\ (•◡•) /

Corbin looked around in surprise. The maids had disappeared. The outside sounds had fallen silent. The curtains were no longer rustled by the breeze. Corbin was alone with Sophia—and a fairy hovered over her bed.

The fairy appeared as the faint shape of a woman in a glow of purple light above Sophia's bed. Her gaze floated across Corbin, wandered around the room, as if she were seeing things far outside Corbin's perception.

"The curse can only be broken by true love," the fairy said.

Corbin laid Sophia's hand across her covers. "The princess will sleep for a hundred years. Her true love is a man not yet born."

The fairy said, "That would not be true love. Princess Sophia will only be woken by the man whose love remains true through her years of sleep.”

"You believe I can be that man?"

"What I believe does not matter. You must choose. That is what makes it love."

Corbin brushed a finger against Sophia's hair. As children, they'd chased each other through the castle gardens, shared jokes and games. As they'd grown, they'd danced together and shared glances in crowded rooms. He hadn't called it love—but he hadn't objected to the idea that it could be.

Could it be enough for a lifetime of love?

If it was not, Sophia would be lost to eternal sleep.

"I choose," Corbin said, falling to one knee. "Sophia, I will stay true."

=

Corbin stepped beyond the castle wall. The moment the gate closed behind him, thorny branches sprouted from the ground, covering the castle in red roses.

Two fairies, blue and green, appeared in the corners of his vision, disappearing when he tried to see them straight on.

"We will care for the princess," a sweet voice said. "The roses will guard her, and keep out all but you."

Corbin bowed his thanks. He turned away from the castle, feeling as though his heart was being torn from him. Faithful love seemed to demand he stay with Sophia. Yet he was a prince, with duties to his own nation. He would love her from afar, until life allowed him to return.

=

Corbin stood before his parents in his father's study. The king and queen both wore pensive expressions, staring at the prince's right arm, wrapped with a band of pink and black fabric.

"It is for the Princess Sophia," Corbin said. "I intend to remain true to our love."

King Dunstan's brow furrowed, but the queen put a comforting hand on his arm.

She told Corbin, "It is only right that you should mourn for her."

"I do not mourn her," Corbin said. "She lives."

The king opened his mouth, but the queen silenced him with another squeeze of his arm.

"It is very sad, this half-life she lingers in," the queen said, "but you do not need to remain faithful forever."

"I'm afraid," Corbin said, "that is just what I intend to do."

=

Corbin bowed to the princess of Robania. She was small and dark-haired, and fluttered her long lashes up at him.

"I see you are one of the admirers of the Sleeping Princess," she said, glancing at the five other men who wore armbands like Corbin's.

"I am."

"Yet they dance, and you do not."

"I am her true love," he said.

=

Corbin sank into a soft chair by Sophia's bed. She had not moved since he'd last seen her. He told her about the ball his parents had hosted for Midsummer, about the diplomatic meetings of the fall, about the harvest and the country festivals.

"I wish you could have seen it," Corbin said.

Sophia slept.

=

King Dunstan told Corbin, "The treaty with Robania requires a marriage alliance."

Corbin said, "I can enter no marriage. I am true to the Princess Sophia."

The king turned red. "It has been five years! You've indulged your boyish fancy long enough! You must consider the good of your nation!"

That moment with the fairies felt long ago and far away. What if he was abandoning his duty for an imaginary quest?

What if it was real, and Sophia slept forever?

"There are other men who can serve the nation," Corbin said. "I serve Sophia."

=

Travel dust covered Corbin's skin and clothes. The dirt that came off his boots disappeared the moment it touched the carpet of Sophia's chambers. He ran his hands over his face, which only turned it into thin mud.

Sophia was clean. Perfect. Silent. Still. Unaware of the worries, fears, and exhaustion of life.

"My father can't force me to marry," Corbin told her, "but he can make me pay for my defiance. I've crossed the kingdom dozens of times, always on errands for him—delivering messages that could be taken by courier, negotiating with lords he doesn't like. If the tensions at the border erupt, I'm sure he'll order me to join the troops."

Sophia breathed softly.

"Do you care, Sophia?" Corbin asked, his voice breaking.

Sophia remained still.

=

Corbin collapsed onto the bunk in his tent. No officer's quarters for the wayward prince—a mere soldier's tent. When he closed his eyes, he saw blood and smokes, heard screams and breaking bones.

