Dungeon

I lie in the dungeon, deep in the earth. Chains of cruel, black iron bind me. The torches in the passage have long gone out. In the cell, the darkness presses into my eyes. I hear nothing except my own, ragged breaths. This is my world.

With a thunderous crash, the door to my cell is kicked in. And lo, the prince stands in the threshold. He is adorned with silver armor which scintillates as the stars, dressed in silks woven from light, and a living crown encircles his brow overwhelmed with a riot of wildflowers. In his hand, a sword licked by the sun.

His gaze falls on me and fury burns in his eyes. He raises the sword for a mighty blow. The awful weapon slices toward me. And my chains part and fall useless to the stone floor. I look up at him, his face full of compassion. My Love, The prince says, There lie your bonds. You may come with me, or embrace thy fetters again.

Without a word, I gather up the iron links, for they are my cold comfort, and wrap them about me. I crawl to the farthest corner of the cell. The sword falls to the stones; it rings like bells. My prince falls to his knees and weeps, among the rotten food and human waste. After a time, he wipes his tears and gathers his sword. He departs, closing the door gently.

I lie there in the black, unseeing. I listen to my breath. And I know my prince waits in the passage, in the dark, yearning for his Love to call out for him.