A daughter was born one day to the King of a prosperous kingdom. She was christened Malade. She was a very even-tempered and pleasant girl, and a joy for her father to behold, until one day she was afflicted with a tremor about her features. A severe juddering affected her hands and face and was found by all to be quite disquieting. In fact, she could not hold a teacup without quivering so badly that the contents were spilled. The Princess was the only child of the King and Queen. Malade, of course, had a plethora of tutors and so did not have to be around others her own age; that would have caused the King severe embarrassment, as well as being humiliating for the young girl herself. One must keep up appearances, as the King well knew.
 
When she was six years old, Malade was given lessons in the equestrian disciplines. A young groom, older than Malade by about one year, was there, and the two young people struck up a cordial though not close relationship. This youth was called Judicieux, and he was very good at his job, and soon he was tasked with servicing all the horses that the damsel used. Judicieux was sensitive to the plight of Malade, as he was himself lame. Though she was starved for attention from children, they both recognized their proper places.
 
Years passed. As Malade grew into young adulthood, she was beset by the responsibilities of her position: functions of ceremony at her father's table and in the King's stead. But her malady never lessened; the juddering continued.
 
"Oh, judicieux," she said one day in the stables, preparing to mount her steed. "What shall I do?" I am to meet the prince from the northern kingdom. His father and the King desire that the prince and I wed and effect the joining together of our kingdoms. "What if the prince hates me?"
 
"He can't help but love you, Milady," said the groom with feeling.
 
"But my quivering," she said sorrowfully. "With all the beautiful women in our two kingdoms, why would he give me even a second glance?"
 
"If he has but eyes to see, Milady," he said from his heart. He then limped back into the stable.
 
Malade thought of Judicieux, "or a cripple, he has many beneficent qualities. He shall make some peasant girl a fine mate. And she thought nothing more of Judicieux or her dilemma, for she was astride a horse.
 
"Milady," said Inepta, watching as her mistress struggled with her palsied hands, "perhaps if you concentrate, if you tell yourself to be calm, you will not judder, and things will be alright."
 
"Thank you, Inepta," said Malade, "but in seventeen years that strategy has been to no avail.
 
"Yes, Milady," murmured Inepta, looking sadly at the princess.
 
That night, the kingdom was astir. The king would formally announce the engagement of Malade to the prince of the neighboring kingdom, Prince Stephen, who was rich, handsome, powerful, and heir to his kingdom. Much was made of the festivities. It was wintertime as well, and Christmas was likewise celebrated. This was everyone's favorite time of year. Sumptuous comestibles proliferated, and sparkling wine flowed like rivers. Everyone partook heartily of the rich food and libations, and at the summit of the evening, attention was focused on the prince and princess.
 
"Daughter," intoned the King robustly, "you have before you a prince worthy of your honor."
 
She looked shyly into the eyes of Prince Stephen. He returned her gaze, but his face fell.
 
"Great King," said he, "I cannot marry the Princess Malade."
 
"But," the King objected."It is all arranged."
 
"That may be, but I have our mutual kingdoms to consider." What will become of us if I marry the Princess and our children are born who are as deranged as she is? How would our realms function? How would our diplomats sort it out if it were thought that the royal family was addle-minded? We would surely become a laughing stock throughout the continent." The prince's words pierced like a dagger the heart of the princess.
 
The king took a great breath and released it wearily. He knew what the prince said was conventional wisdom. He released the prince from his betrothal.
 
So the Princess returned to her solitary existence, seeing no one other than her lady in waiting, Inepta, and her groom, the lowly Judicieux. She continued to relish her time spent among her magnificent stable of horses. Starved for companionship, Princess Malade began conversing ever more intimately with Judicieux on any number of subjects; to her great surprise, she found that he was informed, intelligent, and wise far beyond his station in life. He rivaled the courtiers, in fact, in his canniness. She began to harbor an idea. Despite the fact that Judiceux was neither rich nor handsome, nor the heir to a great throne, she was completely smitten with him.
 
One day Malade approached the King and inquired, "Father, shall I never marry?" The King, surprised that the Princess would want to marry after the debacle with Prince Steven, responded to his daughter.
 
"Why, Malade, you will never be wed to a sovereign, as you have seen, but you may of course marry—if only for companionship. And I suppose that if you have a male child, he will inherit the throne, whether he is a juddering idiot or not."
 
"I have chosen my husband," she announced excitedly. The king, with little enthusiasm, asked who it would be. "I shall wed the most intelligent, thoughtful, and wisest man in all the kingdom," she told him.
 
"Have you only just met him?" he inquired.
 
"I have known him half my life," she replied. "And the King, seeing as Mlalade was very old now—almost twenty—knew this to be a long time indeed."
 
"If you have made your decision, word shall go out, and a wedding will be arranged," he said, but still with scant enthusiasm. "Er... who have you chosen?" he asked.

"Judicieux, chief groom of the stables," she told him. The King swallowed any remarks he might have had.
 
And so a wedding was held. All the dignitaries attended, including Prince Stephen, who had since married and was beset by a harpy of a wife.  He was barely able to draw a breath, but she would criticize him for it. But she had a fertile womb, and all of her children were likewise disposed to be curmudgeons. Stephen's kingdom was almost constantly at war due to his poor diplomatic skills. The prince looked upon Malade now with admiration, for certainly she was the most beautiful bride ever to grace this or any other castle. He had simply never noticed before.
 
After the wedding, Judicieux, as the king's only daughter's husband, sparked an interest in the king. Like his daughter, he was pleasantly surprised by the native intelligence, thoughtfulness, and wisdom of his son-in-law. And as a part of the royal family, the former groom was drawn into the diplomatic corps and soon became the outstanding minister in his Majesty's service. And as his abilities became well known, so too did Malade's grace, manners, and loving instinct. They had many children, but one of them--like the princess and later the queen--had tremors, but the child was treated with patience, understanding, and compassion. After a long reign by her parents, that child, christened Empathique, served as the greatest sovereign that the kingdom ever saw.