The fighting this month was the most intense he'd seen in three years. Other men drowned their sorrows in drink, or distracted themselves with the women who followed the camp. Corbin had no desire for that kind of companionship. Yet there were also men who had wives and children at home, who had sweethearts waiting for them. They had letters that reminded them of the love they were fighting for. They had the hope of returning to smiling faces and warm hearts to pull them through the misery of battle.

Corbin had only a sleeping princess.

He'd had enough narrow escapes on the battlefield to suspect that the fae who guarded Sophia's sleep also kept him alive to love her. It gave a man courage—but today, it brought something closer to terror. For him, there was no escape from this misery, not even the hope of a heroic death. When he survived, he'd have a long life to live with the memories of battle, and not even the smile of a wife to soothe him.

Sophia had been asleep when he'd left, and she'd be asleep when he returned, and would stay sleeping for long, long, long, long years.

If ten years had held this much misery, how could he endure ninety more?

=

The atmosphere at the ball was electric. Victory at last! After five years of battle, Eldania had defeated her enemies and even expanded her borders. Prince Corbin had led the charge that turned the tide in the final battle, had returned home a war hero, and returned to his father's good graces.

The men at the ball wanted to hear the battle stories. The women admired his crisp uniform and his newly awarded medals.

A little princess with dark hair curtsied to Corbin. "Do war heroes dance?" she asked.

Corbin joined her in a reel. After battle, blood, and death, here was light, joy, peace, life. The princess was beautiful in a gown of blue. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as her wit made Corbin laugh for the first time in months. When the dance ended, they went together to the refreshment table, eventually wandered out onto the terrace of the moonlit gardens.

The princess spoke of music, the moon, and memories. To Corbin, it didn't matter what she said—he just liked to hear her speak. It was such a relief to be in a world with women again. One could almost forget the past five years as a bad dream, start over in a civilized world.

The moonlight on her dark hair was enchanting. The glint of silver at the base of her neck drew his eye to the hollow at her throat, and up to the kissable—

Corbin drew back in horror.

The princess frowned. "Your highness, what is wrong?"

Corbin turned back to the great glass doors. Unseeing, he strode through the ballroom and fled the ball, ignoring the protests of the princess.

=

Corbin knelt with his head on Sophia's bed, weeping in the moonlight.

"Forgive me, Sophia," he sobbed. "Forgive me."

=

In the blackness of Corbin's dream, a blue glow appeared.

"Take heart," a soft voice said. "You were tested and remained true."

=

Corbin brought Sophia an armload of flowers—not roses, but daisies, lilies, larkspur. He told her about the pink-and-orange sunrise that had accompanied his ride here, and laughed himself breathless as he told a story of falling in the creek as he watered his horse.

In her sleep, Sophia faintly smiled.

=

Corbin traveled, and brought the world to Sophia. He brought her water from crystal mountain springs. Spices from sun-baked deserts. Soft white sand from southern beaches and stones from caves at the heart of the earth. He put all these presents in her hands and near her face so she could feel them, touch them, hear them. He told her story after story of his travels, and never had to worry that he was boring her with his tales.

"Wherever I go," Corbin told her, "I take heart knowing that you are here waiting for me."

Corbin squeezed her hand and felt the faintest pressure in return.

=

The sunset shone just beyond the village. A handful of farmers stared at Corbin's travel-worn clothes.

"Where do you go, wanderer?" the farmer asked.

Corbin didn't travel with horses, carriage, entourage. These villagers couldn't know they spoke with a prince.

"Wherever the road takes me," Corbin said, shifting his weight off of his sore hip and knee.

"Do you have a place to lay your head?"

Corbin accepted the farmer's invitation and took supper with his boisterous family—a rosy wife, six rambunctious children, two dogs and five cats. Corbin laughed, talked and ate with them, letting the rosy glow of home life settle in his heart.

A golden-haired little girl clambered onto Corbin's knee, examining the buttons on his coat and begging for stories. She made him think of Sophia at that age.

If Sophia hadn't slept, they might have had a daughter like this by now. Corbin's heart ached.

He played games with the child, told stories to all, and shared songs as the moon rose. His hosts offered him a bed in the straw in the barn.

In the morning, breakfast was served by a flaxen-haired young maiden.

"If you're looking to settle down," the farmer's wife teased, "my Bella would make any man a fine wife."

Twenty years of sleep gone. Eighty more to go. If Corbin chose, he could have a wife, children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, by the time Sophia opened her eyes. He could have a life, a legacy of love. Yet they were out of reach for Sophia.

