He was the prince of no hearts, she merely a left over princess, who had tried to fight her equals. Now she was locked up behind rotting walls, within castle ruins and beneath silent cellars. Little did he know, and less did he feel. He had everything he was to have, shiny armour and a mighty steed. Nobody asked him to find the right girl, or wield a kingdom like his father before him. Everything he had, but none of it was more than dried leaves on the wind, always separated.
She sat in shady rooms, writing shady letters of love, all to him. Her letters, arriving at his gates, would be fondled, touched and scrutinized by all the sanity he had and could muster up. Every single word read, none pierced him.
Dark skies, dispersed clouds, meagre sunshine in his futile future. He didn't know, but he was making a fool of himself, more than the lonely girl that tried to reach him from an imprisonment unlike others he could think of.
And his attempts at burying his potential were belittled, tried and tested. So he drove the knife further in, wished to cut her throat, lest her beautiful singing would stop by itself. From the outside, she had tried to reach into him. He couldn't deal with it. So without doubt, he seized her, chained her and locked her up in a lost place. In a heart he wasn't supposed to have.