Title: The Ash
Child
Author: Shadow/Phantomness
Pairing: Championshipping (Lance x Red)
Fandom: Pokémon
Theme: #6, Evil Stepmother
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Pokemon belongs to Nintendo and Shogakukan Comics.
This non-profit, non-copyright infringing fanfiction belongs to me under
international copyright laws and taking it is plagiarism. Thank you.
*Phantomness bows*
Notes: <> for telepathy, ** for thoughts, italics
if a pokemon talks
Warnings: AU, het
Once upon a
time, in the small town of
One winter evening, while the snow lay thick and soft outside the house, dripping off the bare black branches of the trees, the woman was sewing, mending a tear in her husband’s shirt, when she pricked her finger with the needle and a drop of blood oozed out.
“Oh, if I could only have a child, with hair as black as the woods, and skin as white as the snow, and beautiful blood-red eyes.” She said. And at that very instant, a good fairy passing by heard her wish and granted it.
Nine months later, indeed, a child was born, a girl, with pale white skin and night-dark hair, and eyes like rubies. Her mother was taken with her, and named her Red, and loved her dearly, and her father, overjoyed that he now had a child, despite it being a girl, was even kinder and dearer to his wife.
Alas, this happy time was not to continue indefinitely for very soon, the woman fell ill of one of the fevers that routinely plagued the land. Her husband grieved very much for her, and went to his fields every morning with a heavy heart, but soon, he determined that it was not meet for a girl to be without a mother, and remarried a widow with two sons of her own.
The widowed woman was far from beautiful, with a pockmarked face and crooked nose, stout and spare, and her sons were impudent youths who had grown up unused to a father in the house.
Now when the woman saw the beautiful little girl who was to be her youngest, she was filled with rage, for her two sons were none so fair and she was sure the father would favor his own child more. And what was a woman to do, but make sure her own children would inherit the farm?
And so the woman contrived, and she drugged the father with wine, in which she mingled herbs of a witch’s art, learned from her old grandmother, and while he was so taken, she whispered that the babe left behind by his previous wife was only a useless daughter, for while she would have preferred to kill the child, her soul quailed from murder. And the man drank the wine, and believed her words, and a daughter of course, could inherit nothing.
He forgot how much he had loved his previous wife, and indeed, how he and his daughter had grieved together. He now saw her as a weak, frail, lazy slut.
A handsome son would have been a danger. Fortunately, that was not the case. A beautiful daughter still was, but the woman contrived to make her much less beautiful, and from the time that the child could walk, and talk, she was forced to do the menial tasks. It was Red – now called Ash, for she was forced to sleep in the ash-heap, for what use was a daughter to a man? Only sons had worth.
Indeed, her father had soon forgotten his first wife and thought only of the pleasures of the second. The joy of having two strong sons to help him work on the farm added to his happiness. Now, someone would carry on his name once he was dead. His family was safe! Thus, he treated little Ash very cruelly, and loudly lamented the fact that she had been born.
Every morning, little Ash would walk down the path through the forest to the stream to draw water, and then she would scatter feed for the few hens they owned, and collect their eggs. She would grind their wheat or barley into meal with a small grinder, every day, for their meals. She would milk the cow, prepare the meals and sweep the kitchen floor, and she would make the beds, clean their linen, and scrub the dishes. Her father and brothers scoffed, saying nothing, never home save for breakfast and dinner, and her mother would do little but spin and weave cloth and berate her.
One morning, little Ash was struggling down the path home with two full buckets, when she spotted a stranger coming down the path. It was a boy, older than she, with long red hair. He smiled kindly when he saw her.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Ash said shyly, and as she saw that his clothing was very fine, finer than the coarse gray cloth she wore, she moved aside to let him pass. Alas, she tripped, and slopped water all over her front.
She was surprised when gentle hands helped her up, and the boy walked her back to the spring, and helped her carry her buckets home. He even draped his cloak of rich blue wool over her shoulders, so she would not be cold, for the wind that day was chill.
“What is your name, little girl?” He asked when they had come to the end of the path and her home was in sight.
“Ash,” She replied, wondering why he was speaking to her.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ash.” The boy said, and walked away. Little Ash returned to her home, and hid the cloak in the unused trunk next to her pile of ashes. Then she prepared breakfast for her parents and brothers, who were as rude and greedy as ever, but she felt light in heart.
The next morning, the boy was there, and again, he walked her back to her house. This time, he pressed a little package wrapped in a handkerchief into her hands. She tried not to take it, but he insisted, so she obeyed, since he was bigger than she. When she unwrapped the package, she found a perfect peach, a rarity in the winter, and ate it. It tasted like paradise.
From then on, every morning, Ash would meet the strange boy, who would bid her good morning, but said none else. Every day he would surprise little Ash with a treat, or perhaps, show her some sight in the woods, and together, they spent many happy hours together.
Little Ash often wondered if he were some good spirit, sent by her mother, but was afraid to ask, for fear the magic would melt away. The years passed, and though her family continued to be cruel, she had a playmate, and often, she would speak to him of the dangers. He would listen, and hold her close, and pat her hair, despite her ragged clothing and the ashes she left on his fine clothes, and she felt as though he was the only one who loved her.
She would kiss him, childish kisses, on his cheeks, and once or twice, when she felt very daring, on the lips, but he never contradicted her, and always smiled sadly when he walked her home.
When Little Ash was nine years old, her father died of a fever. Her stepmother was even colder and angrier to her, and her brothers lorded about the house, thinking themselves very fine, for the farm was theirs, and they taunted Ash cruelly, for they knew the truth that their mother had told them, though little Ash was too young to remember.
