Hesitate

The prince stared deeply into the eyes of the princess he had just rescued. This must be it, they both thought, smiling shyly at each other, not really knowing what to say, this must be love. It must be, they decided, after all, princes always fall in love with princesses and they would ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after. Everyone knew that was how fairytales go, and thus it must be the truth.

~

The prince rode off into the sunset with the princess behind him and they both lived happily ever after.

The end.

~

They didn’t know anything, other than the fact that this was the right thing to do. It was the way of the world, both thought to themselves as they smiled and exchanged vows with a stranger. And with a firm belief that it was what they were supposed to do, they smiled at each other again as they took each other’s hands and walked out of the church doors to loud cheers.

Their hands immediately separated when the carriage door closed and the horses started their slow trot down the cobbled road. It wasn’t a conscious action; both didn’t think much of it as they continued smiling and waving benevolently at the cheering people in rags that were lined on both sides of the street. This was how it was supposed to be, both thought to themselves, pleased at how it was going exactly like how fairytales were supposed to be.

The isolated indents on the left and right of their wedding bed and blood-red spots of pain hidden under the luxurious bedcovers were the only signs that maybe things weren’t as perfect as it was supposed to be. However, both didn’t think much of it. After all, fairytales were never told in such details. Hence both wore smiles on their faces as they left the castle in their carriage to greet the commoners that would soon be their people.

Their hands touched again, when he helped her out of the carriage, so she could get down to take a closer look at the river; the river where he had played soldier many times in his youth. And their hands touched almost immediately again, when he helped her back into the carriage, for she was terrified by the way her shoes sank when she stepped into the disgusting thing called mud. He let go of her hand immediately, when they both settled back into the carriage. And their hands never touched again afterwards, for he was too busy looking out of the moving carriage and mourning the death of his childhood as the beauty of those memories were shattered under his princess’ delicate feet.

The next time he touched her hand again was when she clutched to it in sudden shock as pain ripped through her. This time he didn’t let go, for she had promptly collapsed in his arms, lifeless and cold from the pain in her womb. He smiled, just like he was supposed to be, and swept her up in his arms to bring her to her bed. Her bed, for they had started sleeping apart after she conceived, a silent agreement between them that maybe it was better to return to how things were before their marriage; him with his swordplay and her with her sewing. After all, this was probably what happened in fairytales.

He waited outside her bedchambers, listening to the foreign sound of torture and desperation coming from within in disgust. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he thought to himself, as he poured himself a drink, we were supposed to be living happily ever after. And he never touched her hands when he reached out for his son; only brushing them without meaning to.

And they both smiled at each other, just like how it was supposed to be in fairytales, but no words were exchanged, for the fairytales never stated that they were supposed to and they never did get to know each other well enough to converse.

The next time they saw each other again was at their son’s first birthday. He was busy with his books, learning to become the next king; she was busy with her tea parties, learning to become the next queen. They smiled at each other, just like how it was supposed to be, as they set eyes on their son again, but they never spoke.

Their hands touched again, when he approached her with a beautiful woman that reminded her of her lost youth and asked her to pretend to be with child. She smiled and inclined her head in a regal nod, for that was how it had to be; the prince and princess always lived happily ever after and thus they have to at least pretend to be happy.

That night, in her bedchambers, surrounded by her valuable jewellery and expensive gowns, she sat in front of her mirror, trying to see where the princess of old had gone. She touched her face with a hand that was soft and pale, and tried to ignore the no longer flawless skin under the pads of her fingers. Where had the beauty gone? She shuddered delicately, before getting up and flinging herself onto her bed. This wasn’t in the fairy tales, she thought in anguish, feeling extremely helpless at not knowing what she was supposed to do.

Their hands touched again, as they reared and staggered back from the shock. The only element left holding the fairytale together, their only son, was lying dead at their feet. She felt her heart wrenching, and she hurriedly covered her face with her hands, hiding her anguish and despair. She had neglected her son, not knowing how to bring him up. For it was never said in fairy tales how the princess was going to bring her son up. Her son, under the absence of care from both parents, had grown up wild and tyrannical. And it had resulted in an assassination. She wept, even as she was helped into her bedchambers. And she wept, late into the night, for the son that she hadn’t known much about and the life that she had squandered aimlessly.

The next time their hands touched, he was the only one aware of it. For her hand was foreign, cold and lifeless. She had been dead for hours before her servants noticed her unusual stillness. Instead of gripping her hand hard, he dropped it. Taking a step away from her pale corpse, he waved a careless hand at the servants waiting, dismissing the dead woman whom he had long grown tired of. Gathering up his mistress in his arms, he smiled at her, and promised to make her queen after he bury his first.

The last time their hands touched was when they were paying their last respect to her. He held her hand in his, gentle and seemingly loving to everyone else, but it was cold and impersonal. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he knew, he was supposed to be in love with her and they should have lived happily ever after. But maybe they were wrong; she wasn’t his princess. Or maybe he wasn’t her prince. Maybe they weren’t the prince and princess in the fairytales that they all hear about.

Or perhaps, it might be because fairytales don’t exist at all.