The man Sicilienne had no name for yet leaned forward onto his ruby-encrusted scythe, a question hovering on his lips.

"Goldi—"

"Do you want to die?"

"Aurele, my sincerest apologies." So that was Goldilocks's name; Aurele. The young man's hazel eyes—swirling with blue like the untamed ocean that perhaps lived inside him—flickered with something mischievous, the edge of his mouth twitching slightly upward. "So sensitive."

Aurele's response was biting and instinctual. "Not as sensitive as your balls, Radiata. Want to find out just how much damage I can do to them?"

His expression shifted within a millisecond. "Do you want to see what a scythe can do to your pretty face?" he hissed.

"We don't have time for arguments or anything worse today," the Sandman interrupted calmly, stepping between them to lay a detailed map of Snow Castle across the tree stump. "Everything must go perfectly as planned, which means we need to work as a unified, well-oiled machine." He looked at each and every one of them in turn. "Today will be the start of your redemption. Fate never ran smooth. But freedom is your path to paint..."

"Ridiculous," the Writer mumbled, tearing at his hair again. He gestured to Sicilienne with his cane. "Sicilee, come. We have to get to the palace before they do." Sandman's continued speech and the rest of the meeting faded away as the two of them trudged back the way they came, headed for the looming structure of luxury and beauty that was visible all the way from the forest. Although the Writer was crippled somewhat, Sicilienne had to jog a little to keep up with him. She suspected his emotional turmoil was pushing all else, including physical pain, from his mind. She had asked before what happened to his leg. He'd answered vaguely that his youth was filled with many an ill-advised adventure. Sicilienne had always wanted to go on an adventure, somewhere deep down in her curious soul.

Perhaps one had found her.

"We will exhaust ourselves considerably walking all that way," she said hesitantly, squinting up at the palace. The Writer paused and turned to her, offering his hand.

"We don't have to walk." The twinkle in his eye she knew meant he had found a learning opportunity. "Simply concentrate on when and where you want to go. Time and distance are irrelevant in memories."

Sicilienne worried her bottom lip. "You think I can do it?" She wasn't much good with magic, even her own. The Writer had told her he would ease her into the abilities he intended to pass on, but self-consciousness always overtook her when those times did come.

"You're plenty good with magic for your age," he assured her. "Go on. All you have to do is picture yourself in whatever situation you'd like to be and you'll be there. Think of it like a dream."

So, hesitantly, she did. In a blink of an eye, they were at the palace gates, and some time must have passed because the first thing that caught her attention was the girl Piper leaping from tree to tree like some kind of silent wood fairy. Sicilienne didn't have time to be proud of herself, and instead watched, mesmerized, as she made her way quick as a thistle to the foot of one of the four watchtowers that surrounded each main wing of the castle, hooking her feet through a vine and beginning to make a treacherously long climb. She had angled herself so carefully that none of the numerous guards posted outside could catch her in their sights, and she was so small that no one in the watchtower was very likely to notice her.

"She's going to hypnotize the guards," the Writer mused. He flicked his fingers in the air, and time sped ahead, slowing to normal again once Piper had reached the top. There was immediately a loud commotion as the guards stationed in the tower confronted the stranger, but Piper was quick to silence them, only needing to lift her little golden flute to her lips. A wonderful tune played, dancing across the air and reaching outward toward the guards down below, making everyone freeze. As a flutist herself, even Sicilienne had to respect her musical talent—criminal or not. Then the Pied Piper placed her instrument in her teeth, swung out of the tower room to the rim circling around it, balancing on the edge and gripping protruding rock with sure fingers. From her belt she uncoiled a rope and hook, tossing it towards the palace roof some ways away, and clambered onto it like a koala, hanging upside down and inching to her destination with quick hand movements. Sicilienne couldn't feel anything except for impressed. Once she was no longer hanging precariously in the air, she settled onto her perch on the roof and began to play again—this time, some kind of vibrant pop song.

It was almost horrifying the way they began to dance.

