In 1992 a shipping container filled with rubber ducks was lost at sea. Over 28,000 rubber duckies fell overboard on their way from Japan to the United States. Imagine thousands of rubber ducks floating on the ocean. Many of them have since washed up on the shores of Hawaii, Alaska, South America, Australia and the Pacific Northwest. Others have been found frozen in Arctic ice and made their way to Newfoundland and Scotland. How wonderful to find a rubber duck on shore one day!
Perhaps what is more interesting and the key point of this story is it is believed there are over 2,000 of them are caught up in the currents of the North Pacific Gyre. The Gyre is a vortex of water that stretches between Japan and southeast Alaska. It is a vast churning area of water that holds anything that comes into it in a whirlpool for years if not forever. Now imagine thousands of rubber ducks churning around and around in a whirlpool of water for over 20 years.
There are some tales Beedle kept to himself.
A young wizard and witch, born into wealth and luxury and all manner of ease, turned to one another early in life and deemed that it was their lot to build a life together. For he was as brash as she was fair, as bold as she was delicate, and never was a tale of romance so universally held in esteem as theirs.
In time the two were married, and by and by it could not be said that it was not a happy marriage. No one did say it, in any case, so the matter was settled. Day and night the wizard undertook acts of heroism, escalating in breadth to general delight, while the witch expressed her undying admiration through silences and downcast eyes. In any case she never complained. So the matter was settled.
Many moons waxed and waned, and the wizard heroically produced a son, whose birth name was shunted aside for the moniker of the Blue Boy. A child born under the Aurora of midwinter. His blue lips, his translucent skin and the bruises under his eyes, made the Blue Boy’s death a blessing. The wizard was heroic in his grief. The witch grieved too—at least, she was seldom heard to speak a word. In any case, it was the province of mothers to give themselves over to grief.
Thus did the wizard come upon the witch on a bed of frosted thistles one night, being serenaded by the Aurora that sang shimmering pastel sheets across the sky. Rightfully indignant, he asked her whether she would not do better to come away from the cold. The witch gave no answer, so the wizard repeated his request, displaying the patience of a gentleman born to all manner of luxury and ease. Really, the witch ought to retire to the fireside so that she might decorate his hearth. Still, the witch did not stir, and so the wizard spoke once more. He would carry her heroically to safety, he declared, for she was fair and fragile and ill-disposed to carry herself, lest she should meet the same end as the Blue Boy.
At this the witch finally unfurled herself to her towering height and looked down at the wizard with the empty spaces of her eyes. Foul breath rattled from her lungs. The sandpaper bones of her hands grappled for his throat, and the wizard saw that she had been dead a long time. She had been dead as long as she lived, never speaking, never laughing, never giving life to the Blue Boy. Like the corpse of her child she had been born under the crux of the northern lights, when untempered magic flared through the flimsy onionskin veil of space and birthed terrible power into the world.
And the witch spoke in the voice of a beast.
“I am not yours to carry. My life not yours. My heart not yours. My womb not yours.”
As the wizard cowered she took back what she was owed in spades. The beast took his cloak. She took his shoes and beating heart and the skin from his bones. And, unsatisfied, she took all the rest: she took his soul.
The beast went away sated, but cold; her withered lips blue, her empty maw rasping tongues of ice. Too cold had she grown now to decorate any hearth again. The guilty and innocent alike fell before her. She was not theirs to deny. She left them as cold, blue-skinned shells.
There are some tales Beedle kept to himself, because to tell them would dismantle the ordered world of fairytales, where a hero’s fangs are bigger than his foe’s. Where nightmares dissipate in the light of day.
Only the small and empty and cold, with their lips blue and their unseeing eyes turned to the north sky, can remember. But perhaps it would be best if even they could forget.
i’m sorry but what do i do with the mental picture of stiles being a writer for a paranormal tabloid like the weekly world news
I mean, can’t you just picture how incredibly gleeful he’d be about it? about making up the most obnoxious and bizarre sounding stuff? about trying to make it believable? like an ongoing prank, especially when he finds out that his former high school Coach actually reads the stuff?
can’t you picture him in a future!fic canon setting, trying to figure how many references to actual real supernatural stuff he can fit in before Derek barrels into his appartment in a fit of anger STILES WE’RE SUPPOSED TO KEEP LOW KEY DAMN IT (and then they have sex)