She danced.
She danced until her feet were raw and bloody, she danced for a heart that would never be hers, she danced to a tune that only she could follow along to.
She danced because she could.
She danced because she wanted to.
She danced because…it was all she had left.
She danced in a puddle of her own sorrow.
She danced through the tears that were flooding the room.
She danced until her eyes could not cry anymore, though they were still steadily dripping, and she could not stop crying or dancing or bleeding.
She danced for the prince that she loved.
She danced for the prince that could not love her back.
She danced and she twirled and she cried and she curled up in a ball for a few seconds, then began to dance again.
She had failed.
She had died.
Now, all she could do was keep dancing, for the prince that never loved her, for the knight that did, for the fate that was thrust upon her and for the darkness that she would never be able to escape.
She danced because she could not help herself.
She had disappeared in a brilliant flash of light, yes, but she was not gone.
No, not gone.
She was alive, and so she danced.
Hopelessly, painfully, naively, she danced.
She danced, and danced, and kept dancing, and there was no one to stop her.
She had lost her purpose and her life.
All she had left was this.
Hopelessly, helplessly, forever and ever…she danced.