The knights in the tower, the royal guards on the ground, anyone who happened to be walking the perimeter of the front side of the castle, they all dropped what they were doing immediately and began an obsessive, exerting synchronized dance. Their eyes went completely hollow, and bile rose in Sicilienne's throat as she thought that they looked something like zombies. Their movements were far from zombie-like; they danced with fervor and youthfulness, as if their lives depended on it; but the looks on their faces were simply nauseating to watch.

"Then don't watch that," the Writer said softly, as if he, too, was horrified. He gently turned Sicilienne to direct her attention in another direction. Someone they'd seen earlier, Aurele Luemont. Goldilocks's notorious golden-blond curls were shorn to her chin, and they fluttered behind her as she dashed toward what must be a side entrance, currently unprotected thanks to the efforts of Piper. Sicilienne couldn't help herself from going after her, watching her elbow hypnotized guards out of the way and begin the process of picking the complicated bolts on the large iron door. Old habits die hard, she supposed. Could she really blame Goldilocks for the urge to break-and-enter? Well, she could, obviously, but... you get the idea.

She turned to look for the Writer but he had already appeared beside her. "The next step of the plan will be on the roof, correct?"

"Yes. We need to see who actually kills the queen." He squinted up at the palace once more. "Which means we should skip ahead a bit, shouldn't we?"

Sicilienne barely had time to think before they were in the castle halls. Noise filled her ears from all directions, making her wince and cover them. "Where are we now?"

"The kitchen incident has already started, if I'm not mistaken. There should be four of our culprits about to enter into a disguise. Let's go see where they go, shall we?"

The Writer started up the winding staircase they were standing next to, his walking stick thumping on the steps as he went. The innards of the palace, while teeming with noise, were eerily devoid of actual life. Sicilienne started to follow him up to what she was assuming must lead to an entrance to the roof, but a flash of something brightly-colored caught her eye. She found herself acting rather than thinking, darting toward the figure. Upon closer inspection she discovered it was the young pirate from before, the one who had been frustrated with his job in the mission—or rather, lack thereof. He was whistling, pumping his shotgun in the air.

What was he doing?

It took her a beat too long to realize that he was out seeking confrontation with the guards. A soldier came face-to-face with him in the next hallway, and didn't waste time brandishing his sword and launching an attack, but the boy just giggled in a way that unsettled her to her core and ducked every blow. He spun like an acrobat, leveling the barrel of his gun at his opponent and firing. Sicilienne was surprised when a blade lodged into the man's stomach in lieu of a bullet. The soldier gritted his teeth and sucked in a pained breath, but, undoubtedly trained for such a situation, stayed on his feet, aiming a strike again. The boy had no qualms about firing again, and again, and again, until Sicilienne had to swallow hard and look away. When only silence remained she dared to look back, only to realize the pirate was already halfway down the hall. She hurried to follow him, consumed by curiosity even though every circumstance here sent her stomach roiling.

Maybe fifty paces later, he seemed just as astonished as she was when a grate suddenly popped out of the wall and a pretty young woman squeezed her way out of it. She froze in place when she saw the pirate, holding up her hands.

"Who are you?"

He bristled. "I'll ask the questions, lass."

"Well excuse me," she said haughtily, standing up straighter. She was dressed all in a striking shade of emerald green, shining brown hair tied back, showing a little more skin than necessary. She reminded Sicilienne of the girls she'd seen featured on the covers of magazines when she was younger, and there was something terribly familiar about her, but she just couldn't put her finger on it. Still, she was sure she had seen her before. "That's no way to talk to a beautiful woman, now is it?"

"Back where I'm from you wouldn't last a day. No grime on yer clothes, clean hair, no piercings." He looked her up and down, unimpressed. "Bar full o' scallywags would eat ya alive."

Her eyelashes fluttered, her eyebrows practically shooting off her head. "Back where you're from? Some basin of filth like Pirate's Bay?"

"Paradise Island," he said, a glint in his eye. "And lemme take a wild guess. You hail from North Fairy."

