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Once upon a time, there lived a happy prince.
He lived in a castle of pale stone, perched upon a gentle hill where the wind sang softly through fields of blue flowers. It was not the tallest in the realm, nor the grandest, but it was beloved. The castle walls caught the sun at dawn and turned the color of warm milk and honey; at dusk, they blushed rose-gold before surrendering to violet shadow. Its towers were crowned with slate roofs the color of stormclouds, and ivy crept tenderly along its sun-warmed walls. From the highest tower, one could see the sea in the far distance, a thin line of silver trembling against the horizon. And when the bells rang at dawn, their sound carried far over the hills, mingling with the murmur of the wind.
But it was the flowers that made the kingdom beloved.
They carpeted the hill in endless blue—petals like fragments of sky fallen to earth. In spring, they swayed in great rippling waves beneath a sky as bright as polished glass. Children ran through them laughing, their hands stained faintly with pollen. In summer, they exhaled a fragrance so soft it felt like memory itself. In autumn, though the leaves of trees burned amber and fell, the blossoms remained. And in winter, frost silvered their edges, each petal rimmed in white crystal—yet still they stood, unyielding and eternal, as though blessed by unseen hands.
The happy prince loved to lie among them.
He would run through them as a boy, his laughter scattering birds into the sky. He would stretch upon his back and let the blue surround him, his golden hair catching stray petals as the wind tugged at his sleeves. He laughed easily then, and the sound carried down the hillside, bright and clear. He would lie upon his back among the blossoms and watch clouds drift by, imagining dragons and ships and distant kingdoms. And sometimes, he would press his cheek to the cool earth and whisper, “Thank you,” as though the land itself could hear him.
Within that castle lived not only the happy prince, but his dearest friend: another prince, born with magic in his veins.
The wizard-prince.
He was quieter than the happy prince, thoughtful where the other was impulsive. When he spoke, it was with careful consideration, as though weighing each word against the wind. Yet when he laughed, it rang like chimes in sunlight—rare, but radiant.
It was he who had cast the spell upon the earth so that the flowers might bloom forever.
“I only wished for something beautiful to remain,” he had once confessed, sitting cross-legged beneath an oak tree, sleeves rolled to reveal faint sigils shimmering against his skin. “Everything else changes so quickly.”
The happy prince gave a golden smile. “Then I shall remain, too.”
“You cannot promise that,” the wizard-prince replied.
And the happy prince only said; “Then I will try.”
And beside the wizard-prince was his beloved—the princess who weaves.
She wove not merely cloth, but stories into thread.
Her chamber overlooked the eastern gardens, where morning light streamed through tall arched windows and fell in golden ladders upon her loom. The steady clack of wood against wood became the castle’s quiet heartbeat. With fingers slender and tireless, she spun tapestries of golden dawns and star-flecked nights. She embroidered fields of blue blossoms so vivid one could almost smell their sweetness. She stitched laughter into silk, sorrow into shadowed velvet, hope into glimmering thread-of-silver.
When she worked, she hummed.
The melody shifted with her mood—light and playful on happy days, low and lingering when her thoughts grew distant. The loom seemed to breathe with her, threads tightening and loosening like ribs around a heart.
The happy prince would sometimes sit in the doorway, watching.
“You make it look so easy,” he once said, chin resting in his palm.
She smiled without looking up. “It is not easy. That is why it is beautiful.”
And the wizard-prince would lean against the window, arms folded, eyes fond. “She says that about everything,” he teased.
She flicked a loose thread at him in mock indignation.
The castle had been full of such small, shining moments.
The happy prince, too, loved.
He loved the princess who gardens.
She who knelt among the soil without fear of dirt upon her hands. She who tied back her hair with careless ribbons and laughed when the wind undid her work. She coaxed life from seeds with patience and whispered kindly to roses as though they could hear her.
“Grow well,” she would murmur. “Grow strong.”
She tended the wizard-prince’s enchanted flowers and grew her own besides—roses of crimson, ivory, and deepest indigo. She knew each by name, and she could tell by scent alone which would bloom at dawn and which preferred the hush of twilight.
