Prince Charming (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
princehonorable) wrote2012-01-25 04:58 pm
princehonorable) wrote2012-01-25 04:58 pm
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He’s running through the forest.
--he is tending to the sheep.
The windmill is turning round and around, a woman’s voice in his ear asking if he likes the house--
The dragon’s breath roars fire over him.
And through it all, John Doe sleeps.
“As the prince chased the thief on horseback through the treacherous forests, his betrothed crossed her arms and pouted; wondering how many dreadful, boring minutes it would take until they could resume their journey…”
The voice drifts in and out of his consciousness. It’s not the first time he’s heard it and he thinks that he’s heard it before – in this world? Somehow? While he’s lost in this haze, there are ideas that come close enough to grip, but they always get away from him at the last minute. He’s left with his memories slipping through his fingers, but this is the first time that he has a chance at clasping a memory.
Is this a memory?
He knows this. He remembers this. The betrothed. He remembers her. Blonde hair and feathers. Something with an A? She’s complaining about something – maybe the bumps in the road or maybe it’s to do with his decision, but she doesn’t like it. Funny, but he doesn’t think he cares. He’s too busy in pursuit of a thief.
No. No, that can’t be right. This is a story. The woman is telling him a story.
“…they didn’t need words to express what they felt in their hearts. It was here, in the shadow of the troll bridge, that their love was born.”
This is just a fairytale. This is a story.
He struggles towards the sound of that voice, that light, and he tries to reach out towards her. He doesn’t even know what she looks like, but he knows what he feels. He knows that he trusts in that voice and that he loves that woman. He doesn’t know how, but he searches to find some hint of himself in this wasteland. He hears voices through the fog – ones that sound like his own.
Prince Charming, they say. Prince James. Nothing more than a humble shepherd and farmer, but the only name he hears spoken aloud is ‘John Doe’. He doesn’t know who he’s meant to be, but he’s fairly sure he’s not a prince in some old fairytale. Or is he? He has strange and distorted memories of a strange world with trolls and princesses and dragons. How can he have a memory of slaying a dragon?
“…Where they knew, no matter how they were separated, they would al…”
He reaches towards her, but he can’t escape this labyrinth. He’s lost. He’s lost and he doesn’t know the way out, but he does what any drowning man might: he reaches out for the life-preserver, hand extending outwards and clasping onto something warm and waiting.
He holds on tight. If there’s salvation to be found in her words, he’s not going to let go – not even for a second.
--he is tending to the sheep.
The windmill is turning round and around, a woman’s voice in his ear asking if he likes the house--
The dragon’s breath roars fire over him.
And through it all, John Doe sleeps.
“As the prince chased the thief on horseback through the treacherous forests, his betrothed crossed her arms and pouted; wondering how many dreadful, boring minutes it would take until they could resume their journey…”
The voice drifts in and out of his consciousness. It’s not the first time he’s heard it and he thinks that he’s heard it before – in this world? Somehow? While he’s lost in this haze, there are ideas that come close enough to grip, but they always get away from him at the last minute. He’s left with his memories slipping through his fingers, but this is the first time that he has a chance at clasping a memory.
Is this a memory?
He knows this. He remembers this. The betrothed. He remembers her. Blonde hair and feathers. Something with an A? She’s complaining about something – maybe the bumps in the road or maybe it’s to do with his decision, but she doesn’t like it. Funny, but he doesn’t think he cares. He’s too busy in pursuit of a thief.
No. No, that can’t be right. This is a story. The woman is telling him a story.
“…they didn’t need words to express what they felt in their hearts. It was here, in the shadow of the troll bridge, that their love was born.”
This is just a fairytale. This is a story.
He struggles towards the sound of that voice, that light, and he tries to reach out towards her. He doesn’t even know what she looks like, but he knows what he feels. He knows that he trusts in that voice and that he loves that woman. He doesn’t know how, but he searches to find some hint of himself in this wasteland. He hears voices through the fog – ones that sound like his own.
Prince Charming, they say. Prince James. Nothing more than a humble shepherd and farmer, but the only name he hears spoken aloud is ‘John Doe’. He doesn’t know who he’s meant to be, but he’s fairly sure he’s not a prince in some old fairytale. Or is he? He has strange and distorted memories of a strange world with trolls and princesses and dragons. How can he have a memory of slaying a dragon?
“…Where they knew, no matter how they were separated, they would al…”
He reaches towards her, but he can’t escape this labyrinth. He’s lost. He’s lost and he doesn’t know the way out, but he does what any drowning man might: he reaches out for the life-preserver, hand extending outwards and clasping onto something warm and waiting.
He holds on tight. If there’s salvation to be found in her words, he’s not going to let go – not even for a second.
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