The duke then cemented other political and trade alliances with the blood of his other children: Crown Prince Eric, Prince Ascendant Jonathan, Princesses Rose, Pearl, Celeste, Grace, Lily, and Hope. The two youngest princes, Roderick and Simon, were yet too young to be married off as benefited Nuygenie.  
​
The passage beneath was blocked and sealed with iron. The sisters did not discuss all they had lost. No one ever asked them if they had even wanted to be rescued.

This is the story after the faerie tale.

Within a few hours, the edges of the wounds had turned black and smelled as if the flesh were burning. In another hour, the soldier no longer attempted to stifle his moans and screamed as the agony ate him. Within six hours after breaking off a chunk of the Gate, the soldier had mercifully fallen unconscious while his fellows nervously watched over him and did not mention the chunk of ice that did not melt in its pot over a small fire. Had it melted, nothing would have induced them to drink. Within eight hours, the soldier was nothing more than a burnt husk of a man, the snow beneath and around him stained yellow and red and black. The icicle and the pot were cast aside.
No one slept well that night.
Thus it was nineteen soldiers, two princesses, four messenger pigeons, and one each of a general and a prince and a lady’s maid who gathered at the foot of the Diamond Gate beneath the shadow of Nar-Amn and with the pale winter sun at their backs.
“How do we get through?” the question came over and over again. None wished to remain with the corpse of a foolish soldier who sought nothing more than water. But none wished, exactly, to venture into the unknown that lay beyond the Gate. A tendril of mist extended down, licked Aurora’s cheek. She recoiled at its frigid touch and then found herself avoiding another finger of mist. And then another. And another.
“Aurora!” the general yelled and kicked his horse into a lumbering gallop.
She whimpered and jerked herself back, nearly unseating herself. The sturdy mountain pony sidled beneath her. With another whimper, she leaned forward over the pony’s neck, buried her face in its thick, coarse mane, and walloped her heels into its sides. The animal squealed and shot forward, the lick of a finger of mist on its rump spurring it to even greater speed.
Miles steered his horse toward the panicked pony. With the animals’ lurching through the heavy snow, he did not attempt to grab the pony’s reins from his own seat, but maneuvered his gelding so that the pony either stopped or ran into the much larger, more aggressive animal. Being a sensible creature, the pony stopped, but not before the charger delivered it a nasty nip.
Sides heaving, the pony dropped its head until its muzzle touched the snow. Aurora tumbled forward. Miles launched himself from the charger and landed barely in time to catch her. He gathered the princess to him. Her terrified shivering incited tremors that shook his own body.
“Shh, Aurora,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve got you now. Shh.”
And she turned her face into his coat and wept. Miles nearly wept himself. It took ugliness and terror to make his betrothed turn to him. What would it take to make her love him and did he want to put her or himself through that?
Jonathan and two of the soldiers pulled up with another pony in tow. The prince dismounted and humbly assisted in transferring his sister from the general’s arms to the saddle of the other pony.
“Thank you,” he said somberly.
Carrow nodded, his face grim. Then he heard a voice, a woman’s sweet voice, singing. And he knew a terrible dread.
“What’s that song?” Jonathan asked.
“Those aren’t human words,” Carrow grated and picked up his horse’s reins. They walked toward the other princess and the helpless soldiers surrounding her. The remaining soldiers stood still, each within an arm’s distance of Pearl, each immobile. Fingers of mist caressed her lovingly as she sang.
“Don’t go closer,” Carrow warned.
Jonathan frowned, but stopped.
Carrow bent down, gathered a handful of snow, breathed heavily on it to moisten it and form a snowball cohesive enough to throw. And he threw it. The snowball disintegrated in the air.
“Here, I have some water,” one of the two soldiers with him volunteered and handed over a canteen.
Carrow made another snowball and instructed the soldier to form a few more. The slight dampening of water quickly fused the snow into a dead weight of ice. The general threw it and impassively watched as it thudded into the princess’ side. She barely twitched. He launched several more snowballs, most hitting the target. Jonathan, not yet understanding the general’s plan but trusting in the older man, set to forming and throwing snowballs. It was a sick parody of a children’s winter game, but finally a ball of ice thwacked the princess’ head. The singing stuttered, her eyelids fluttered. She gasped, her concentration broken, the spell breaking. Two snowballs simultaneously slammed into her chest and belly and she doubled over. Another one struck her head and she tumbled beyond the mist’s immediate reach. Bright red blossomed in the snow beneath her face and Pearl looked up, nose bloodied and streaming copiously.
“See to Aurora,” Carrow ordered and he went over to Pearl as the soldiers eased from the enchantment she had unknowing woven around them. Digging into his pocket, he brought up a wrinkled handkerchief and staunched the flow of blood. And then Pearl began sobbing.
“What happened?” he asked her gently when the sobs lessened.
“I don’t know,” she replied with a soggy sniff. “I was watching you save Aurora and then…then…I don’t know.”
Before the weeping could begin anew, he kissed her brow and assured her that he was not angry with her.
“Such familiarity was uncalled for,” Jonathan snapped a few minutes later.
“Sometimes a princess is just a woman,” Carrow replied imperturbed, “and needs to be treated as such.”
They passed another uneasy night beneath the Diamond Gate. The general regretted the loss of what few messenger pigeons had remained.
“We’ll have to assume the Guardian isn’t here and isn’t coming back,” Carrow said as he gazed upward at the gleaming, glittering fall of ice.

