Fruere fabulae tristis. (Enjoy the Grimm Tale)

Greater Falvorn. The country that beholds the fabled Broken Bell, a mystical object, cocooned in their own city of Clankridge. The splendid autumn rainbow of trees and caramel apple sweets—a recent development of our beloved king (and my dear father) Jeremias Caecus, may he rule many years. Clankridge is home to many a stranger. It was founded by no one other than our beloved founder George Bolthorn under the great Irish siege over two hundred years past. Bolthorn was a tiny fellow of our country’s great rulers, yet he still fought and won. Going back to how our city is home to culture and difference in this preposterous world, our true human, Oldmar Mosswick, the only Englishman on a rank of power in the country of Greater Falvorn. He isn’t young, mind you. Best to keep your tongue in manner when speaking to him. Mosswick is blessed with two granddaughters. Haven Marie, and me, her younger sister Alura Creed. We both have befriended a young steed from the hills of Calveron and deemed him Cordis. I love him dearly. Mosswick disapproves greatly. He believes no such creature should be handled by someone as high as myself. But right now, I stand in what I believe to be a "high" place of pure agony. Me and my sister’s bedroom tower in Clankridge castle. “There.” Says Haven, as she pins the beautiful golden sash over my shoulder. It shines as the sun finally crests the engraved white railing of the balcony behind us. I hate this dress with passion. Nothing ever in this world would make wearing a showy, breath-sucking blue gown daily a simple task. I groan my thanks as Haven begins to tuck my long brown hair into a circle braid to crown my head. She has grown quite used to my antics and complaints of the stupidity of formal wear. I’m constantly reminded of what it means to be the daughter of the king. How princes from outer parts of the world come to ask for my hand in marriage (I always refuse, much to the dislike of my mother) or to perhaps dance until midnight like that beautiful servant girl from the Brothers Grimm. Something I never believed once I read that story was this. They’re my brothers, and my last name is Grimm. Merely thinking on the matter sent shivers down my spine. Gallibee and Casimir Grimm have had a very odd knack for rewriting all sorts of enchanting fairy tales into gruesome, horridly realistic tales of woe ever since they were three. They sigh, content at being finished (or perhaps being waved about in celebration of it's finishing after being pressed to a desk for days and collecting dust) as the elder of the two of them, Gallibee, hands me their first draft every Sunday night. But alas, I, Alura Creed Grimm, have never in my life had my stories told twice by someone other than myself. I do suppose it is largely from the fact that I am a woman, but nevertheless, equally disappointing. My fabulous brothers are always kind to me about it, but something clicks in those whirring minds of theirs every time I tell them my creations under lamplight, and they run off shouting merrily into their chamber, eagerly discussing their next creation. “Fruere fabulae tristis,” Gallibee always murmurs in perfect, smooth Latin every Sunday night, his voice tired but tingling with anticipation at my reply. I do dearly enjoy reading these exciting tales, but Mosswick has scolded those two and quite often it turns out a bit wrong, and Casimir comes home only speaking Japanese for the next few hours. Out of quite reasonable confusion, as I have seldom studied Latin in my eighteen years of precious, Grimm life, I always sigh these exact words, as if they were meant to be said over and over. “I don’t understand. Could you possibly explain?” Gallibee never responds with words. He merely smiles at me, bows deeply in the most wild way, and leaves my chamber without a word to Haven or mother, if she’s there reading with Haven as the occasional Sunday treat. I seldom like reading at all. Two days until those snarky princes arrive. They stay in Greater Falvorn for the week, and almost always they’ve got questions for their favorite storytellers. Gallibee and Casimir seldom have time for the commotion. They’re always tucked away in their chamber, dreaming up the next retelling of precious children stories. Mother and Father have a very large issue with Casimir’s ability to think up bloody images of cutting off toes to fit a foot in a glass slipper. Pardon, they don’t mind the stories at all. They just don’t want him describing these brutal stories at the table. There is one big problem though. The Brothers Grimm, as they have named themselves, are the king’s sons. And, as I have complained from my own upcoming