I ask you not as emperor, but as a father. I do not demand you become her protector, I humbly request that you become her friend. -- Anon Guest
You know the story of the Lindwyrm. Or rather, you think you know it. You know the most of it. Stories change with each teller. Some add. Some subtract. Names are lost, times and places blur until all that's left is the phrase, Once upon a time...
By then, almost all of the truth is gone. It's true that there was a ruler. It's true that he and his bride could not conceive. It's true that they sought out a magical solution. It's true about the flowers, and the Empress eating both of them. It's true that she was warned not to do that.
The son they desired was bonny and strong, and his twin was just as fearsome as the legends say. The Lindwyrm did not slither away into the forest and become a wild thing. No. The Empress was more sensible and sensitive than that. She raised the monster as she would any other child. Loved and sheltered and protected. The world, after all, was full of knives and misunderstanding.
Let's call her Lynda. What her true name was, we will now never know, but she did have a name. Indeed, as royalty, she had several. For a time, she was content with the protection she had. Then she realised that she was lonely.
She did not demand, "A bride for you, a bride for me," oh no. Though politeness in the mouth of a monster is still a threat. She didn't even want a mate. She wanted a friend.
Her brother could have the crown, as far as she was concerned. Her brother could have a bride. But Lynda? She had her parents, who were growing old, and her staff, who feared her. One friend would be a beginning. Two may be better, but one might be a good start.
It is not true about the potential matches being devoured. Princess Lynda had an entire roasted ox once a week and that was quite sufficient for her needs, thank you. What is true is that many ran screaming from Lynda's attempted polite introduction.
The Emperor did not offer a reward. That sort of thing gets exactly the wrong kind of attention. Often, it is from the wrong kind of people.
It is true about the shepherdess, who came in bare feet with soles like bark and rough, sun-toughened skin and wind-chapped lips. She was not fair, nor dark, but middling and muddled in looks. Stories always make the maidens beautiful. This was a woman who could face down a pack of wolves with a sling and a selection of rocks by moonlight. She shore her head with the same rude efficiency as she shore her sheep, and bore her crook like a weapon, which it was.
Let's call her Wulsie.
She came and she stayed. Wulsie took one look at Lynda and said, "You'd do a number on the wolves, and that's for certain. If it took your fancy, mind."
Lynda had many questions. Which began a conversation. Which started a friendship. For a little while, they were happy with that.
Lynda wanted more. Having heard of the world, and shepherding, and wolves and stars and moonlight, she wanted to go out into the world. But the world was still full of knives and misunderstanding. People might kill a Lindwyrm, not knowing she was a Princess. Explaining it to everyone would take too much time when knives were swift and fear was swifter.
"I know a few folk," said Wulsie. "I'll ask for a good solution." Since she was a shepherd of her word, she did just that. It was not a long and arduous quest. There were no tears in the woods or prayers to the Fair Folk.
You leave the Fae alone and pray you don't catch their notice. Be told!
Shepherds and Witches have a lot in common, and most of it is knowing one more trick than their neighbour. Naturally, they are wont to find each other.
It is true that the witch told Wulsie about the skins, and the lye, and the whips, and the milk. It is true that the witch told Wulsie it was the only way.
The bit about shedding shifts is all an afterthought. Besides, that's not what happened.
Wulsie returned to Lynda, distraught. She told her friend about this cure, and held Lynda close. Weeping.
"I won't do it," said Wulsie. "I can't hurt you like that. I can't make you feel pain, it's not fair. I won't do it, I won't!"
For each tear Wulsie shed in sympathy for Lynda, Lynda shed a scale. One thousand tears. One thousand scales fell like petals from a rose.
At the end of it, there was no more Lindwyrm, but the Princess as a human being. Not so bonny, because her skin was pale and slightly too smooth and slightly too shiny. Not too strong, because she had been held safe from the world since she was born. Her hair was limp and her skin shed in flakes once a year, and her fingernails were wont to become claws when she was angry, but Wulsie still loved her all the same.
The Princess refused all suitors, and left for the woods with Wulsie's hand in her own. She did not become a wild thing, even then. She learned shepherding and could scare off wolves just by glaring at them. Lynda still bore the signs of her draconic birth to her dying day.
Perhaps, if they had followed the witches word, Lynda might have become a beautiful maiden. None can know for certain, save the witch.
How do I know all this? Ha! I was born and bred in Wyrmont, and swaddled in Lyndscal lamb's wool. We have the story from the Lyndscal family themselves, and bless them for telling it.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Krisdog]
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