(no subject)
When I was little, my sister Ally used to be in charge of putting me to bed. One glass of water, one stuffed toy, one kiss, and one story. We had a ritual and the story went last because I often fell asleep during it anyway. Not that Ally was a bad storyteller, she was brilliant for a ten year old, actually.
I remember the fairy tales were always the scarier ones, back before the Fae came out and those stories were either wiped off the bookstore shelves or changed into even more child-friendly accounts than you could shake Mickey Mouse at. We had a collection of the Brothers Grimm back then, very old. I remember Ally reading Rumplestiltskin to me. The bragging miller and his poor daughter, the greedy king, and the little man. I don't really know why that story stuck out as more terrifying than the rest. It wasn't that gruesome except for the threat to the queen's baby. What did the man want the child for? What was he going to do with it? I'd always conjured visions of the most horrible things I could think of. Eating it in a pie, perhaps. Fresh baby stew.
I suppose what was the most frightening was that it was pure luck that she finally discovered his name. A random messenger stumbling across the little man chanting about his exploits while dancing around a fire. And then she had the gall to draw it out teasingly when she confronted the Fae, as if he didn't hold her child's life in his hands. Hands that he could apparently rip himself in two with in his fury.
Then again, Rumplestiltskin committed the same sin as the miller when he sang his name out loud. So maybe the story is about pride.
Or maybe it's about how we always give ourselves away.
I remember the fairy tales were always the scarier ones, back before the Fae came out and those stories were either wiped off the bookstore shelves or changed into even more child-friendly accounts than you could shake Mickey Mouse at. We had a collection of the Brothers Grimm back then, very old. I remember Ally reading Rumplestiltskin to me. The bragging miller and his poor daughter, the greedy king, and the little man. I don't really know why that story stuck out as more terrifying than the rest. It wasn't that gruesome except for the threat to the queen's baby. What did the man want the child for? What was he going to do with it? I'd always conjured visions of the most horrible things I could think of. Eating it in a pie, perhaps. Fresh baby stew.
I suppose what was the most frightening was that it was pure luck that she finally discovered his name. A random messenger stumbling across the little man chanting about his exploits while dancing around a fire. And then she had the gall to draw it out teasingly when she confronted the Fae, as if he didn't hold her child's life in his hands. Hands that he could apparently rip himself in two with in his fury.
Then again, Rumplestiltskin committed the same sin as the miller when he sang his name out loud. So maybe the story is about pride.
Or maybe it's about how we always give ourselves away.