"Central Fairy, you uncultured beast. I'll have you know I can't so much as swim. You talk a big game for someone who's, what? Nine?"

He barked a laugh. "I'm fifteen, ya barnacle-covered bucket of maggots! Now come at me, will ya?" And with that eloquent parting line, he lunged for her, fists swinging. Sicilienne feared this girl would meet the same end as the guard he'd encountered, but she put up a solid fight, and thankfully hardly a minute later they were interrupted by the arrival of someone she was quite positive she knew.

"The prince," she whispered.

Everette White, the adopted crown prince of Snow, was standing terror-struck before them, clutching a dagger in quite the wrong way. (Sicilienne knew such things, for she had read dozens of books in nearly every subject imaginable, eager for knowledge since she had first learned to read.) His mouth flopped open and closed like a fish, stunned and deprived, apparently, of the basic abilities of spoken language. Sicilienne recognized a slight grayish pallor to his skin, which she had read in her geography studies was a characteristic of Snow citizens as result of the lack of sun exposure. The cold climate was also responsible for fashion patterns such as—

"The prince? Where are the guards?" the girl huffed, bringing Sicilienne back to the reality she'd briefly forgotten to stay tethered to. She seemed to speak as if everything she had to say was extremely important and she expected everyone to tune in immediately or else she would make sure that they did.

The boy shifted from foot to foot, glancing between Everette and his previous opponent. "Wait. Are we allowed to fight the prince? I kinda wanna fight 'im."

"That's stupid. Are you just trying to fight everyone?"

"Maybe. Look at 'im, he's too scared to fight. He's just standin' there holdin' a knife all wrong."

This provoked Everette to frustratedly (and foolishly) enter a fistfight with him, attempting to slash his knife in all sorts of crooked directions. Sicilienne's focus, though, was on the girl, who obviously hadn't been at the meeting.

Who was she?

She took the boys' catfight as an opportunity to disappear, Sicilienne tailing her. She ran like her life depended on it, muttering about being late and looking increasingly more uneasy about the lack of soldiers on her way to wherever she was going.

Sicilienne felt like they'd been running for hours when they finally skidded to a stop, the girl loudly announcing, "I'm here!" and leaning over, resting her hands on her knees and slowing her breathing. "Wow. I need to work on my cardio."

Sicilienne, too, was struggling to catch her breath, and so it took her a puzzled moment to register what was in front of her.

A royal vault. A gaggle of scrappy criminals. Her brother.

She did a double take.

"CLAUDE?"

Of course, the memory of Claude couldn't hear her, asking the girl what had taken her so long and preoccupied with the reality of the previous day. But Sicilliene felt like she'd been struck through the heart, the wind knocked out of her chest. She suddenly felt horribly dizzy.

Claude. Claude. Claude.

Maybe she wasn't the most intuitive, but she knew what a group of thieves breaking into a royal vault looked like.

"Merchant my—"

The Writer materialized beside her, making her whirl. "I see you decided to take a detour."

Sicilienne's eyes roved over the people before her. A woman with black-and-blond pigtails and freckles, a hulking beast of a man with a large beard and warm grin, a bronze-skinned woman with deep brown hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, the woman dressed in green, and a blond girl who looked to be slightly younger than the rest. And Claude. She didn't want to believe it, coming up with a hundred plausible explanations, but those gloved fingers of his had always been a little too quick, a little too eager to snatch things up, a little too skilled at sleight-of-hand. "Do my eyes deceive me or is that Claude Adrien Verelia? As in, the Claude that I'm related to? The Claude that raised me? The Claude that lied to me?"

He hummed. "It is."

Sicilienne was practically shaking with fury. "You knew! And you never felt it necessary to inform me?"

"You never asked," he replied easily.

She crossed her arms defiantly. "I am asking now. How long has he been stealing?"

It took him a moment of thought. "Mm... since you were about three. He had to take care of you; the economic state of Fairy Kingdom was unwell. He met Ramona Swan shortly after you left to live with me."

"Who's Ramona Swan?" she asked disdainfully, an unfamiliar feeling settling into her stomach.

