She is beautiful, as is he, and their children will be more beautiful still. She is loved by the citizens but when he ascends the throne, she will be hated.

He presses a kiss to her forehead and she prays that she wakes in the kitchen, having never attended that ball.

            

Comments

Re: Unhappily ever after

[tigriswolf]

Hmm... you're right. "Retelling" is the wrong word.

It _is_ a mite depressing, isn't it? *hee*

Thank you so much for that compliment and reading!