A pale blue castle. It could have been carved from the cloudless sky above. Four turrets - one at each point of the compass, the structure facing north-west so the turrets align like a square.
A castle for fairies. See the blue ribbons streaming from the roofs of the turrets whose tiles are a slightly darker blue than the smooth stone used to create this magnificent building. Hear a soft wind sighing as it passes over the turquoise sea of grass on the south-west side and its excited whisper as it explores the forest of firs to the south-east. Inhale the scent of the lavender which lines the spotless cream-coloured patio leading to the wooden doors to the right of which is a glass fountain with its smooth and polished sculpture of an angel. Bathe your fingers in the warm pool of this fountain, in the glowing green waters lit from the basin by sparkling gems. Step through the doors onto white marble: you are in the entrance hall. Tiny creatures flit around you, their wings buzzing quietly: the fairies the castle is so appropriate for. In the background, you hear the beautiful sound of women singing. Footsteps inform you of the prince’s presence. Descending the glass staircase before you is a warm and lovely creature. Peter. Prince Peter of Le Pays Romantique.
“Welcome,” he says, in his gentlest tones.
You kneel on the marble, your head bowed respectfully. The marble beneath you is so clean that you can see your face reflected in it. Peter approaches and lightly touches your right shoulder, bidding you to rise. You stand and before any business is discussed, he invites you to the parlour for a cup of tea, coffee, hot chocolate - whatever your heart would delight in - and a slice of freshly-baked cake.
Every room in that castle radiates warmth and security and the courtyard is a place of serenity, an area dedicated to the thinkers, the readers, the silent writers, and every type of person can find a room where they can feel content.
Such is the home of our wonderful prince.
I arrived on a sunny day at my beloved’s castle. It is always springtime there, though a certain magic in the air means that every species of flower may grow in the gardens. Peter walked out of the castle to greet me, playfully tugging me inside where we waltzed across the marble tiles; he led me to the chamber which he told me belonged to me - it was a circular tower and had a window facing west and the hues of the wall and the bedcovers made me feel light-hearted and like a young child; he kissed me beneath a ceiling decorated with coloured paper chains which sparkled gold and silver when they caught the sunlight; he showed me a cat and her kittens on the bed which were to be mine to care for as I was Peter’s to care for. Next, he led me to a grand library, a noticeable spring in his step as we walked, and he told me that if I didn’t find what I was looking for, he would order it specially or have one of the castle staff write the story I desired to be immersed in.
As we walked from the world of books and comfy armchairs, I heard the happy barks of puppies. Soon, around me were skittering young Labradors: golden and chocolate and ebony black. Peter laughed, took one up into his arms and ruffled its fur. The puppy barked and I laughed too. These carefree animals followed us out of the castle and into the forest of fir trees before running off to enjoy their youth amongst the trees which looked so proud to be in Peter’s forest and so protective of the people who entered their realm. I hardly needed Peter’s assurance that the pups would be fine and that there was nothing in the woods that could harm them.
It was in the forest that we shared another kiss. The kiss was slow and the feelings behind it intense as the wood took on a mystical atmosphere and the surroundings grew quiet with awe at the perfection of our togetherness. When we drew apart there was dew on the forest floor as if forest-dwelling spirits had cried during the embrace.
Peter took my hand and we walked silently to our next destination - the courtyard of the castle. We sat beside each other on a bench near a circular duck pond. Tiny mallard ducklings paddled through the water as their mother watched protectively from the banks. Peter absently stroked my hair as we watched, his aura of unadulterated love enveloping me and producing the same delight in my soul as the blissful touch of his lips.
When the ducklings returned to their mother to snuggle into their nest for an afternoon nap, Peter led me to the parlour I mentioned earlier. Today’s cake was not one cake: it was a selection of fairy cakes topped with icing, milk chocolate buttons and hundreds and thousands, as well as those tiny silver balls. Peter fed me a spare chocolate button. He took off the silver crown on his head and placed it upon mine, saying it suited me perfectly.
“You’re the perfect princess, Tia,” he murmured. “A dream come true for any prince.”
“Though only yours,” I replied, moving into his lap and nestling into him.
When our food and blackcurrant and elderflower tea had digested, Peter took me into the gardens. We walked along the paths passing marigolds, daffodils, snowdrops, tulips, sunflowers and bushes of all shades of roses. My prince picked one whose petals were as white as freshly fallen snow and handed it to me. As his fingers brushed mine, he leant down to whisper in my ear, “I read somewhere that according to the Victorian language of flowers a white rose means that the giver is not worthy of the receiver.”
“It should be me giving it to you then,” I told him as he leant away, smiling his quiet but thrillingly intense smile. I leant up and kissed him, stroking the rose petals as if they were Peter’s heart.
“Oh, Tia, you make my heart complete,” he murmured afterwards, as if he had felt the caress of my fingers along the surface of his soul.
“I love you,” I told him.
“I love you too.”
Behind the gardens was a copper-coloured river. Willows, horse-chestnut trees, oaks and sycamore trees lined its bank. We lay side-by-side, fingers brushing, on the grass which sparkled like emeralds. We closed our eyes and surrendered to the contentment produced by the other’s mere presence, our thoughts floating away as the music of the rushing water filled our ears.
And it is with a heavy sigh that I pull away from the embrace of the daydream to see to what reality demands of me. My heart is lightened, however, by the thought of a wonderful piece by the talented ZillaGirl who might write about Peter a diary entry or might write a short adventure about Peter and his so endearing pets or dedicate any sort of writing form to the prince as our hearts desire. I know that her imagination knows no bounds and that anything she writes with inspiration will be beautiful. While I wait, I might re-immerse myself in my perfect Peter daydreams.