She sleeps, the princess, but if she dreams we know not
She came here, the acquiescent, virgin bride
– resigned to her lot in life: a girl-child, a pawn –
to seal a pact, to save her kingdom
She is the lamb sent to the slaughter,
but by the spilling of her blood she has saved many
She was not the first
She will not be the last
The vows spoken, rings exchanged
The proof of the treaty: red blood on white sheets
A hundred years of peace
She sleeps, drained by her Lord Husband's needs;
the life essence of other sustains him
She is finally at peace:
her veil of black hair around her thin face,
pale as freshly fallen snow
Her dress is the finest in the land:
silk with layers of lace being added daily by those spinning in the corner
Her constant companions, keeping vigil with their many eyes and busy limbs;
they speak not, just watch, sometimes catching intruders to the princess' domain
Her lips retain color:
stained red with blood
transferred from her husband's lips to hers,
claimed from the punctures his teeth left in her delicate throat
And though she will never wake
she will remain the Lady of the Night Court
for the next hundred years
For she is yet another unfortunate Bride of Death