The happy prince often followed her through the garden, carrying a watering can far heavier than he needed to prove himself useful.
“You are overwatering that one,” she would say gently.
He would frown at the plant. “I only wished to be generous.”
“Generosity requires listening,” she replied, pressing her muddy fingers into his palm. “Even flowers have limits.”
Among all her roses, there was one yet to bloom.
It stood apart, its stem slender but strong, its bud tightly closed as though guarding a secret. She tended it with particular care, brushing away aphids, loosening soil, shielding it from harsh wind.
“It will bloom when it chooses,” she would say.
It was said that when it did, it would be the most beautiful of all.
One day, the weaving princess was gone.
But she had not vanished without warning.
For weeks, she had woven without pause. Her chamber no longer knew silence. Candle wax pooled thick upon the floor. The loom clattered deep into the night.
She wove until her fingers grew raw. Until the skin split at the knuckles and sweat dampened the thread. She wove until red stained the fiber—not in great drops, but in quiet, stubborn crescents where the needle kissed too deeply.
The wizard-prince knelt beside her chair one evening and gently took her hands.
“Beloved,” he pleaded, pressing his brow to her wounded fingers, “you will unravel yourself.”
Her hands trembled, but her smile was luminous—achingly so.
“Then let me finish this first,” she whispered. “Just this.”
“For whom?” he asked softly, though he already knew.
She glanced toward the garden below.
He swallowed.
For she was weaving a gift—a dress of pure white, light as snowfall. Its hem embroidered with blue flowers, each petal stitched with aching devotion. The thread caught the light and shimmered faintly, as though the field itself had been sewn into its fabric. It was meant for the gardener princess—for friendship, for memory, for love that asked for nothing in return.
“For love,” she said. “For my beloved friend.”
When at last the final thread was cut, she exhaled as though she had been holding her breath for years.
The spindle slipped from her hand, and the loom grew still.
And so the princess who weaves became no more than stillness in a room full of unfinished sunlight.
The wizard-prince did not scream. He simply folded over her hands and wept.
He wept until his tears soaked the earth outside her chamber windows. He wept until his sorrow turned heavy and dark. The magic in his veins, once golden and warm—dimmed, and shifting hue like sunset sinking into blood-red dusk.
The flowers did not wither.
But their blue deepened, as though grief had seeped into their roots.
Forget me not, my dear. The flowers seem to say.
The happy prince and the gardener princess tried to ease the wizard-prince’s despair.
They sat beside him in corridors hushed by sorrow. They brought him tea that went cold untouched. They spoke gently of memories—of laughter in the weaving chamber, of sunlight caught in silver thread.
“You are not alone,” the happy prince said one evening, voice rough.
The wizard-prince did not look at him. “I had magic enough to bind flowers to eternity,” he said. “But not enough to keep her.”
“There are things no magic can command,” the gardener princess said quietly.
When she discovered the woven dress, laid carefully upon a cedar chest, she understood at once.
The gift had been for her.
Her hands shook as she lifted it. The fabric was impossibly soft. The blue flowers stitched upon it mirrored the endless field beyond the castle walls.
She pressed it to her heart and wept—not only for the friend she had lost, but for the love stitched into every thread. Love that had endured pain. Love that had chosen beauty despite it.
In memory, she wore the dress.
Beneath the open sky, among the eternal blooms, she stood in white and blue—grief and gratitude intertwined.
The happy prince watched her from afar.
And something within him mourned.
But all stories, no matter how gentle, must face shadow.
In a distant tower blackened by lightning and age, there lived an Evil Wizard.
He had long heard whispers of the eternal field—of flowers that never faded, of magic woven into soil and root. And he had heard, too, of the rose yet to bloom.
Beauty was a thing he desired not to cherish, but to possess.
When word reached him of the gardener princess—the keeper of blooms, guardian of the yet-unopened rose—envy twisted into hunger.
“She tends what should be mine,” he hissed to the empty stone.
So he came under cover of night.
