narration

The boy hated the cold, dark castle and longed for warmth. He knew he would die there. His mother used to say it's not the fairy tales that lie, but the people we love. He heard knocking at the door, but wanted to ignore it. Snow fell on the graves of the children. Here it was always winter, white and night cold, and the boy hated it. Hated the castle of dark blue stone. Hated the handsome king and hated the sounds and the smells and the guards and the food. The boy longed for fire. He longed for his cozy bed and the view of the blue river and green, rolling hills. But the boy knew he would die in this bleak place, far from warmth. For the queen must stay, and she was all he had left. It's not the fairy tales that lie to us, but the people we love, his mother had always said. As if that would explain things. It was before dawn when the boy heard the insistence knocking at the door. Half asleep, dead tired, he wanted nothing more than to ignore it. Go away, he mumbled into his pillow. Around him the other servants slept hard, exhausted from long days and nights working in the castle. The hand knocked again, harder this time. It was the youngest, and the person whose cud was nearest to the door.