Story: The Plaited Prince

Here's one I wrote for a friend, got the idea for it on a train journey. Hope you enjoy, post C&C

Cheers

Challis

The Plaited Prince

It is the duty of a monarch to set an example to those in his kingdom. If the king is wicked, then his entire kingdom will do little to rise above him and attempt good deeds. If you wish to solve a problematic kingdom, look no further than the royal family, for it is there that you will see the root of the dilemma.

In one particularly ancient kingdom, the problem was the prince. He was a handsome, with fair, aquiline features, piercing blue eyes and exceptionally long, flowing chestnut hair. He was incredibly vein as a result of his charming looks and was always putting himself in the public eye. His father, the king, was a shy and retired gentleman who was overshadowed by his headstrong son. Everyday the prince would ride up and down the streets of his capital city, his long hair reaching down to the stirrups at his feet.

The prince was as greedy as he was vein and horded all manor of beautiful things. He would journey far and wide to see out gold and riches that might swell his own collection. It was not long before he heard of a vast horde of treasure that lay in a dank cave, deep in the heart of the forest that grew at the foot of the highest mountain in his kingdom.

Saying goodbye to his father and mother, and with a kiss for his dearest wife, fairest of all the women in the kingdom, he rode off. His close friends at court, of which he had many, stood outside and waved him out of the castle gate, shouting cries of encouragement and respect. His loyal subjects flocked to the street to watch him ride out, cheering after him. The prince smiled slyly – he would satisfy both his vices before this journey was at an end.

The prince took a long and winding route to the mountain where he would lay claim to his treasure. He wished to pass through as many towns in his kingdom as he could and soak up the admiration of their people. Each night he would feast on the finest food, drink the finest wines and, before lying down on the softest beds available, sit down and comb through his hair six dozen times, no more, no less.

Eventually, he reached the forest at the foot of the mighty mountain. A chill wind blew in this place, even through the shelter provided by the trees. Man had not trod this ground in generations; all had been left to decay. The trees had been eaten away by rot and the snapping of brittle twigs under the Prince’s steeds hoofs echoed throughout the vast forest. He made his way through the musty air and deadly silence, searching all the while for the cave.

After what seemed an age, he eventually reached the cave-mouth. The chill wind and stale odour that permeated the forest seemed to originate from here. For the first time in the Prince’s life, he felt fear. However, his greed overpowered this alien feeling, and he quickly lashed the horse to a birch tree nearby and made his way into the darkness.

Inside the cave, the Prince was as good as blind it was so dark. He felt his way through the tunnels, deeper and deeper in, trying not to lose his bearing. He stumbled and tripped through the darkness, until he reached a cavern that was filled with a dull, unearthly light. He might not have recognised it as light at all if it were not for the fact that it reflected off the surface of the water that was pooled in the centre of the cavern. He crept to the edge of the pool and looked into its depths, his long hair dangling inches away from the surface. The light was playing off other objects down their in the depths – valuable objects, gold objects. The Prince quickly stripped himself of all his finery and tied his hair up as to not spoil it in the dark water of the pool, then waded in and began fishing out the riches from the deep.

Before long, he was overburdened with jewel-studded sceptres, finely forged silver rings and more gold sovereigns than he had ever seen before. Loading his treasures into a Hessian sack and redressing himself, he shouldered his prize and made for the direction he thought was the way out. He walked more confidently now, all the while smiling at the thought of all the gold he had plundered from the cave. It was not long before he was once again in a lighted area of the cave, which he mistook for the cavern from which he had claimed his bounty. This was a different kind of light; it had an unpleasant green hue and the stale smell was strongest here, and there was a bizarre rock formation at one end of the open area. As he walked further into the centre, the rock formation began to move. It revealed itself to be a roughly man-shaped creature sitting in the gloom on what looked like a throne. Two watery, black eyes stared out of the darkness below a bulging brow.

“Step closer, Man-Thief,” came a low, growled voice. The Prince hesitated and took a step backwards, suddenly afraid of what sat in the darkness. The figure stood up and stretched out an arm. In the light of the cavern, it showed itself to be unnaturally skinny and long, half as long again as the prince’s arms. It was greenish in hue and ended in a gnarled, clawed hands, the nails split and chipped with age.

“Step forward if you wish to leave my domain alive!” Croaked the creature. It stepped down from it’s throne and walked slowly into the light. The prince could not believe his eyes – before him stood the stuff of legends, a thing that he had heard about only in folklore. There was however, no denying that the thing in front of him was a troll. It’s mean eyes; crooked yellowing teeth, jutting jaw, thin, oily hair and bloated gut put him in mind of a frog, stretched out into human shape. It’s skin had an unhealthy sheen and the thought of it’s touch chilled the Prince’s stomach.

