The Apple of your eye

All my life I wanted to find a capable, intelligent and lovely lady that I could fall in love with and properly marry off to make her my wife and Queen. I have a vast kingdom to rule and my father, the King, expects many great things of me. I wanted someone to rule with me and to share the wealth that my birthright secured along with the obligation of duty. My mother, the Queen, had her doubts.

“This poor child you stumbled upon has been through many things. Her own step-mother tried to murder her. How can she properly engage in the day-to-day workings of such a vast Kingdom?! The complex political spectrum and the social delicacies of our society?” my mother’s usually perfectly straight blonde hair was dampened by anxiety-induced frizz as her pitch rose and fell haphazardly.

My father nodded solemnly yet seemed to gently wave off my mother’s concerned wrinkled forehead (it was now smooth as if ironed)with a swish of his fingers and a clearing of his throat, “Though she is of noble blood and lineage, I am concerned of the strange, uh, concomitants she has chosen to consort with.”

I stood up from the long end of our dining table as we had our usual breakfast at, and clasped my hands firmly together and took in a short breath. “I do not care if she were friends with drawfs or woodland animals or fairies or... Or..” I felt my face go warm but I continued, “the French Queen who stuffs herself to the brim with too much imported chocolate from Spain!”

My mother goes bright red and gasps at my vulgarity and covers her mouth, and my father eyes me in a careful glare.

“Pardon me,” I quietly apologize and sit back down.

“If she truly is the apple of your eye, my son, then we will begin the process of your marriage proceedings and coronation within the fortnight,” my father said after much silence.

I nodded. “Thank you, father. Yes. I love her.”

My mother smiled slightly, nodding, though I saw the worrying look in her wide-set blue eyes not go away. It was like a wave, though docile and soft, it was powerful enough to make my heart feel gutted and leap in an uneasy fashion.

If only I had listened to that feeling.

One thing about marriage they don't explain is that it takes more effort and time and knowledge to truly trust the other and be able to make it a compatible relationship.

My wife, the new Queen, Snow White, and I, were happy. For the first week or so.

Then, it became apparent that there were things about her I didn't know about, didn't see, couldn't have been aware of unless we lived together.

Her restlessness was at first, an estranged symptom of the cursed spell her now deceased evil step-mother put her under: the Sleeping Death. Though my kiss, the True Love’s Kiss, had awoken her, she seemed in a zombified state that never ended. She would stay awake at all hours, sewing and baking and redecorating wings of the castle.

“Sweetheart, we have bakers and cooks and personal staff-” I started and she cut me off.

“I will only wear clothes I make. Food I cook. I can't take chances,” she answered with wide eyes, as big as saucers. I could see the blood vessels in the white of her eyes growing until they seemed ready to burst.

“I trust all of these people with my life. The guards. The cooks. All of them. I've known them since I was a boy, sweetheart, my Snow White, please,” I tried to reason but she refused to budge.

Courtiers and visiting foreign dignitaries would be nonplussed and baffled by her eccentric ways, such as bursting into in a singsong fashion and dancing frantically in the middle of quiet dinner parties.

I would try to sit down and talk to her. We just couldn't connect. Her eyes would look glassy, faraway, dreamy and even wild at times. I would go to wise and medicinal men to get advice on how to help her. No natural cures would give her any comfort.

“My darling, you need to sleep. I am worried about your constitution. You seem to only eat like a bird. What can I do to help you?” I pleaded with her. It was the middle of the night and she had tried to wake everyone up. I had gotten too many complaints and it needed to be addressed.

Her perfectly in tact black curls were unkempt and looking white at the ends.

She gave me a side look and crossed her arms over her chest. “I need to be aware of everyone’s motives. Everything they are up to at any moment’s notice. I can't allow treason in my domain.”

“Let's take a vacation. We can have a relaxing stay somewhere else and you can relax. I think that you are still in a state of panic from when you were in hiding from your horrible step-mother… I want you to feel safe. I will always protect you.” I tried to grin widely and as charmingly as possible. The strong aura of her heavy silence made my smile immediately go away.

Her eyes flashed me a strange glare.

“You… you want me to let my guard down, is that it?” she sneered. I shook my head, and sighed.

“No. No. We already destroyed all the mirrors and got rid of all the sharp knives in the kitchens. No more apples in the Kingdom. The butchers are useless. We can't accomplish much in the face of these limitations…” I wished I could've closed my mouth a few sentences sooner. At this point, she was furious.

“Limitations? My safety is a limitation?!” she yelled.

That was it. The end of our happy love story.

After that, things changed. It was the beginning of a story I couldn't recognize, a story I was wondering if I even was a part of anymore.

In retrospect, it was a good thing my parents retired to the country-side after my marriage and our coronation. In retrospect, why or how could I expect to live happily ever after with a woman I barely knew? Who was afraid of her own shadow and of my touch? We couldn't ever consummate our marriage. We couldn't find our intimacy inside or more importantly, even outside of the bedroom. She was afraid. She was too afraid to admit she was terrified. What was she so scared of? What tormented her so? What affliction did she carry that could not be solved by common man?

I could not say. This has tormented my own mind and heart and caused me my own sleepless nights.

So, here I am, sitting in this old cell just above the city’s underground tombs. I am rotting here with all the old guards and cooks and courtiers and fools and friends I had grown up with as a young prince, wondering how the terms treason and heresy against the Crown were now so loosely defined.

Still, she was and is the apple of my eye, and one day I'll return to her.

Even if it's with my head in a basket from the soft blow of the guillotine, I'll love her till the day I die.

Still, chained up and linked to this hellish prison, I still fancy I hear her sweet song in my ear, like a haunting echo:

“Some-day my prince will come…” 🎶