There: her goal. The knight dismounted her black horse, which had reared at the thorns and trampled the vines, and stepped into the clearing on foot. For a long while, she eyed the still body with a grim satisfaction. There would be no more disruptions caused by this princess' birth, no more stirrings of her own jealousy.

The face was lovely, even with so many reasons to remind herself not to be trapped, she could see that. In repose, the princess (the face: it) looked peaceful, almost ethereal. Just a girl. And somehow, images came to mind of this girl laughing, moving, living, full of energy and enthusiasm and joy.

It felt wrong to see her like this, next to that. The knight crept a little closer. As if it was a spell, too, the more she looked at that face, the more she moved on her own. The princess did not stir and, without any conscious will of her own, the knight's hand raised to brush the sleeping girl's cheek as she bent to press their lips together.