Good things come to those who wait
The curtains rise to the ruins of a tower in a field. Like a last remnant of dead winter, it stands odd against the new buds of spring.
In the shadow of this stone mammoth in tar, helpless against fate and time, is a girl, sitting, thinking, waiting.
Lonely. That's what she was, lonely. But who could blame her? It had been ten years, a long time to wait for spirits that would never come. Not her father, certainly not her prince (though he was scarcely her prince anymore, was he?), no one at all. Alone, a-lone, a-lo-ne.
She hums, bits and pieces of sailor songs, that she never would have dared to sing had there been another soul with hers.
Well my old mother she wrote to me
Me darling son come home from sea
What was the other line? Oh well. Maybe she'll remember it later. She's been remembering all sorts of things lately, like her prince and all his pretty promises, and they were so pretty, you know? Just so pretty. Flowers in bloom in…another garden, she supposes. They aren't blooming in hers, and she coughs, suppressing a giggle. She's being so improper. Her father would have had a fit, did have a fit.
But hadn't she thrown out her dignity a long time ago? She scrunches her face in a small frown. No, no, she hadn't. She had considered it, yes, especially at the end (she was rather desperate at the end when even the crumb's crumbs were gone and then all crying, a little hopeless thing, not hysterical, never that), and had dreamt silly little dreams of chipping bit by bit the brick mortar that caged her in. She really was silly. It would have never worked. She wasn't a hero after all.
She laughs unrestrainedly now. It really was a pity, but if she were a hero, she wouldn't be here. No, she would have gone on adventures and slain dragons and maybe saved a princess or two. It really was a pity. She might have been a great hero even, like Achilles or Beowulf or all those great men her tutor always told her brothers about, whose weary eyes glitter, rejuvenated, with secondhand glory.
She would have won duels and the adulations of the courts and lived a good life, drinking and being merry, and died a good death, an honourable death, like Hector on the fields with all of Troy crying as he fell.
But it couldn't be. Her place was here. No, she was to stay, and stay she shall in her father's lands. There's nothing she could do anyways.
She idly flips her bones, sun-bleached white, as she searches for her book. (She could have sworn it was in her pocket when she—)
If she must wait, she'll need it.
End Scene.
Fade to black.
A/N: And that's the end darlings. I hope you enjoyed the ride.
Credits
SubjectiveReality — God-Beta and all around good friend. Make sure to read her stories which beat mine over the head with dead carps.
Morning-Sunset — Beta. Hugs and kisses for your writing block boo-boo.
All those who read, reviewed, and/or favorited — I'm eternally thankful for you guys. I really wouldn't be able to continue writing without all the support and the critiques and everything. For those who left comments, I loved getting to know you all.