"I'm sure she will someday," Corbin told his hostess, with a good-natured laugh, "but my journey takes me down a much different road."

=

Corbin brought a small flute to Sophia's bedside.

"A shepherd in the mountains taught me how to play," Corbin said. "Helped me make the flute myself."

He trilled a few notes, then launched into a sprightly folk tune. After a few bars, the flute squeaked an ear-piercing note that brought the song to a halt.

Corbin put the flute in his lap and laughed. "Don't worry. I have plenty of time to improve."

=

After King Dunstan died, Corbin served the new king, his eldest brother. Elwin never minded if Corbin took detours to Sophia's castle for a week or two at a time.

Corbin's travels made him invaluable as a diplomat. Corbin often found himself responsible for entertaining foreign visitors to the court.

When the king of Urbanda visited, Corbin was the only person at the palace who spoke his native tongue fluently. The king's eldest daughter often walked with him in the gardens. The princess saw and heard much, and was glad to have someone to share her observations with.

One summer morning, when he rested in the shade of an arbor, the princess sat down beside him, with a look in her eyes that Corbin had learned to beware. At fifty-five, looking twenty years younger, Corbin was still considered a desirable marriage prospect.

"I have heard the story," the princess said, "of the sleeping princess."

"I have been devoted to her these forty years."

Her delicate hand covered his travel-worn one. "It is so sad," she said, "to see the life of one so vibrant and talented thrown away, tied to an invalid woman who does not wake."

Corbin moved the hand of the princess to her own lap, stood, and gave a respectful bow. After all these years, Corbin knew how to disappoint women gently. "It would be sadder still," he said, "to abandon her."

=

Time laid lightly on Corbin, keeping him in good health and younger than his years, but after sixty years, he began to slow. Gray began to appear in his hair. Old war wounds began to ache.

"Old Prince Corbin and the hidden castle" became a beloved eccentricity in the eyes of the court. How sweet it was that he remembered an old sweetheart. How quaint that he told those old stories of the fae—he could almost make you believe they were true!

Corbin only smiled at their ignorance. They were young. With time, they'd learn.

=

The trips to Sophia's castle became much harder on Corbin's aging bones. After arranging things with Elwin's son, Owen, Corbin entered into retirement, and moved permanently into the castle.

Sophia's sleeping face now held the lines of age. Her blonde hair had streaks of silver. She slept as peacefully as ever.

In the space outside the rose bushes, Corbin planted a small vegetable patch. He tended the garden in the mornings, and spent the afternoons and evenings with Sophia—telling stories in twelve different tongues, playing one of the dozens of instruments he'd learned to play over the years. He fed himself out of the castle stores, which seemed always to replenish themselves with whatever supplies he needed.

A quiet life. A happy life.

A lonely life.

Sometimes, Corbin wished to hear one human word.

=

Late one moonlit night, Corbin sat hunched over Sophia's bedside, tracing the veins in her aging hands.

"I always thought," Corbin said, his voice raspy with age, "that the enchantment would keep you young. If we live the hundred years, even if you wake, what kind of life will be left?"

Sophia had no answers.

=

Corbin rocked in the rocking chair he'd put at Sophia's bedside. These days, he barely left the room. The stairs were too hard to climb with his weak, stiff legs. He slept so often and so long. He would wake for an hour or two at a time, potter around the room a bit, then fall back into exhausted slumber.

Meals appeared for Corbin three times a day. The water pail was always full of fresh, cold water. The chamber pot emptied itself. The clothes he wore were, somehow, always clean.

How many years were left to Sophia's curse? It couldn't be long now. Ten years? Five? One?

He often dreamed of Sophia, seeing her and himself as they were in their youth, full of energy and life, with all their years before them. When he woke, he sometimes wept to see the deep wrinkles on her face. All those years, lost! Corbin had struggled to stay faithful through long years in a complicated, painful world, but he'd still worked, learned, traveled, lived.

She had only slept.

Would she ever have the chance to do anything more?

=

Corbin blinked open watery eyes. Daylight again. He should probably eat something, but standing was so much work.

A small table appeared beside his chair, holding a bowl of steaming oatmeal. Corbin fed himself slowly, his hands shaking. Half of the food landed on his clothing rather than in his mouth, but he didn't have much appetite, so he was full when the bowl was empty. He washed it down with water, but choked on his second swallow, coughing for several minutes. That happened often these days.