There's a thread on LinkedIn regarding white privilege, white fragility, and the crucial importance of correct pronunciation of last names. I commented and got myself into some hot water because, apparently, stumbling over someone's last name is considered a prime example of white privilege and white fragility. The original poster's premise is that "difficult" last names are reserved for disadvantaged peoples and anyone with such a last name is automatically discriminated against.

I think that's absolute bunk.

My response stated that I grew up with an ethnic last name that people butchered. I corrected their pronunciation. Some of those people continued to mispronounce it. I didn't get offended or think they discriminated against me. I did learn to ask others whose names I wasn't sure how to pronounce either how to pronounce it or to correct my attempt to pronounce it. After all, that's just good manners.

Then I added a sentence that required I don asbestos underwear: I have no sympathy for people who seek out offense, then complain mightily when they find it.

Predictably, someone took offense at that. Apparently, that was overly defensive and constituted both white fragility and white privilege. Another person took it upon himself, using sweeping generalizations, to bring me to awareness that my pallid complexion gave me a false sense of superiority and entitlement. I attempted to respond in a civil manner, but lost the debate.

It happens. One can't argue logic against emotion.

Another person with an African name commented on an exchange in which someone with whom he spoke--after he corrected her--expressed relief that his name wasn't one of those long names. He immediately assumed she spoke of African names. I, being contrary, suggest that perhaps she wasn't referring to an African name, but merely to any long surname that defies the old and inadequate advice to "sound it out."

With alternate spellings abounding, figuring out someone's name becomes even trickier. Comedian Alan King had practically an entire chapter devoted to that in his book Help! I'm a Prisoner in a Chinese Bakery! (FYI: I read the book back in the 1970s.) Comedian Mrs. Hughes has a bit in her routine that makes fun of the French inability to pronounce her last name: it comes out "huh." She doesn't get angry about it or find it offensive; it's a source of humor.

Difficult names aren't restricted to ethnic minorities. Look at the names of Welsh cities and towns. Under "Y," we find Ystalyfera, Ystradgynlais, and Ystrad Mynach. I have no idea how to pronounce those. In England, the name/town/word "Leicester" is pronounced "lester." You can't sound that out either.

When my kids started school, the principal had a Czech last name. Looking at it (about 14 letters long), there was no way I would have known it was pronounced CHEZ-nee simply by seeing the spelling. Sounding it out was not an option. Receiving the first letter with her signature, I wondered just who that person was until I put 2 and 2 together.

The smattering of foreign language instruction I received makes me even more confused about pronunciation, because I can see a name and think of half a dozen ways to pronounce it, although I know that only one way is correct for that person. Therefore, I ask either how to pronounce the name or for that person to correct me if I mispronounce it. No harm, no foul: it's simply good manners.

In fiction, savvy authors attempt to assign names to characters that suit the characters' personalities, time periods, and nationality or location. Names become especially creative when aliens get involved, because then the sky's the limit. A bit of common sense offers guidance to those names: don't make them so weird as to thwart the majority of your readers from being able to figure out a pronunciation scheme. In a book by Rowanna Green, there's a character whose first initial is R and his last name is Soul. The other characters combine them for a derogatory pronunciation of "arsehole," although I didn't catch on.

Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake.

​People forget that life isn't fair. No one is guaranteed a life free of offense or hardship. That's why adults teach children manners and why every society subscribes to a code of polite behavior. Civility helps us navigate the sea of interpersonal communication with a modicum of grace.

#henhousepublishing #hollybargobooks

The duke then cemented other political and trade alliances with the blood of his other children: Crown Prince Eric, Prince Ascendant Jonathan, Princesses Rose, Pearl, Celeste, Grace, Lily, and Hope. The two youngest princes, Roderick and Simon, were yet too young to be married off as benefited Nuygenie.

The passage beneath was blocked and sealed with iron. The sisters did not discuss all they had lost. No one ever asked them if they had even wanted to be rescued.

This is the story after the faerie tale.

​Bide here. Lirón comes.

“Did you hear that?” they whispered among themselves and agreed that, yes, each of them heard that, but not with their ears.

They all looked at the hippogriff, but only Aurora met its gaze. It despises us, she thought with surprise. A beast that despises us.

I find most humans contemptible as well as bad-tasting.

Her lips turned upward slightly at the corners. Touché, she thought, and caught the faintest glimmer of humor from the hippogriff.

“When will Lirón arrive?” she asked aloud, more as a courtesy to the others than for the hippogriff’s sake.

The animal cocked its head, opened and shut its beak with a click, and then sneezed. It shook its head, sending a feather into the breeze, which twirled it in unseen fingers for the princess to catch. She held it to her lips and surreptitiously sniffed. The scent wasn’t sour like poultry, but fresh, clean, and somehow wild.

Toss it into the wind should you have need of me, beloved of Lirón.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The hippogriff bowed its head, turned tail, galloped a few steps, and leaped into the wind.