The Royal Wedding (Or Some Other Fairytale Union…)
Most often, I miss the mark by a country mile. Once in awhile though, I am actually ahead of the curve, like back in 2003 when this little bit of silliness was part of my book “Nonsense & Stuff”.
In honour of the upcoming Royal Wedding, here’s another storybook romance:
Somewhat Slightly Backwards…
And they lived happily ever after,
Well, as happily as one might expect….
United in a moment of evil most foul, the Prince and Princess truly believed love could prevail.
In Macadamia, mere days ago, there had been a grand ceremony, uniting the pair in matrimony, while the guests cheered in harmony.
The two kings and their queens beamed with delight, as they gleefully made plans for the newly-emptied rooms in their respective castles.
A week went by.
The Princess, barely past her sixteenth birthday, quickly grew to dislike the Prince’s habit of playing with his bow and arrow every day, and cavorting through the woods with his friends until well past dusk.
There were also issues of stockings lying on the floor, just outside the royal hamper.
The Prince, mere days over the crest of his seventeenth birthday, started to grow disenchanted with his bride. Until the evening of their wedding, he had always been able to partake of the royal throne-room at any time (they shared a modest, single bath castle). Now, he was often greeted by a locked door, the scent of lavender bubble bath indicating a very, very, very long wait.
Exhausted from his grueling schedule of frolicking and archery, he fell asleep most nights before his bride even lifted the sheets on her side of the Royal bed.
One night, in their shiny yet modest castle, the Prince began to doubt his commitment. After all, would not any boy have rescued a maiden, had she fallen ill from the tainted fruit of a sorceress? That didn’t mean his life was over, did it? There may be other maidens, also under magical spells, and who would free them, to live full, well-rounded lives?
The Princess, in her wing of the bedchambers, looked dolefully up at the moon. What had possessed her to disobey her father’s warning; never to take a gift of fruit from a cackling hag dressed in black? Had she not learned at the feet of her own mother the price of joining in marriage with fools?
She could have been all that, and a bag of vacuumed-packed potato chippings, yet she felt…somehow not.
Plans began to hatch in the chill night air.
The Prince plotted a hunting accident. A friend would return from the forest with a bloodied sleeve, and the Prince would away, never to return.
The Princess felt it should appear that roving thieves had broken in, pillaged the castle, and stolen away with her, a single satin slipper to remain, perched on the windowsill for the lady-in-waiting to report back to the Prince. Glancing one last time over their bedroom, she hesitated, returned to her bedside nightstand, and took the magnificent pen her husband had given her on their honeymoon, with the beautiful inscription, Howard Johnson, Call Toll-Free For Reservations.
Unbeknownst, and where else save a fairy tale might a narrator be able to use unbeknownst, both the Prince and the Princess had hastened to the same sleepy township, and yes, even the same inn, to hide out during their mutual deceptions.
That morning, when the Prince came down for his complimentary continental breakfast, he walked right past his bride, as she sat buttering a warm blueberry muffin.
He gulped, she gasped, and the innkeeper poured an emergency slug of 25 year-old brandy.
The Prince joined the Princess at her table, and felt that honesty might be the best policy. They spoke of fears, claustrophobia, and concerns of premature co-habitation. Laughing, they realized both had made errors. They shared a Grande Double Mocha-Latte, joined hands and walked along the cobblestone street of the village.
The Prince furthered his position when he jumped to the rescue of a choking stray cat, extricating an enormous hairball. The Princess glowed, like never before.
They returned to the castle, where the Prince agreed to cavort only three times a week, and the Princess agreed to bubble-bathe while he was out in the woods. All was well, and the future held many little princes and princesses, with prosperity for all in Macadamia.
After all, these things have a way of working out, as they usually did.
Once upon a time….
-performed live as a sketch by the Whatever Comedy Troupe, Penticton BC, 2002.
© Dan St.Yves 2003
