Something With a Prince

14 Years Ago

The rain was driving down, clinging to the tips of his lashes, and rolling over dirty cheeks. It was there he laid without fear, dying, like a hero in a novel.

Kneeling beside him in the mud was a young girl with turbulent blue eyes and a fighting spirit. The dying man felt that this beloved girl looked like her mother, while the girl hoped she would be like her father. Her hands were small and shaking. His were covered in watery streaks of blood and gripping her arm tightly despite the calm expression upon his face. Then, with what was left of his breath, the man raised his head from the watery earth and whispered to her. She leaned in, close so he wouldn't have to strain. She cried but knew quivering lips wouldn't save him. Nothing would.

Behind a set of barrels was a young boy, who witnessed a different scene:

The girl with blue eyes was standing in the street, shaking silently. The man was alive and walking away from her, telling her she could not come. Telling her he wouldn't be back. Never had the young boy stood in the rain or witnessed suffering. His hands, also small, gripped the rim of a barrel as he pleaded with his knees to stand just a little stronger. Confused by the turning beast that chewed on his heart, the boy watched the young girl collapse to the mud.

The man did not look back at his daughter. Instead, he recognized the boy standing a few feet away and muttered two words that would change the world. Then the man was gone, running off into the night with four others who were whooping and hollering.

When the young girl was pulled from the ground by trembling hands, she recognized the boy. He was coated in rain, mud, and yet, felt warm. There was something about his face and golden hair that made the tightness in her lungs fall asleep. She could not say to him what she felt, she could not say anything except:

"Tell me a story. Like he used to." Her gaze followed her father, "One better than this."

The young boy spoke through chattering teeth and a broken heart. Having heard many stories, he recited, as best he could, the closing lines of her father's favorite novel. Lines he had heard spoken a thousand times, despite not always understanding what they meant:  "The rain was driving down..."

A mother in despair rescued them from the cold, leading those small bodies into a little house with large bookshelves and a burning fireplace. She took the young girl, her daughter, into her arms and tried to console her quivering form, but it was of no use. The girl only stared at the boy. He could only stare at her. The mother found it odd that there could be so much guilt in a child's face but did not press the boy for answers. Part of her hoped he would go home and never ask her to explain what happened. The other part longed to always share the space between her arms with him and her daughter.

She sent the girl to bed, tucking her under warm blankets and in clean clothes. For many minutes, the girl was silent, simply staring at the door with a distance in her air. The mother returned to the little boy and walked him home. His shoes croaked with water every step they took along the darkened street toward the castle. She knew what had really happened but asked anyway.

"What happened?"

"I told her a story." He said, verging on tears. "A better one than this."