Once upon a time, in the fabled faraway lands of the Boreal territories, stood a pristine palace nestled between the highest rocky prominences of the Snow Globe.
Once upon a time, in the fabled faraway lands of the Boreal territories, stood a pristine palace nestled between the highest rocky prominences of the Snow Globe. Eleven snow turrets with burgundy banderoles swaying in the arctic breeze; sentries clad in crimson stand their guard by their posts between the bartizans’ oillets; swan gargoyles with wings outspread hung from every nook of every chamber; spiraling crystal staircases and gold banisters and sparkling marble tiles, as though silver had been defrosted and solidified back, welded into the ground. It was every boy and girl’s fairytale come true.
There was the courtyard, with aspen trees encased in hoarfrost and brilliant red camellias with evergreen leaves grew wild along the palace wall. Little snowdrops sprung out of the mile deep snow. Crape myrtles sprouted across the grotto entrance. Rumor has it a perennial lake lies within its belly, immortalizing all who dares tread across its transpicuous waters.
No one dared lay siege upon the palace, yet towering ivory ramparts encompassed the already sturdy inner walls and paladins, donned in snow-white panoplies, their flame kissed scimitars drawn out, their attention never wavering. The chief of the paladins, Sir Galahad, has been in service since the beginning of time. He was perpetual, everlasting. His ice blue eyes never lost its impassioned spark. He was the gallant and pure knight who rode the silver steed
And on the oriel window of the seventh corner turret lays the lair of the ever-ethereal snow queen, fairest in all the snow lands, prepossessing to those who lay eyes on her. Every part, every portion of her was smooth. Her hair; silky ebony tresses brushed to the ends of the Earth. Her skin; fragile as porcelain and vitrified like glass. Her dresses; tailored out of the finest satin, provided from all seven corners of the world in addition to peacock plumes stitched together for special occasions, cottongrass nightgowns, and a circlet made out of pasque flowers. Her chamber is embellished with lustrous argent mirrors from ceiling to floor, the walls supported by pearly corbels. A bowl of bearberries, handpicked from the bushes in her private garden, rested on her nightstand; it was her favorite evening collation.
It was a popular make-believe tale in my time. Children used to make drawings and dress up as her all the time, but they could never get the details right. A sparkly wand here, a crooked halo there. This angered me a little, but how could I blame them? They are children.
But what infuriates me more is how the little girls always mistook her for a fairy princess. That is just downright offensive and unacceptable. Do you think fairy princesses capable of casting wintry spells that would last eons, or construct her own palace with her own bare hands and superintend over two hundred paladins surrounding her walls, day in and day out?
Children believed in her because she was a true-to-life fairytale, the perfect embodiment of an innocent cherub’s role model. But they grow older too soon, and lost their faith in her.
I believed in her because I’ve met her before. I could never forget the day she gave me her blessing, nor the feeling; the touch of her fingers as it drifted over my forehead, the chill that ran through me. Oh, how I’ve yearned for it for years to come.
And I was going to again soon.