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She was beautiful, and he was smitten. Her hair shone with the brilliance of the sun’s first rays in the early morn and looked softer than the goose down that lined his pillows. Her eyes sparkled with the green radiance of a thousand flawless emeralds. Her skin was like milk, or glass, or both; he couldn’t decide which. Her lips were sweet strawberries, and he yearned to taste them.

But her gentleness and kindness were more widespread than her beauty. She cared for all animals, big or small. He often saw her saving spiders. She was always surrounded by small children at the market, weaving them stories of why the fairies left the woods, or how a brave knight saved his lovely princess from the ferocious dragons on the mountains so far away. He would sit and listen, hiding in his cloak, protecting his identity. He would listen to her clear, sweet voice, and for hours afterward he would hear her in his head, repeating her stories to him and saying his name is gentle whispers.

She never got angry. She was always laughing, always smiling. Her eyes glistened with an innocent mischief. She loved playing little tricks on people. She was perfect, and he loved her dearly.

But he didn’t know her name. They’d never even spoken. She was a peasant, and he a prince. A betrothed prince. He did not love his wife-to-be, but he loved the peasant girl. The girl that flooded his dreams and filled his heart.

He did not tell his father he wished to marry a peasant; the king, naturally, would refuse and think him a fool. And the king’s anger was not unlike a dragon’s. His mother would not understand, so he could not tell her either. Nor could he tell them he did not love his betrothed, for she was of their choosing and it was not to be questioned or defied, no matter how much he despised her. He could not tell the peasant girl, the perfect, gentle, wonderful girl who’s family’s small farm could be seen from his window. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to her. He had tried numerous times; bumping into her so he could apologize magnificently, telling her he hoped he had not ruined her dress with his newly, and artificially, muddied coat, or trying to ask her the name of a story when the children had dispersed. All had failed because his love for her had dried his mouth, and her simple beauty imposed such a feeling in him that he couldn’t speak. Once he left her a rose from the royal garden before her door. She thought it was from a child, for he had heard her ask them about it the next day before her story. Naturally, one of the boys took credit for it in hope of sparking a child’s romantic fantasy, so she thought it was so. But he knew where it was from, and for the two weeks it sat in a tin cup in her windowsill, every time he saw the red spot in the distant window, his heart fluttered.

His heart became heavy, for he did not wish to marry the prim, cold duchess his parents had picked out. She did not love him either, he knew. She only loved his title. They were to be married in the spring, after her 20th year had dawned, and now it was early autumn. He started out his window and saw her so far away on the rolling countryside. She was out with her horses and sheep in the pasture. He sighed, wishing she were royalty, or he a villager.

But she wasn’t, and he wasn’t, so it could not be. This was how it was. He loved her so, but could not have her. Oh, how his heart yearned for this gentle beauty! If only he knew her name.

Weeks passed, and his heart tormented him. If to love were pain, surely he suffered more than any prisoner in the dungeons! He needed her. His love for her swelled and grew with each of her stories, each laugh, each smile, each time her eyes caught the sun. He wished to feel her soft touch, kiss her pink lips, be with her always. His love borderlined obsession. He snuck to the village everyday to listen to her sweet laugh and enchanting stories.

Still, they never spoke, nor did he learn her name.

He left her a rose before her door, and replaced it when it disappeared out of her cottage windowsill. He dreamt about her twice a night. It was all he could do not to think about her.

The days grew shorter and a heavy chill settled over the village. Snow fell heavily and blanketed the dead ground. His mood darkened each day he did not see her, for the cold rarely let anyone leave the warmth of their homes.

When the first daffodils bloomed in the wild fields, and the days were once again warm, he saw her again from the window. His heart soared at the sight of her brilliant blonde hair in the spring sun. Sadly, his wedding date was drawing near.

They still never spoke to one another, and still his love had no name.

On the eve of his wedding, he could not sleep. He snuck out of his room and went for a ride in the woods on his hunting horse. Tomorrow would indeed be a woeful day. He allowed his horse a break and let it drink from a river cutting through the trees and to nibble on the sweet grass. Dismounting, he heard a rustling in the undergrowth. A dark figure came through the trees, concealed in a hooded cloak. But even in the dim moonlight, he knew those eyes. Those great, emerald, gem-like eyes that stood out from her flawless skin. Her soft curls were falling out of the hood. She saw him as she was filling her flask with water.

“Shh!” She said in her saint-like voice. “Speak not of seeing me, for I am to leave in secrecy.”

He swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat.

“Never, fair, lady, if that is what you wish.” He whispered.

She smiled, and it was glorious.

“Thank you kindly, sir.” She look at him a moment, taking in his finer details. “Pray tell, have I seen or met with you before? Your face, it stirs my thoughts.”

It was as if a heavily laden mule cart had been unyoked from his heart, and he felt the truth spill from his lips all at once.

“Aye, you have. I frequent your story-tellings to the village children. You are a remarkable speaker.” He confessed.

“I believed so. It was you who was the mysterious stranger in the cloak then. Are you responsible for the roses as well? It could not have really been the children, flowers such as that are only found around the palace. You must have had a time trying to get them for me.” She said, replacing the flask in her bag and stepping closer.

“Aye, your storytelling is good, but it was my heart’s adoration for you that brought the roses.”

She removed her hood and stepped forth.

“Why, you are the prince!” She gasped, immediately falling to her knees in a bow. “Please forgive me for speaking to you in so improper a fashion.”

“Please, do not bow. Stand up.” He said, taking her hands and pulling her up gently. “Aye, I’m the prince, and I’m afraid I’ve taken quite a fancy to you.”

She squeezed his hand gently and looked up at him with forlorn eyes.

“Love me not, for your wedding day is tomorrow and she holds more promise than a farmer’s daughter. I must flee this place, besides. I am to be sold by my father to an old lord the next village over, and I cannot live my life as that. I know what he has planned.” She said softly. He looked into her brilliant eyes, and he kissed her with all the love and passion he had harbored in his heart for so long.

“Goodbye, my prince.” She said in a shaky voice, once their kiss had broken. “May your life and new bride be good to you. I cannot stay, and you cannot leave, so this will be our first and very last meeting. I really must fly now. The dawn approaches.” She covered her head in her hood again and hefted her bag. She hesitated, and then embraced him. “I’ve always wondered who gave me those roses.” She whispered. He kissed her forehead.

"Stay with me, please? I will protect you from the lord. You shall be no other's but mine." He promised. She shook her head, curls falling over her shoulders.

"I can't." She said, her eyes filling with tears. She turned around suddenly and ran to the woods. She looked back briefly and waved. Shortly after he heard the fall of horseshoes on the ground. He waved back for as long as he heard the horse’s feet. He lowered his arm when it was finally quiet. She was gone, and his heart, sad thought it was, was strangely light. He had finally professed his love to her, and though she was gone, he got a kiss. And perhaps her affection as well. He could live with that. But only one thing remained.

Still, he did not know her name.