The moon was veiled in clouds when his dark carriage crossed the castle gates. No horn sounded. No guard cried alarm. His shadow slithered along the walls like spilled ink.
Before dawn could break, the gardener princess was gone.
The happy prince awoke to silence.
No laughter in the courtyard. No scent of roses drifting through his window. Only absence—a hollow where warmth had been.
He ran to the gardens barefoot, breath sharp in his throat.
The unopened rose trembled in the wind.
In the tower, the Evil Wizard stood before her.
Though captive, she knelt straight-backed, defiant as any queen.
“Oh,” he said, voice smooth as an ivory mirror, “for whom do you defy me so?”
She did not bow her head.
“For the rose you guard,” he continued, circling her slowly. “Tell me of its beauty, and I shall claim it for mine.”
She lifted her chin.
“The rose does not bloom for those who seek to cage it,” she said steadily. “It blooms for love.”
So the Evil Wizard said. “Then love shall be mine.”
“You cannot take what is freely given,” she replied.
His smile was sinister.
“We shall see.”
Back at the castle, the wizard-prince gripped the happy prince’s arm.
“She has long been gone!” he said, voice breaking from desperation. “Must you be gone as well? Must I lose another beloved?”
The happy prince’s hands trembled, but his gaze did not waver.
“You will not lose me,” he said gently. "I will return."
The wizard-prince was not reassured. “You cannot promise that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I can promise I will try.”
He stepped into the field of blue flowers; the wind bent the blossoms around him like a tide parting and he placed his hand over his chest.
What pulsed there was no hidden heart of fear—but something magical and bright.
A rose; not of flesh, but of soul.
The bud that had waited so long now unfurled.
Its petals were not merely red, but the red of devotion, of sacrifice, of love willing to bleed and remain steadfast.
The happy prince that was the rose understood.
The rose was not meant to be possessed.
It was meant to be protected.
And so, though he had been only a child of laughter and blue fields, he took up a sword.
It felt heavier than he expected.
But he did not let it fall.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
“Mon petit prince,” a soft voice murmured, gentle hands resting upon small shoulders and giving the faintest shake, as though coaxing a flower to lift its head toward the sun.
The world of towers and sorcery, of blue fields and crimson roses, dissolved like mist at sunrise and softened into the familiar glow of candlelight.
The hearth crackled low and steady, casting honeyed light across the walls of his room. Shadows climbed and retreated along the tapestries, their woven knights and lilies shimmering as if alive. Outside his window, the night wind whispered against the shutters, not fierce enough to frighten—just enough to remind that the world beyond was vast.
Little Leon stirred with a faint sound of protest, burrowing deeper into his blankets before blinking awake. His prince teddy was clutched tightly against his chest, its stitched crown slightly askew from having been used as a brave knight against monsters only children could see.
She smiled when Leon blinked up at her, confusion giving way to recognition.
“Maman…” he murmured thickly.
“Yes, mon cœur,” she replied softly, smoothing a curl from his forehead. “You almost fell asleep.”
Céline sat at his bedside, golden hair cascading over one shoulder, aglow in the firelight like spun sunlight. A few loose strands had escaped her braid and brushed her cheek as she leaned closer. There was something ethereal about her in this quiet hour—soft, and luminous, almost storybook herself.
Leon blinked up at her, lashes heavy with sleep but stubbornly resisting it.
“And did the happy prince save her? Did he return back to the wizard prince?” he asked, voice small but earnest, as though the answer mattered greatly to him.
Céline smiled—and she brushed her fingers through his golden curls, untangling them with patient care.
“He tried,” she said gently.
Leon’s brows knit together. “Is that enough?”
She tilted her head slightly, considering him. “Why do you ask?”
“Because…” He shifted under the covers, gripping his teddy tighter. “If he didn’t save her, didn't keep his promise...then…then he failed, didn’t he?”
Céline’s fingers stilled in his hair. For a heartbeat, her gaze drifted—not away from him, but deeper, as though she were measuring her words against something unseen.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “trying is the bravest thing of all. Not every battle is won, my son. But what matters is that he did not turn away.”
