“The monkeys told me I’d find you here,” the young man said in a warm, comforting tone. “How are you faring, Princess?”

She smiled sadly, turning her head away to better hide the tears. Grasping her chin, he gently turned her head back towards him, dabbing it with a handkerchief. “None of this. Beautiful faces like yours should not be covered with tears.”

His words were hardly unexpected. Her shock was purely feigned, out of politeness.

They stared at each other. The man was handsome, in a way, with his graceful fingers and interestingly shaped nose. As was the maiden (for she was still maiden after all these years), with her dark eyes and impeccably groomed hair. Slowly and awkwardly, they kissed.

What followed hardly came naturally for her. She was not made for this; she was no Helen, nor was she Guinevere. Then again, he was hardly Paris or Lancelot.

But he was male, alive and human.

In time, she would learn.