“You come here,” began the troll, “into my cave and you steal my gathered treasures. You would take from me what I gathered over centuries!” Shouted the troll, drooling and showering spittle everywhere.
“You know nothing of the Old World little human,” it whispered, with malice in it’s voice, “you have stepped into a kingdom before your own and have no dominion. Not over these trees, or this rock, or over me.”

With a sudden movement, the troll grasped the Prince by the throat and pulled him closer to it’s face. The stench of it’s breath filled the Prince’s nostrils and he wretched, his eyes darting wider with fear.
“You wish to take my treasure, yes?” Questioned the troll, an evil grin spreading across his absurdly expressive face.
The Prince fought against his fear and managed to nod and utter a positive response. The troll nodded back, nodding him. He began to stroke the Prince’s luxurious hair in a sinister manner.
“Well, if you allow me to plait your hair, I shall let you leave this cave with my horde,” It explained very calmly.
“And if you do not, then you shall not leave at all. Do we have a deal?”

The Prince had no other choice. He sat in the darkness while the grotesque troll weaved his precious hair into plaits. He felt utterly defiled – the only thing that he prized above his riches was his hair, and now it was being sullied by this wicked creature. After a long while the creature had finished and the Prince stood up, his plaits swaying about him. Each plait was very thick and very long, secured by nothing at the bottom. However, they had been tightly plaited and there seemed no immediate sign of them unravelling.

“Now go,” said the foul troll, “and to this place never return!” The Prince stepped back hesitantly, waiting until he was sure the troll was not about to attack him. He then turned and made his way out of the cave cautiously with the sack full of treasure over his shoulder.

“And one last thing,” the troll called after him, glee in it’s raspy voice, “for each plait that falls out, a loved one close to you shall die. Mark my words, for they are the words of the Old World!”

The Prince broke into a run, heading as far away from the haunting voice as he could. Before long, he was once again at the cave-mouth, where he unleashed his horse and set off immediately out of the forest and away from the mountain. He sped back to his castle as quickly as he could, but as direct as the route he took and as hard as he rode, it was still many leagues off.

As he approached his capital city, he could hear the cathedral bell tolling in an all two familiar way. This was not to mark the return of a hero– this was a funeral bell. Shakily, the prince dismounted and gathered up his hair, examining the plaits. Sure enough, one of the plaits had fully unravelled. The Prince howled in dismay and fell to his knees, clutching his plaits to his breast as tears of sorrow coursed down his beautiful face. Then opened his tear-stung eyes and noticed the second undone plait in his hands.

Concerned villagers eventually found the distraught Prince and took him to the palace, where he learned of the passing of his father and mother. The Prince had wept bitterly and locked himself away in his tower for three days and three nights, refusing to see anyone, not even his wife.

On the fourth day, he threw open his doors and strode out, a stern look upon his face framed by thick, dense plaits.
“As your new King,” he shouted out to all in the courtyard below, “I decree that you find the finest leatherworker in the kingdom. Once found, I would have you commission him to fashion the strongest thonging that they can and bind my plaits with it. Go, and do not return until my will is done!” And with that, the King strode into his throne room to await a leatherworker.

Nine days later, a man was escorted into the palace carrying a handful of the strongest, thickest thonging anyone had ever seen. He was marched into the throne room, where he stood at the King’s feet and fastened tight the ends of the mighty plaits. Once every plait was secured, he stood and bowed to the King. The King stood and looked sternly down at the face of the leatherworker. A smile broke out on the Kings face and he began to laugh. He pulled the leatherworker into a mighty bear hug and thanked him a thousand times. It seemed as if his problems were over.

Over the following months however, things began to deteriorate for the King. Strong as the thonging was, there was little he could do to prevent the plaits from falling out. As promised, each morning that he woke with a plait undone on the pillow beside him, one of his dearest had mysteriously died. Soon, half of his plaits were unwound, and so two were half of his friends. And so, once again, the prince strode out into the courtyard and called to all who might here him.

“Loyal subjects,” He called, “I once again would call upon anyone who can help me. I wish to find the finest silversmith in the entire kingdom. Once found, I would request him to forge clasps for my plaits and attach them himself. Go, and do not return until my will is done!” And with that, the King strode into his palace to await the silversmith.

