4A/N: This is a story I'm writing for my English Literature A level. I'm working on the title still. This is pretty much my final draft but some small details may still be changed. I know the paragraphing is a little all over the place, let me know if you have any constructive criticism for it please :)
Bleak, black walls close in on the Princess. She's trapped.
She hears the slow clip clop of the Prince's horse as it slows to a stop and then his cry reaches her ears. She approaches the window and gazes out. There he stands, dressed in his black riding clothes, holding the reins of the horse that towers over him, a horse dark as night. He looks up at her with eyes that contain no light, no shine. His hair falls down his face; casting it in shadow.
She picks up the pile of hair that cascades down from her head and tosses it out. The plait tumbles to the ground, three rays of golden sunlight twined together. The Prince steps onto it and begins his ascent, each intricate detail of the plait becoming a rung of a ladder.
He reaches the top and the Princess steps back to allow him entry. The Prince walks over to her, pointed shoes clicking on the wooden floor. He reaches out to caress the pearl whiteness of her neck but she brushes his hand away. His eyes narrow but he says nothing.
His hand reaches out to try again and delicately brushes a wisp of hair out of her face that has fallen loose from the long plait she wears.
She allows his touch.
She turns to walk to her bed but his hand darts out and takes hold of her wrist, trapping her. He whirls her around to face him and draws her in closer, pressing his lips to her cheek as his free hand encircles her dainty waist. His hand loosens its grip on her wrist and she pulls it free, turning from him, leaving him there.
His hand print is on her wrist, red in contrast to the white.
She walks to the bed, lies down. The hours of the night pass by agonisingly slow as she lies awake, dreaming of her escape until sleep finally takes her.
She wakes the next morning as the Prince prepares to leave once more. She watches in silence a few moments before looking down at her wrist. Blue and purple patches spread over the white of her skin and add to her determination.
When he is ready she approaches the window and lets her hair fall down down down until it hits the ground with a soft thump. The Prince takes a long look at her, as if scared he will forget how she looks, then descends downwards until he reaches the floor. Mounting his horse, he takes one last look back and rides away into the forest. She stands at the window, watching as he gets further and further away until he is out of sight. She turns away and walks over to her bedside table. She slowly undoes her plait, freeing her hair from its prison after all these years.
Once she is finished her hair covers the floor in golden waves.
The room, usually cast in shadow, is now illuminated as the last rays of the setting sun pour in through the window, turning the walls a glowing orange and reflecting off her hair so that each strand shines as if it were a diamond. There is a candle on her bedside table and this is what she reaches for. She picks it up, it flickers as if it is about to go out. She wraps her hair around her body, encasing herself, protecting herself. She presses the flame to the ends, the middle. It catches, burning upwards and everywhere. The smell, the pain. Everything mingles together until she can't tell her senses apart.
She stands there, a burning beacon, consumed by flames. The light she casts dances off the walls and floor and she dances with it, eyes closed, hands outstretched.
The Prince is below looking up at the tower window, wondering why she does not come when he calls. Movement catches his eye and he looks closer, notices the light flickering off the surrounding brick of the window and wonders what she is doing. A breeze blows through the window and at first he does not notice the small specks of ash that drift out, then they become more and bring with them clumps of her golden hair, flying in the breeze.
One of them drifts down to where he sits and he grasps it tight. The ends still smoke and he finally understands.
He slides off his horse and falls to his knees, staring up at the sky, wide-eyed.
A trickle of ash, perfectly outlined against the golden setting sun is all that remains.