The day after her father’s death, little Ash went as usual to draw water, and lo and behold, she found the youth waiting. And he comforted her, holding her in his arms, and she cried hot tears, and he brought her with him to a small cabin, and gave her a cup full of chocolate, the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
She thanked him, and kissed him, and he smiled, always that mournful smile, and she wondered who he was.
But she still never asked him why.
And then it was her fourteenth year, and she was a beautiful maiden, though she knew not, for she was slim and pale, even amidst rags and cinders. And it so happened that a proclamation was issued throughout the land, and a grand ball would be held, for the king was marrying his youngest son and daughter off, twins.
What a flurry the house became! Though they were but farmers, Ash’s older brothers held high hopes, and they spent their winter’s food on suits of beautifully cut velvet, and high lace collars, and polished leather shoes with silver buckles. And the stepmother, not to be outdone, ordered a beautiful gown of silk, falling to her feet in layers of shirred lacy petticoats, for she had aspirations to marry again.
Only little Ash had nothing, and on the morning of the fine ball, when she asked if she could attend, they laughed at her.
“You? A fine figure you would cut, in rags and tatters.” Her eldest brother said.
“You? And who would watch the house if you were gone?” Her second brother taunted.
“Slut! How dare you presume to be above your station? You will never speak of this again!” The stepmother roared angrily, and boxed her ears.
And the three of them swept off, very fine, and little Ash wept, before she left the house to seek her friend.
She found him sitting by the stream, and he held her close as she whispered of her troubles. And he drew her close, with tears in his eyes, and kissed her one last time.
Little Ash felt as though she were floating on air, and her eyes closed, and when she opened them again, lo and behold, where was she but in a magnificent carriage, drawn by six white horses, and her hair silvered with pearls and golden pins, her feet in dainty little slippers of gold, and her dress a magnificent creation of creamy silk, the bodice embroidered in starry gold, her skirt a thousand flounces.
The carriage swiftly arrived at the palace, and there, she joined the throng of men and women, clamoring for the attention of the Prince and Princess. She ate of the dainties, danced with multiple partners, until finally the Prince spotted her, and would have no other. They waltzed along the floor, and she thought herself in love, until at last, evening descended, and she saw her brothers and stepmother approaching.
Horrified, Ash fled the ball, not noticing when one of her slippers became dislodged on the steps, and the carriage whisked her away, vanishing when she arrived at home. Not a moment later, her fancy gown and jewels vanished, leaving her in the plain gray shift, and when her family returned home, little Ash was fast asleep in the ashes by the fireplace.
The Prince was savagely angered that the woman had escaped him, for she was fair, and he would have her for his bride. And so, he traveled from house to house, while the women bustled excitedly. Some placed their feet in buckets of brine to shrink them, some starved themselves in the hope that their feet would become thin, and others bought potions and powders of dubious nature. But it was all for naught, and no woman would fit the shoe.
Months passed, and the Prince began to despair. The princesses and ladies of the court, the baroness and marchionesses, the duchesses and countesses, even some of the ladies of the town had been consulted, but none would fit the shoe.
Little Ash was despairing too, for the day after the ball, she had rushed to find the boy and thank him, but he had not appeared. Day after day, she drew water in vain, but he never came.
Finally, the Prince arrived at little Ash’s house. Oh, how the stepmother shoved and pinched, trying to fit her foot into the slipper. And finally, little Ash stepped forwards, and the shoe fit, but when the Prince saw that she was covered in ashes, and when the stepmother explained that she was nothing but a penniless drudge, and there was no guarantee of her virginity, he was so disgusted that he left her without a backwards glance. Moments later, the slipper broke into a thousand glittering shards.
The stepmother wept bitterly at the lost wealth, and her brothers beat her savagely, but she did not care. She did not love the Prince, he realized. No, she loved the mysterious boy who had vanished, and that night, she opened the trunk and revealed the cloak she had been given so long ago.
She hugged it to her chest, and wept bitter tears, and lo and behold, a bright light came into the house, and the boy was there, and little Ash clung to him, and cried.
“Why?” The boy asked. “Why did you not want the Prince?”
“He loved me for my face.” Ash said. “He never cared for me. You cared for me. Why did you leave me?”
“Because,” The boy said, his golden eyes downcast, “I could not watch you love another.”
“I do not love him.” She said. “I love you.”
For a moment, the boy – no, he was a man, now – looked as though he would fall down dead, but then he kissed her, and little Ash kissed back, and there was a glitter, a glimmer, and her clothing changed into a fine suit of dark red velvet, trimmed in gold.
“I still do not know your name.” She told him.
And the boy smiled, even as a pair of wings appeared on little Ash’s back, and kissed her again, and whispered in her ear.
“I am Lance.”
The stepfamily came out now, wondering what was happening, for the light was strong and disturbing their sleep, and Lance drew the sword at his side, the strong, sharp blade, and cut them to pieces, and took Ash with him to the land of the fairies, where they lived happily ever after.
End Fic
Completed 7/26/07
Edited 8/21/09
We were studying Cinderella stories in class today, and they are divided into 3 types. This is the first type, with the evil stepmother/sisters and the prince recognizing his lady by the lost shoe.
Folktales are quite fascinating, and it’s easier to understand them with some background history on the world they were written in, so I’m glad I took this class. I tried to mix some of the historical precedents into this fic…
I’m guessing Red/Ash is 5 or 6 when she meets Lance for the first time…and Lance is about 11… and the Prince is Paul! *Laugh* I don’t like him or Gary.