LLANWMOR was no more than a cluster of buildings upon the coast, but it did boast a mill. Twyla’s godmother told her once that somewhere, in a grand house, there was a king who wanted Llanwmor, and the countryside, and all the lands surrounding, but that a prince, in a house rather closer than the king’s and rather less grand, fought him fiercely for it.
This scared Twyla, for she knew that should the king gain the upper hand, he would certainly come for her father’s mill at once, for kings (especially kings in grand houses) wanted grand things. And the mill, as she understood, was a very grand thing. Only a cathedral was better.
When Twyla voiced this concern to her godmother, Elfthryth laughed, a laugh of the ocean and of weather, deep and vast, and a bit unpredictable.
“You’ve nothing to fear, child. All this passed in the same year you were born. The very next year, they drew up a treaty.”
“What’s a treaty?”
“It’s a promise of peace. And to seal the promise, the king gave the prince the king’s own cousin as bride.”
That was before Twyla nearly drowned. Before the king reneged on his treaty and killed the prince and took the land. Before Twyla knew that true tales don’t have neat, happy endings.
Don't forget, it's not too late to write something up for the Fourth Friday Fairy Tale Prompt; see you there!