The great stories always return to their original forms.
A story in which the prince of dreams is rescued by a dashing knight in shining armor.
- - -
I thought I had put these feelings of helplessness behind me.
The chains were tight around him as they dragged him down from his place among the stars. They seared his flesh and tamed his power while offering him to the darkness.
I thought I was free from imprisonment. I thought, 'if I must ever be captured again, at least let me have the power to save myself.'
He tried to gather his remaining strength to escape his bondage, but it was no use. He was too drained to tear the chains to shreds. As he struggled, he felt his skin give way and spill priceless blood. He watched his consciousness slip away as his fall from the heavens landed him on a cold stone floor.
But no. I am helpless once more.
He came to in a worse state than before. Gone were the chains, replaced instead by a prison of glass and metal. His skin had healed, yet he could reach none of his power. He was so cold. They'd taken his clothes and the little dignity that would have afforded him. His hand fluttered against the frozen glass. Why was he so weak? What was that burning in his chest?
I can not even call my siblings for aid, not that they would come.
It would not be possible to carve his siblings' sigils on the glass with only his nails. Nor was he certain such a thing would be possible with his magic locked away just out of his reach. Not that they would even come for him.
Last time, a beautiful princess rescued me from the dungeon.
It had been quite a tale. Being the prince of stories, he'd been glad to take place in such an epic, even if it was as the damsel.
But now?
He couldn't breathe. That was the burning in his lungs and the pang in his heart. He couldn't breathe! He was going to die trapped within glass like an animal! He didn't even have the strength to bang against the glass to plead for someone to let him out. He didn't even have the strength to scream.
There is no one who will save this pathetic excuse for a prince...
- - -
"You've gotten yourself into some nasty trouble, brother mine."
There were stars painted on the ceiling. A mockery of the real stars, really. The white splashes of paint were wrong. Placed at random, they formed no traceable constellations. They did not shine, nor did they twinkle or dance. They were wrong.
Taking a closer look, everything about the dungeon was wrong. The stone walls and floor were colder than ice, yet they were much more permanent than the frozen substance ever could be. There was a moat of dirty water dug in a wide circle in the center of the floor. It too was wrong; such a thing belonged on the outside of a castle, rather than in the basement of one.
Then there were the knights, engaged in an intense game of cards on a table by the door. What were strong able men such as them doing wasting prime hours of the night guarding a cold dark cellar? If asked, they would reply that the pay was good. Hush money was always nice, they'd whisper with a chuckle.
The knights didn't get much action. In a way, they were a back up plan. The heavy iron door over the entryway was more than enough to deter most intruders. Still, what was the need for such strong doors? What sort of treasure could this wrong room hold that would possibly warrant all this trouble?
