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Once upon a time, there were four little girls.
After all, that's the way stories begin.
The first little girl knew that monsters were real. Monsters could take your home, your friends, your country. Your parents. Monsters looked just like people, told pretty lies and made promises that they never meant to keep. Just like people. And forgiveness... That was the biggest lie parents told to their children of all. How dare you not thank us for being alive at all.
The second little girl had heard that one should always tell the truth, but she didn't see any witches in disguise around here to enforce that. Truth was what you fell back on when you weren't bold. Stories let you slip past the gatekeepers who expected you to be only what you seemed, let you take the prizes others sought to keep from you with words and magic rituals. How dare you step out of the place we have set for you.
The third little girl thought that she should have been the heir to her mother's realm, and resented that another stole her favor. Or maybe she resented that the favor existed to be given, and given to one alone. She rode away from her mother's castle swearing to make her own name by her own deeds, and to hell with waiting to be judged and found wanting. How dare you think you know your own mind.
The fourth little girl had all the favor that the third lacked, and wanted it not at all. Not if it meant having to fit herself into a shoe that didn't suit her, trimming and trimming off pieces of her soul to become what others wanted her to be. She threw away the shoe and left her prince standing at a flowery altar, her mother the queen running after her chariot in a fury. How dare the princess rescue herself.
And this is how stories go, when little girls dare to put on their dancing shoes and step outside of their bedrooms:
The first little girl worked on mending her fragile heart at the forge, hammering and hammering until she thought the steel finally proof against her old monsters. But the first time she tested her new armor in battle it failed. She picked herself up, examined her handiwork for flaws, and resolved to make the next shield flexible enough to give, rather than break. Fearing that to make it too strong should mean becoming the monster herself.
The second little girl would meet a witch who did have some powers to detect falsehood, a witch who held fast the gateway to all that she most desired. Grumbling, she would cut off her toe to fit into the shoe. This time.
The third little girl met a man who made promises — not the usual promises that a man makes to a maid, with no intent of keeping his word after her honor is thrown away, but a man's promises, whispering of honor and glory to accrue to her soul. Dreaming of knighthood, of a suit of shining armor of her very own, she accepted. And saw too late what would lie before her if she failed.
The fourth little girl was caught in a faraway land by the queen, all smiles and apology, wishing only to reconcile with her darling daughter. And by the way, your prince hasn't stopped loving you either; won't you stop all this foolishness now and come home to us where you belong? And the fourth little girl said, politely, No, thank you, and I don't think that the prince would like that very much either.
Because this, too, is how stories go.
The first little girl met another little girl like herself, lost and alone in a land of monsters with the faces of men. She heard the other's heart whisper, You who have seen your own horrors, see that saving me is saving yourself. So she lowered her shield to extend her hand to another heart in need. (And learned a more complicated truth: we are all monsters, and we are all men.)
The second little girl found herself at last in a kingdom where her lies had no power. Her escape was narrow, the way ahead as perilous; so this time, she resolved to take up her courage and tell her stories true. (And learned the satisfaction to be found in the slow and honest work of making something right.)
The third little girl was given her orders in battle, again and again, but one day she found herself wondering if those orders were just. Follow heart or head, when duty binds the sharpest? So she chose, and let one knife cut her to spare a deeper wound. (And learned that duty lies in loving one's own truth more than the promises of love.)
The fourth little girl threw away the prince's ring, and then despaired; what would be thought of her for it? But there were other princes in the land, and men not considered princes at all, and she was through with having choices made for her by queen or countrymen or custom. So she took a chance, her very own chance. (And learned that while scorn burns, the steel of a heart stays true through the fire.)
Through their adventures, the four little girls had become fast friends, companions in battle and in pleasure. They journeyed near and far, becoming wise in ways that the world expected not of them: compassion, for the wound in one's own heart; resourcefulness, and the wisdom to employ it prudently; courage, tempered with the scars of hard sacrifices; and a resolve to remain mindful that hewing to one's own truth is the first and most vital step in the dance of loving another for whom they themselves are. Knowledge hard-won, in a hard world for little girls.
But little girls no longer, for all of what they had won through. Four women, linking arms to walk away into the new lives that they were building, high above the skies. Together.
This is how stories go. And how we take the pen into our own hands to write a different ending.