He leaned forward, his eyes piercing into hers. They were the soft green of sea-fog, half-lidded and hopeless. "I can save you," he whispered. "A kiss, or something. A task. You—you're like a princess from a fairy tale. Let me save you." But his princess shook her head, smiling as she wept pearly tears.
"I am not a princess, but a fairy godmother, the good enchantress, the kind beggar on the side of the road. I am nothing more than the reward for another's good deed; there is no reward for my purity.
Move on and be at rest. Love springs eternal, but the catalyst gets no prince. If you would have us as a fairy tale, we would both be misplaced.
Our fairy tales is reworked, modern. Misplaces. Our fairy tale is broken. You are the prince who has fallen in love with the queen—with the witch. Go find a princess you deserve." With that she turned to the wall and began to sob, grey tears soaking the carpet around her.
He let out a groan as he watched her, and then fled her house, which had no thicket of thorns, no dragon to slay.
The only obstacle between them was their selves.