"You really should spend more time in the upper library with me, my dear. She's a thief who started out as a rather ugly duckling."

Realization dawned. "The Ugly Duckling. I think I read that one once."

"Well, it is still being written. I've had to pull her out of numerous close calls with death. It's really growing very tiring to watch over her, although I suppose her getting smart and putting together a gang has receded the need for my interference over the years." He shot a glance in Ramona's direction. "As unfortunate as what you are feeling now may be, I think I know who kills the queen."

That made her remember her priorities. "You do?"

She felt like she'd been running in circles this entire time, but again she followed the Writer, except of course his method of travel was much faster than the one she'd been using. The world rushed forward and then they were in the throne room, and the Writer pointed.

"There."

Sicilienne squinted at the figure, catching a glimpse of a white cloak. She let out a strangled gasp at the sight of Snow White's body, draped lifelessly across the throne. The heart beating in her hand was unmistakable.

The killer, a long and lanky figure that moved with the grace of an underwater dancer, spun to place a red flower on the throne, giving Sicilienne the opportunity to see his face. He was carrying a scythe. She'd seen him at the meeting in the forest; Aurele had called him "Radiata".

"The Corpse Flower Assassin. A peculiar fascination with flowers, he has. I haven't paid this one much attention," the Writer admitted. "There's lots of criminals in Fairytaletopia, and the important part of his story ended long ago. Twelve boys. Twelve princesses. One paradise." He sighed. "Never underestimate the extras, Sicilee dear. The ones you pass by and take no notice of are always the ones who will strike you by surprise."

In one swift movement, the Corpse Flower Assassin swept toward the shadows, his scythe disappearing into thin air, his work done. He pulled something out of one of his many pockets, fitted whatever it was to his hands, and began climbing the wall, silently moving toward a trapdoor in the ceiling. Sicilienne swallowed, peeling her eyes away from him to peer at the message he'd painted on the floor before they arrived.

ONE DOWN, FIVE TO GO.

That was simultaneously frustratingly unclear and oddly specific. It didn't take a genius to decipher that there were six famous tales. Could he be intending to take down each protagonist, one after the other?

"I believe so," the Writer agreed, sounding resigned, and he held out his arm for her to take. She linked his arm through his, and they were about to transport themselves back to the tower when the doors slammed open, halting them.

Everette White stumbled forward, drunkenly making his way to his mother's throne, and dropped to his knees. His sobs were heartbreaking. Sicilienne felt as though her very soul was being crushed to smithereens and stomped on over and over again. Then everything started to shake, as if a devastating earthquake had rocked the palace, and she and the Writer desperately clung to each other.

From the queen's extracted heart came an explosion of red dust, and it was easy to recognize the trail of dark magic that swirled through the throne room, stopping at Everette and erupting again once it touched him. Other trails branched off from that one, speeding through the air and off to who knew where. Everything started to fade away, the life-story over, but the red remained, and as the world of the memory spiraled before them and dissolved out of sight faces flashed past them, each touched by the magic. First the prince, then Claude and Ramona and the rest of the thieves, then a knight, then everyone who had been in the meeting they'd witnessed earlier, the Sandman and the Corpse Flower Assassin included. Moments later Sicilienne found herself gasping for air, collapsed on the soft floral rug in the Library of Life.

The Writer, too, was composing himself, heaving in breaths and keeled over, one hand scrambling for the surface of the desk and the other grappling with his walking stick.

"What was that?"

The thing was, he didn't know. He didn't know. He was supposed to know. And every time he led himself to believe that he finally knew everything he was supposed to, something like this came along and clocked him in the face like a fairy-flipping brick. His mind was running at a mile a minute.

"I think we just witnessed a rewriting of destiny."

Destiny wasn't set in stone. It never had been. It never would be. But it followed a path, that for as many people as was possible, ended in happily ever after.

He'd just counted eighteen people whose ever afters had just been entirely rearranged. All because of one death. One oh-so-important death. He knew it wouldn't be easy becoming a Writer so early in life, but for sprite's sake.