When he could finally breathe again, he fell back into his chair, exhausted. When he woke again, the light had changed to the golden color of late afternoon. His clothes were clean. Sophia slept.

Something about the afternoon made Corbin think of the first day of her curse. The air had been warm just like this. The light had been golden.

The light was in his eyes.

After several attempts, Corbin rose from the chair and stood on shaky legs. He intended to close the curtain, but after two steps, his legs buckled. He caught himself on the bed, then slowly, painfully, managed to sit next to Sophia.

This was all the life they had together, now. He never left the room—could barely leave the chair. He was as helpless as Sophia had always been.

What had the fairies been thinking with this curse? A hundred years of sleep, softer than death? It merely delayed the tragedy—gave them all the trouble of living without the comfort of death and heaven.

The afternoon light landed on Sophia's face. For a moment, she looked as golden as the sixteen-year-old who'd first fallen asleep. He remembered being the sixteen-year-old boy charged with the quest of a lifetime of love.

How simple—and how intimidating—it had seemed then. How difficult—and how simple—it had turned out to be.

The feeling that had seemed so faint at her birthday ball had grown and strengthened into something strong and real. Not merely emotion, but year upon year upon year upon year of choices. Day after day, moment after moment, for decades and decades, choosing her. Giving an entire life to her. What was that, if not love of the truest kind?

The fairies had given them unfair choices, but within those limits, Corbin had chosen as best he could.

Corbin kissed Sophia's withered hand. "I would do it again, my love."

Worn out by his exertions, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, and fell into a deep sleep.

=

Birdsong filled the air. Corbin woke to a bright dawn, feeling stronger than he had in years. His hands were not quite so gnarled. Breathing felt easier. He even felt that he could stand.

He stood up on two legs that felt strong enough to hold him upright. Sophia, in the light from the window, looked golden.

Corbin felt the years of age falling from him—limbs gaining flesh, skin growing smoother, the hair on his head turning dark rather than gray. Sophia underwent a similar transformation—wrinkles disappearing, hands becoming smooth and slender, hair becoming thick and golden.

Eyes, at last, opening.

Corbin had forgotten they were blue.

Sophia blinked, smiled, and sat up under her own power. "Corbin?" she said.

With limbs made strong and young again—so, so young!—Corbin gathered Sophia into his arms, crushed her in an embrace a hundred years in the making. Sophia returned it, nestling her head against his shoulder as Corbin kissed the top of her golden head.

"You stayed true," Sophia said. "An entire lifetime."

"I did," Corbin said, feeling at last the joy that was worth waiting a century for. "And now that you're awake, I plan to stay true for another one."

=

The old castle had gardens more beautiful than any in the world. Flowers from far-off lands, common meadow flowers, and most of all, roses, larger and sweeter than any others that mortal eyes had ever seen.

Travelers, high and low-born, from foreign kingdoms and nearby villages, often stayed at the castle, enjoying the hospitality of a prince who told stories in nearly every tongue, and of a beautiful princess who seemed blessed with every gift of heaven. Travelers who stayed there remembered it to their dying day as the happiest time of their lives. In a world of unending toil, here was a place of perfect rest.

Few people knew which land had given the prince and princess their titles, which families they claimed connection to, but no one doubted them. They were rulers of this realm, tiny and happy, and which emperor on Earth would not trade his great nation for theirs?

The couple was remarkable in their devotion, each attentive to other's needs, giving a drink of water or adjusting a chair before the other had to ask. They moved with the easy familiarity of much older couples, their routines fitting together with the elegance of a ballet. They worked together, prayed together, laughed often. When troubles came--a traveler who broke a window, a supper running late--they looked to the other for help, and always received it. They were patient, and when they lost patience, they apologized. Often in the course of an ordinary day, one would see the other from across the room, across the garden, across the palace, and look at them with a golden look of devotion in their eyes, rejoicing in the presence of the one they loved.

That was what travelers remembered most of all when they came away from the castle, and what they told their children to treasure, generation after generation.

Some of the ways they did this were actually before marriage. We tend to call every inheritance a woman was to receive a dowry but that's incorrect, most of Austen's heroines don't have a dowry, though we know how much they'll inherit upon the death of their father and/or mother. Fortune =/= dowry. The Bennets of Pride and Prejudice, the Dashwoods of Sense and Sensibility, Anne Elliot in Persuasion, and even Emma Woodhouse in Emma all will inherit a little to a great deal of wealth but not as a dowry. This means that even Emma, who will one day have the staggering amount of thirty thousand pounds, would not be bringing wealth immediately into a marriage (though in her circumstances she has a father who would hardly let her live impoverished if she had chosen to marry a penniless man).