Leon frowned faintly, absorbing this. “Was he scared?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. Her voice was clear as a bell, steady and warm. “Courage does not mean the absence of fear. It means loving something more than you fear losing.”
Leon considered that very seriously. His small mouth pressed into a thoughtful line. “I don’t like being scared.”
“No one does,” Céline murmured, smiling softly. “But fear reminds us that what we hold is precious.”
He hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting quietly in his chest all along.
“Was he hurt?”
The empathy in his voice was so tender it made her chest squeeze with the sudden urge to hold him like the precious thing he was.
“Yes…” she said, and there was a faint wistfulness in her tone, like wind passing over distant hills. “To love always carries the risk of hurt… Hearts are not made of stone.”
Leon’s gaze dropped to the stuffed prince in his arms. “Did it hurt a lot?”
She cupped his cheek, guiding his face back toward hers. “It hurt enough to change him. But not enough to make him stop loving.”
Leon swallowed.
“And if he knew he would be hurt,” he whispered, “would he still do it?”
Céline leaned down, pressing her forehead lightly against his.
“Yes,” she answered. “Because to refuse love out of fear… that wounds the heart far worse.”
From the doorway, Richard watched in open fondness. He did not lean, for his back and shoulders were as straight as the stone pillars that held a castle aloft. Yet his expression was soft as dawn breaking over quiet fields. His gaze lingered first on his wife—then shifted to his son, affection present in those eyes, and something quieter too—gratitude, perhaps, for this moment untouched by the world’s harsher truths.
Leon noticed him and managed a sleepy smile. “Papa.”
Richard stepped closer, the weight of his boots quiet upon the rugs. He rested one hand gently atop Leon’s head.
“You are bargaining with philosophy at this hour?” he teased softly.
Leon pouted. “I’m thinking.”
“That is dangerous,” Richard replied gravely, though warmth colored his voice. “Thinking before sleep invites more dreams.”
“I like dreams,” Leon said stubbornly.
Céline laughed under her breath.
“The rose,” Leon murmured again, eyelids drooping despite his efforts. “It… blooms for love.”
“Yes,” Céline whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “It blooms because it is tended. Because it is chosen.”
Richard bent and pressed his lips to Leon’s temple as well. “And because it is strong,” he added.
Céline drew Leon into her arms, careful not to disturb the blankets. He burrowed instinctively against her, small hands fisting into the fabric of her sleeve.
“And remember, mon petit Leon,” she murmured against his hair, “the rose is you.”
He gave a sleepy hum of confusion. “Me?”
“You,” she repeated softly. “You must bloom for love… Not for glory, or for pride.”
She gathered him gently into her embrace, careful not to crush the teddy trapped between them. He melted into her without resistance, small hands fisting into the fabric of her sleeve as though anchoring himself.
“Flowers should bloom for love,” she murmured against his hair, breathing in the warm, clean scent of him. “Never for war.”
Richard stepped forward at last, boots silent against the stone. He leaned down and pressed a firm, tender kiss to his son’s brow.
“Good night, mon petit prince,” he said, voice low and steady.
Leon did not answer this time for sleep has claimed him gently. His breathing had already begun to even out, lashes lay like soft shadows against his cheeks. One hand remained curled in his mother’s sleeve, unwilling to let go even in sleep.
Céline carefully disentangled herself, smoothing the blankets over him. For a moment, she simply watched him, gaze locked on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Richard moved to sit beside her, and she soon rested her head on his shoulder.
For a heartbeat, they simply sat there together, bathed in firelight, unaware of how fragile such quiet could be.
Outside, beyond the fields of blue, the wind stirred more deeply.
And far in the distance, beyond this short-lived childhood, beyond the candlelight and gentle stories told—fate waited patiently for an unending tragedy to unfold.
For one day, the happy prince would stand in a ruined garden, love torn from him by darkness. One day, he would chase grief across battlefields and into shadows deeper than night.
One day, he would live a life like a fairytale with no happy end. And the rose would bloom a bright red, crimson as the blood staining his hands.