Sicilienne—oh, that poor, sweet girl Sicilienne. She was hugging herself tightly, tears welling in her eyes. He could hear her distressed thoughts, pounding in her head. He lied to me. He lied to me. All this time. Maybe he should have told her. He'd figured eventually Claude Verelia would come clean himself. He'd missed that opportunity, clearly. The Writer gently patted Sicilienne's shoulder, kneeling beside her. But his mind wasn't with her, presently. He was too preoccupied with the implications of what he'd seen.

She shrugged away from him, wiping her face with her sleeve and getting up to head downstairs. She would calm down if given some time for her emotions to settle, and his curiosity would not leave him. He found himself drifting towards the tapestry in the corner of the room, brushing it aside to reveal an entrance to the dusty, rickety old stairs that he never really used anymore.

The Writer climbed the spiraling staircase higher than he typically went, higher than any of the libraries, all the way to the very topmost floor of the tower, the one that even Sicilienne hadn't yet explored and had probably forgotten existed. The tip, if you would. The attic.

"Now, what has the death of Snow White done to fate?" he murmured, pressing a hand to the door. His handprint momentarily flashed gold, and then a doorknob magically protruded where none was there before. He turned it, his cane entering the room before he did.

The attic was dark, but as he stepped inside, a warm light emanated from seemingly nowhere, making visible exactly what he'd expected to see. In a nearby corner was a stack of trunks he knew were filled with the cluttered belongings of the previous Writer. Directly in the center of the room sat an open book on a pedestal, above which a hovering quill scribbled away, occasionally dipping into a magic inkwell. He made his way over to it, peering at the writing, which was terribly small. This was the thickest book in all the tower, filled with generations of stories rather than just one. Once one took up the mantle of the Writer, his name would appear on a newly formed organizational tab in this very book, and his story would begin anew.

He picked it up, flipping through the many filled pages in the front and the many blank pages in the back. In his early days after taking on this responsibility, this had been his teacher, both the wise and less wise actions of Writers before him serving to guide him in the right direction. He'd been so afraid then, so eager to do everything right, hoping he could ensure as many happily ever afters as possible and receive one in return.

But you see, Writers didn't get happily ever afters.

That was the catch. That was the sacrifice.

He set it back down, and the enchanted quill continued its work doubly as fast. He wasn't here for his own story. He was here for the sake of everyone else's.

The Writer glanced about. Arranged in a circular formation around the pedestal were six statues. They'd grown magically from the very stone that made up the floor; he remembered the day the first one came very vividly. The first, a girl brushing impossibly long coils of hair, looking longingly towards the distance. The second, a young mermaid uncorking a potion, her tail tucked beside her. The third, a princess pricking her finger on an intricate spinning wheel. The fourth, a girl and a beast, each with one hand held up to entwine their fingers together, a rose tucked into her hair. The fifth, a girl dancing with a prince in a beautiful dress, her feet clad in delicate shoes. And finally the sixth, a doomed girl taking a bite out of an inevitably poisoned apple.

There was only one problem. The sixth statue wasn't entirely intact. Right where Snow White's stone heart should be, glowing red cracks had bloomed, and they were slowly spreading across the rest of her, having already reached the apple. The Writer watched, frozen in place, as the apple shattered and fell to pieces on the floor. He felt the ground tremble, holding on to his cane for dear life.

He didn't know what this meant, but it couldn't possibly mean anything good.

Hastily he swept toward the door, slamming it shut behind him and letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He gripped the wall for support. He thought of the explosion in the memory. Red, not gold, as it should have been when someone died and their story ended. The very same fiery red he saw seeping through the statue. He'd never seen anything like this before.

"Dammit, Kanan," he whispered, cursing his predecessor. "Why'd you have to do this to me? Why'd you have to die?"

In his mind he watched the trails of red swirl through Snow Palace, touching several people in it—the prince, the thieves, the knight, the killers making their escape. Only them. No one else. Fate had chosen them for something he did not understand, and yet they would blame him, because who else was there to blame?