experience, they must do the opposite and offer to dance with ladies from out of the country. I laugh so hard (privately, of course, in my chamber when I am alone with Haven) when I think of those marvelous storytellers dancing regally with beautiful girls come to life from their tales. Perhaps Casimir will meet his Cinderella when the princes arrive. They’re bringing their sisters, so that it might be a wee bit easier for two unruly sons (such as the Brothers) to find wives among them. I feel very sorry for them. “Alura, are you quite alright?” I shake myself. Suddenly, I’m back in my chamber, standing in front of mother’s best golden mirror as Haven taps me again on the shoulder. I sigh. I get carried away talking to myself about my brothers often. They are simply the most intriguing pair of humans alive. Haven is very irritatied as I explain to her that I did not hear a word she had said. She is not nearly interested in our brothers’ work as I am, having lived with them for five more years than I. The family pet, and exotic parrot sent here from one of our father’s friends in Africa. Oh, how I would love to learn African! It’s such an ancient language, I seldom think there’s anyone in Clankridge that would be able in teaching me. Perhaps I shall go into town tonight with Casimir and ask around. I’m never allowed out after dark without one of my brothers or my father with me. Haven and I exit our chamber and make our way down to breakfast. I don’t see how squeezing myself into a dress made twelve sizes smaller than mine is suitable breakfast attire, but that is what is customary in Greater Falvorn culture. Two Japanese women, our dear Mosswick, and a Scottish dwarf all sit on one side of the long, brown wooden table. The women have their raven-black hair tied up in a tight bun, and wearing long, draping white kimonos embroidered with cherry blossoms. They speak to father in their beautiful language, and father returns it, equally perfect. Every young man and women, before they become the king or queen of a city such as Clankridge, they must learn every language the city’s inhabitants speak. It must have been an awfully long time in a classroom for father. Clankridge is home to many who speak differently than us. Even the Germans from way up north have come to stay. A gentle light from the candles on the brick walls around us illuminate our food. I have been served four salty deviled eggs and a cup of fresh milk, courtesy of our dairy cow, Pumpkin. I stick out my tongue. Deviled eggs are not one to be on my daily list of breakfast options, if I ever got to choose. A girl can only dream. The Japanese women start to speak. But they speak in our tongue. I suppose Mosswick taught them, or perhaps they simply knew all along. I don’t listen to the conversation. I’m still waiting for our brothers to show up. I love showing newcomers to our castle their work, if they haven’t read the stories already. But they don’t come. Breakfast goes by in a blur. This is quite unusual, even for them. They were told never to miss meals, and they’ve kept that promise for twenty-one years. Well, up until now. “Alura,” says my mother crossly, as she speaks with one of our handmaidens. “Be a dear and go tell your brothers their food is cold. They must come down soon. Any more of that horrendous storytelling during mealtimes…I’ve had enough of it!” I nodded, greatly relieved. It was a blessing in disguise to get away from those deviled eggs, which I also had not touched since me and Haven came down from our chamber. I run up the stars, holding up my gown so as to not trip on it, and run down the hall, passing my chamber door, from which inside could the swish of a feather duster be heard. I finally approached my brothers’ room. All was silent behind that large silver door (Gallibee was a rather tall fellow, so the door to he and his brother’s chamber was a touch bigger than the rest of ours). Not even the click of a typewriter or the frantic, excited scribble of a fountain pen on papyrus as they exchanged ideas could be heard. I swallowed and opened the door with all the caution I had. Why, the two of them were simply asleep in their chairs! They were draped in the most amusing poses over their small wooden chairs, and Gallibee’s propped-up wooden shoes lay on a blank sheet of papyrus on his low wooden desk. Casimir Fen Grimm sat on the windowsill, the starched, dusty sheet in his ink stained hands waving gently in the cool breeze of the morning, bearing only a few scribbled words. I laugh, not surprised at all at their exhaustion. Even the most skilled writers in all of Greater Falvorn had fallen to the coveted peace of sleep. But what were those empty green bottles in Gallibee’s hand?