For nine days the King paced back and fourth through the ballrooms and hallways of his palace, surreptitiously stroking his remaining plaits in apprehension. Each friend he passed he greeted with a smile and pleasant words, while at the back of his mind he asked himself, “Will they fall with the next plait that falls out of my hair?”

Finally, the silversmith arrived with the most brilliantly fashioned clasps anyone had ever seen. He approached the throne where the King sat, then took up a spot by his feet. He worked for a long time delicately hammering fast the clasps around each of the remaining plaits. Eventually, his work was completed and he rose, only to be greeted with a warm embrace and a thousand words of thanks from the now happy King.

But where leather had failed, so too would silver. Over the years, despite the King’s caution with his plaits and the silversmith’s craft, his hair still continued to fall out of the bindings. Not often, it must be said, but often enough to cause the King great pain. Soon, only one plait remained in tact, and only one dear one was still close to the King – his wife. The thought of losing his beloved pained the King more than anything he could conceive. He marched once again into the courtyard and appealed to all who were there.

“Please friends, listen,” he urged, desperation in his voice, “Scour the kingdom for any man who thinks they might be able to hold the bindings in this solitary plait. To that person, I shall give anything they ask of me. Go, and do not return until my will is done!” And with that the King went to his chamber and lay upon his bed unmoving, for fear of loosening his one remaining plait.

After nine days news was brought to the King of a stranger who believed he could secure the plait. The King darted out of bed and headed for the throne room, where the stranger was already stood by the throne. He was dressed in a cloak and hood, every feature hidden from the world. The King approached him.

“You say you can secure this plait of mine?” He questioned the stranger.
“That is correct, my Lord,” replied the stranger in a brittle voice. He stepped closer to the King, standing taller than him by quite a way, and the King was by no means short.
“What would you ask of me,” the King asked, “in return for this great service?”
“The price will be great indeed, my Lord,” came the reply, “it will cost you all the treasure you possess and your finest horse and carriage to carry it back to my home.”

The King considered this. He did not like the idea of parting with all that he had amassed over his years. He looked around the throne room sighing as the weight of his decision bore down upon him. Then, he caught his wife’s gaze from the corner of the room and knew what the alternative was.

“It is yours,” the King finally said, descending onto one knee in front of the stranger, “now please help me rid myself of this curse.”

The stranger pulled from the depths of his cloak a length of string and a pair of shears. With the string he tied the top of the final plait tight and cut it from the King’s head to the shock of the entire court. He then tied both ends of the plait together and draped it around his neck, throwing back the hood.

When the king looked up at the stranger, it was the disgusting face of the troll that looked down on him with a malevolent grin on it’s face. The King reached for the shawn patch of hair on his head, covering it’s ugliness as he stared into those evil eyes.

“Now I have back all that I held dear,” chuckled the troll, patting the plaited hair hanging around his neck, “and have also taken all that you held dear. Now, I return to my home, this new world is not for the likes of me.”

With that he made to leave, just as the guards all around the room drew their swords and advanced upon him. He turned to the King, grasping the plait around his neck.
“And if anyone should try to follow or stop me,” He said through gritted teeth, “Then I may just break this plait.”

“Be wary of whose treasure you plunder, some prizes are not worth the heartache.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and made his way, with the King’s treasure, to his dank cave, deep in the heart of the forest that grew at the foot of the highest mountain in his kingdom.



Written by Liam Welton

It was okay. I saw a lot of the plot comming before it actually happened. I guessed the moral of the story as soon as I started to read, which was kind of a dissapointment. On the other hand your writing style and descriptiveness are excellent. I think if you experimented with more complex plots instead of your standard fableesque story, you could do some really good stuff.

On the other hand, it really did feel like a fable, because of all the little touches you put in to it, such as all the uses of the number 3.

I'm glad you picked up on the 3 patterns, and also the repetition of the number 9? It's the most sacred number in Nordic mythology, so I thought it fitted in with the sort of ancient feel of the piece.

It is meant to be a folktale, after the style of the Grimm fairytales, and I think that the description, which you already mentioned, actually doesn't do the story any favours, as it really doesn't require it as it is such a simple story

thanks for the comments, I might route out a non-fantasy story that I wrote, if I can find it

Challis

I agree with john, very fable-ish. Grammar wasn't much of a problem (saw a few mistakes however) and overall the story was ok. Like john said, the moral of the story was shown right at the beginning.
Personally I thought it had a nice feel to it, a good flow. I personally am indifferent to fables, though yours was quite nice.
Good stuff.