"I know you hear me, Sandman," he said through gritted teeth. "Wherever you are, whatever you're planning—go no further or do not say I have not warned you. Pandora's box is real and you have opened it. You think you see all and know all, but hear this: much like life, freedom comes with a price. I don't believe you have considered the consequences."

Somewhere, somehow, the Sandman heard him. And he smiled, and in a horrible voice that reverberated the Writer's skull, he whispered back:

Then let there be chaos.

🙤 ˖ ࣪⭑ ┈┈┈┈ · ✦ · ┈┈┈┈ ˖ ࣪⭑ 🙦

The pen swept swiftly across the page as Sicilienne scribbled away in fury, bent over her desk and muttering incoherently to herself. She jumped as a hand came to rest upon her shoulder.

"Have you sufficiently rid yourself of your anger?" the Writer said gently.

Sicilienne straightened in her seat, setting down the pen in her hand and taking a deep breath. Her hand trembled as she lifted the half-finished letter. The Writer took it, skimming its contents with mild amusement.

"All caps... plenty of expletives..." he mused. "I think your brother would have a wonderful time reading through all this." He stepped around the desk to smile softly at her. "It took me some time to calm down as well—albeit for different reasons. Would you like to do the honors?"

Sicilienne refused to meet his eyes, snatching the letter back from him and crumpling it in her fist. She trudged over to the fireplace and tossed it unceremoniously in, having only the energy left to slump onto the floor, her legs folded beneath her.

The Writer stood before her, leaning his bad leg's weight on his walking stick as he often did. "I don't think you have the wrong idea confronting your brother."

She glanced up, her brow furrowing.

"I have a new task for you. Your grammar lessons and usual errands can be dismissed until you collect the life-books of everyone we saw in that clearing."

"To study?"

"Exactly. But before you do that, I would like for you to write a new letter to Mr. Verelia."

She gave him a strange look, not understanding fully just yet. "What do you need him for, sir?"

"It's not me that needs him. Being in the exact location as Queen Snow White on the day she dies may very well seem to others like a coincidence, but you and I both know the truth."

"That there is no such thing," Sicilienne said grimly. She absentmindedly traced figure-eights on her thumb with her forefinger. "And so have Claude and his accomplices entwined themselves in this... well, whatever is going on?"

He nodded. "Indeed." He tapped his cane, preparing to exit the room. "What have we learned from all of this today, Sicilee?"

She frowned. "I—I don't know."

"That fate can change, my dear. For better..."

"Or for worse," she finished slowly.

Far away, this sentiment was echoed in her brother's dreams.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

¡Buen dia! Yeah, so... there were a lot more scenes in these two chapters, but I didn't account for the fact that apparently it WOULD, in fact, take TwEnTy pages (9000+ words?!??!?!?!) to write all the Sicilienne/Writer stuff, so literally everything else got pushed forward. The good news? This means there will HOPEFULLY be a much shorter wait between this update and the next, given that a large portion of it (about half) is already written, just a bit disconnected at the moment. I would love to hear your thoughts on Sicilee and the Writer, and any other character that made a cameo in this pair of chapters! I've already grown very attached to this story and all of its characters lol.

Also, I did make a map of Fairytaletopia, and it's not the best but it was my first time ever designing a map using software I was completely clueless as to how to operate, and it took forever so I'm not redoing it. Lmao. Anyway, if you haven't seen it yet, I encourage you to take a peek at the introductory chapter, where you can find it right by the list of Fairytaletopia locations! It's just kind of helpful to be able to picture where everything is since there's a considerable amount of traveling to come in this story. I made some changes to the playlist as well, trivial as that may be.

Today's poll: who makes better movies, Disney or Dreamworks? I vote Dreamworks, and I'm curious to see if that's an unpopular opinion. *chants* SHREK SHREK SHREK SHREK!

Next chapter puts everyone's favorite gang of thieves back in the spotlight, plus one or two extras who may or may not cross paths with them. Gracias para leer, & te quiero <3