Honie carefully stepped over the searing, burning brimstones, which sent up an acrid, sulphurous effluvium that irritated her nose and throat.  It was the same thing every day. Peering into the meadow next door, she was relieved and surprised to find neatly manicured lawns and murmuring brooks and idyllic pastures. She was still more startled and pleased to observe myriad creatures who had the run of the green space.
 
Honie had never ventured this farm from home till now, having been told that the nether realm was benighted and dirty and harsh.  And dangerous.  Peeping into the fields, Honie spied pixies, clearly identifiable by their small, butterfly-like wings, their bright green apparel, and their pointy ears.  Honie waved a hand at the little
creatures but they paid her no mind. Arrayed amongst the many pixies were fewer, but still a significant number, of fairies, who resembled nothing so much as lovely, diminutive females, with long, slender fingers and tapering limbs, but without wings. instead, they whooshed along on the backs of large, obliging birds. The fairies were
clad in dreamy, diaphanous gowns and brandished tiny silver wands with which to conjure their magic.  They were stunningly beautiful, thought Honie.  Finally she saw the tall, fleshy, hirsute ogres, practically walking on their knuckles; they seemed so stupid, she thought with a laugh.  How could she join the other creatures? she
wondered.  They all seemed so joyous, so content, living together in apparent harmony. 
 
She, on the other hand, endured a hard scrabble existence without enough food or fresh water and, more urgently, no companionship.  In her own land she had not a friend.  She bit her lower lip, thinking, then Honie looked down at herself, was unhappy with what she found. She was a boring normal size, not a perfectly formed miniature like the fairies or the pixies; not huge and strong like the ogres; not an adept huntress like the daughters of Artemis. She grasped one of her brown tresses, examined it critically: boring!  Everything was just so darn average, she thought miserably.  Why couldn't she have what they all had? she wondered enviously. But Honie had always been admonished by the authorities of her own domain, to keep to her own kind.  Combining different kinds of creatures, she had been told endlessly, was not only impractical, it was evil.  But no one had told her that recently. She was for the first time tempted to join this weird, marvelous menagerie, and was wondering how to go about it when a faun, with its brown, furry legs and sharp little horns, took notice of Honie. It neared the spot where she stood and put its cloven hoof over an imaginary line of demarcation between the two kingdoms. Upon which the creature disintegrated and scattered into a billion atoms. Honie froze, horrified. That was what she had been warned about, she supposed.  Before Honie could even think, another creature, an old troll, approached the line as the faun had. Honie wanted to warn the creature away--for every life form had a right to live, she believed--but before she could act, the troll touched the line with its large square foot and a loud crackling noise shocked them both. The troll quickly withdrew his foot and shuffled awkwardly away into dense undergrowth. It wasn't so bad that time, thought Honie.  Perhaps, over time, it would be easier for "others" to cross over to each side. This experience taught her something: the first time is always the hardest, but with increased contact and familiarity, obstacles could be overcome. Making up her mind, Honie defiantly stomped her foot down on the line and waited expectantly. There was a light humming beneath her foot--but that was all.  Stepping over the line and into the forbidden realm, Honie took herself to where there was food and water and, most importantly, the precious friendship of the other creatures.

Rumors said Renata was a werewolf. The villagers preferred it than what her family could come up with, which was nothing.

What caused the sudden convulsions? When asked, she could barely say, “I don’t know,” as her shoulders jerked and her eyes rolled around and around like the wheels on a wagon. It made Renata dizzy and the people in her village whisper to one another in confusion, judgment, and fear. It was enough to launch her mother into tears over the loss of her future and her father at a loss for what to do with his dowry. He gave up on a legacy through sons long ago, but this was another slight by a higher power that hated him.

Of course it began the day before a full moon. Even if it wasn’t timed exactly right according to legend, it was just convenient enough for the villagers to joke about melting their fine silver into bullets as she walked. Each time their eyes watched Renata twist and turn they would throw bullet-like stares straight at her head. She did not see them all, but Renata saw one little boy point his toy pistol her way.

“Bang, bang, Werewolf Lady!” he cried.

Renata’s body jerked in multiple places with no warning, sparking a catastrophic symphony of twitches that tumbled out one after another. The boy dropped his toy gun and ran away, calling out for his mother in a panic. Passerbys gave her disgusted glances as she unraveled in the streets. By the time she got home, the only thing that stopped it was her sheer exhaustion.

When she went to bed that night, she overheard her parents discussing what could be made of her future. Their verdict? Ruined. Girls were already damaged goods as far as children were concerned, but this was another level of damage in their eyes.

What difference did it make? Perhaps a puppet daughter would have made a better match; they would have the tools to fix her the way they dreamed. They always made Renata’s future about their wants, but if she no longer had one, she had no obligation to obey. Her body would never obey her command, so she would follow its wildness into the woods. If she was damned by her community, then she would enjoy the privileges of being a beast of society: solitude.

Renata’s form had no rules, no restrictions. She was wired to spark without caution in spite of the bodies she was supposed to mimic around her. In the woods, she could be unapologetically feral. It wasn’t without pains and aches from her unpredictable choreography, but wasn’t there always a deal that had to be made, even without the presence of gods or devils? That is the one rule Renata figured could not be broken, even in favor of disorder.
​
A legend came about shortly thereafter, but there was no origin story. No divine intervention. No stories about the full moon being an exclusive night for her prowling. She was more terrifying than that: Renata simply was.