The storyteller surveyed his silent audience. Some held goblets tight, a few bore grim looks, whilst others, befuddled by wine, sat with lolling heads, but no amount of inspection allowed him to discern if the muted response boded good or ill. Leaning heavily on his staff, he rose, and while those nearest him later said he groaned, they were mistaken.
Before him sat his bleary-eyed queen, resting her head upon her hooves, appearing to cling to the edge of consciousness with some difficulty. Then, without warning, her cheeks bulged, her lips straining to contain a most regal belch. They failed in spectacular fashion.
The court rained foul jeers down upon the old storyteller. With a theatrical swirl of his cloak, he turned and strode out, driven from the hall by their gale of mockery.
He sighed. No more could he do for them, for her. And what right had he to success? Her mother had been much the same, and his youthful quest to touch her heart had failed as well. The weight of fruitless decades descended upon him, mocking his foolishness and futility harsher than those surrounding could ever accomplish.
At last the grand wooden doors shut behind him, muffling the taunts with a thud, sealing his despair. In the vast outer corridor he stood alone and listened to the unearthly howl of the winds outside. It seemed even the elements sneered at him. And such odious weather these days. Why, had he not remarked that very morning how the winters felt longer and colder—utterly inhospitable—with each passing year? He grunted. Age, he told himself, nothing more than age. Yes, springtime comes sooner when one is young.
Youth! So disheartened he’d been, he had forgotten another generation existed, one yet unspoiled. And he wondered: Dare he? Glorious hope blossomed forth, spreading from his heart to his face. Yes! another generation, one last opportunity to restore the kingdom’s true eminence, but…
But the hour was late, and without a doubt the child was already asleep. He too was weary. Blessed sleep would serve him well.
So the storyteller went to retire that night, his spirit renewed. Up and up he climbed, navigating the steep stairway to his cell with care. He entered his modest quarters, latched the door, and prepared for another night of bitter cold. When at last settled, he extinguished his lone candle with a spell so practiced one might think the flame had departed of its own volition. Eyes open, he lay motionless in the dark, impatient for sleep’s arrival. And as he waited, he vowed most fervently that, on the morrow, even before he broke his fast, he would seek out little Princess Platinum and begin his undertaking anew.