When I was but seven years old, my father told me stories of brave and strong princesses and handsome but kind princes. Every night was a new tale of fantasy, magic and wonder. In the end, the prince always won over the princess' heart, they were saved by true love's kiss, and they lived happily ever after. When I was seven that was exactly what I wanted; a fairy-tale of my own, in where a prince in shining silver armour would come to my rescue, and then we would ride into the sunset to begin our happily ever after. My father would smile and tell me how I would get just that and more, every night.
Oh, how I had been so foolish.
My knight was not clad in silver armour, nor did he ride a steed. Instead, he wore cloth of fiery red and a mane of silver. His love did not come packaged with a pretty bow and promises of a life together after everything, it came with an old flame and a promise that we would stay together for as long as was allowed. I learned that sometimes, just sometimes, the prince won't make it to save the princess in time; I learned that sometimes, the princess has to save herself.
And save myself I would, battling demons and humans alike only equipped with a handful of arrows and my trusty bow. There were times where we were clearly the victors, surviving battle without a scratch, and there were times where I almost lost my life.
There was a time when I did.
It should have been a joyous moment. Our quest was complete, the evil had been vanquished. We didn't need to keep fighting anymore. Instead, dark clouds loomed over my prince's figure as he hobbled over and pulled me into his lap. He cried over my bruised and broken body, apologies and empty promises whispered into the wind. Those three beautiful words I had so longed to hear were finally whispered from his lips, and though I had felt the cold seeping into my body, my heart warmed. His tears fell onto my face openly, no longer closed off. I could hear the rest of our group mourning as they lay their eyes upon the sight. As a last resort, his face descended unto mine as he stole my lips. Tears fell freely from my eyes as my heart slowed, and then stopped. True love's kiss didn't work.
There wasn't a happily ever after. Not for us.
My mother cried at my funeral, the same as she had done for my father years before. My brother had silent streams of tears washing down his face. Grandfather stood solemnly, trying in vain to comfort mother. My prince had been there too, dressed in black. He looked broken. He was broken. He held the reason for our two year quest in the palm of his hand; his wish hadn't been granted. I wouldn't be coming back. I could only watch in despair as my family – on both sides of the well – grieved at my absence.
I swore to myself that when the time came to see my father again, I would tell him of my adventures, of how I fell in love, and fought, and ultimately lost. I would tell him of my heartbreak, and how being a damsel did always mean you would be in distress. I would scream and cry and blame him for these grandeur visions of a perfect life where everything went just right. And after I calmed the turbulent storm inside of me, I would break at the thought of my poor prince living through life alone again once more. I would calmly straighten myself up, and look him straight in the eyes, not as the broken woman who had lost everything she cared for, but as the little seven year old girl who sat happily listening to her father's stories.
I would tell him fairy-tales don't exist.