For women as poor as the Bennets in Pride and Prejudice (though they should've had more money each, if their parents weren't useless, as has been discussed) the distinction between dowry and eventual inheritance didn't mean much: a max of fifty pounds per annum in interest was literally less than what some servants were paid so couldn't alleviate the need for their husbands to have an independent income. But what money a woman could bring into a marriage definitely increased the likelihood of her preferences being realised. Northanger Abbey's Catherine Moreland, who "would have three thousand pounds" means she has enough of a fortune to "smooth the descent of [General Tilney's] pride" and make him consent to the marriage of his son to her. She certainly would've been glad her parents saved this money for her, instead of feeling that she was an object being bought or sold. It empowered her choices, rather than reduced them.

That the inheritance of a woman is presented as a dowry also reduces the chances a woman and the man she loves will need to wait to marry until either of them inherit something or he makes a living. If Anne Elliot of Persuasion had had a dowry, instead of a future inheritance (a "share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers hereafter"), would she have broken off that original engagement? In ch23 she tells Captain Wentworth she would've been engaged to him when he had only "a few thousand pounds" and the likelihood of more thanks to an advantageous posting. If she would receive her own few thousand pounds upon marriage would that've been enough to remain engaged from the first, and perhaps even marry once he had added a few more thousands to that instead of needing to wait for Wentworth to build their shared fortune himself?

We can also see that a dowry was an inheritance parents provided for their daughter's benefit, rather than a sale price, by how carefully marriage articles were drawn up. This could legally define pin-money (how much money a woman would receive for her private usage and upkeep from her husband), and often specified that the husband couldn't diminish the bulk sum of his wife's fortune, only use the interest it generated, so that there would always be something to support the wife and her children no matter how spendthrift he was. Think of it like an old-fashioned pre-nup or family trust.

This is a huge reason why eloping was so bad, it meant there hadn't been articles drawn up beforehand and so the legal default of 'everything the wife has is now the husband's in full' applied instead of the chance to preserve her rights to her own fortune. If Wickham had succeeded in eloping with Georgiana Darcy in Pride and Prejudice her thirty thousand pounds would've become his in full when she turned twenty-one, though her guardians could've withheld it before then, and he could've spent it all and left her penniless without legal consequence.

There are plenty of historical examples of husbands without the regulations of marriage articles squandering the fortune and selling off assets, leaving the wife eventually destitute. Marriage articles are a response to that as father's wanted to protect their daughters and her future children. It actually limited the power of a husband in favour of preserving the comforts and rights of his wife, so was opposite of misogyny (though the society and laws which required these extra protections was undeniably sexist and male-centred)

Nor was receiving an inheritance upon marriage a specifically female-only practice. Eldest sons would generally receive the bulk of their inheritance when their father died, but it was common in this time and for centuries beforehand for them to be confirmed as heir or given a set income from their father (or one of their father's lesser estates, if we're talking nobility and the ultra rich) as part of the marriage articles (which would generally benefit the wife for the remainder of her life, either as a jointure or dower). Younger sons, if not already provided for, could also be given something upon their marriage and may have a commission in the army or a church living bought for them, to give them some independence. In Sense and Sensibility, after accepting the engagement of Edward and Elinor, Mrs Ferrars gives her son ten thousand pounds "towards augmenting their income" and this allows the marriage to occur. No one accuses Mrs Ferrars of selling Edward off in matrimony, even though what she's doing is so similar to a dowry that the narration points out it's exactly what "had been given with [her daughter] Fanny".

Fortune hunters and those marrying purely for money and a comfortable lifestyle definitely existed, as they do now, but dowries were not a socially and legally mandated way to give women to men to benefit them financially. 'Mercenary' marriages were frowned upon, and women were taught to look out for fortune hunters (like Wickham). Nor was it considered only men who might marry primarily to benefit from their spouse's wealth (Charlotte Lucas being a sympathetic female example). That both men and women could have inheritances gifted upon marriage, and were represented as seeking to marry for money, helps show that the practice of dowries wasn't a sexist practice which reduces women to little more than livestock.