Oh no. I've written a medieval-style shot. It's the apocalypse.

Rest assured, everyone: This isn't the usual Princess-and-Prince-Forbidden-Love story…

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

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On the day before she was to be crowned the country's princess, Tenten raised her eyes at the grand staircase. The gold took her by her hand, making her dream of how one day, she'd be rising to the top of the staircase, perhaps to heaven. And when she does, she'll be the princess. Hail to the princess, she'd always hear. What glee…

"I cannot be there when you go up the grand staircase," Her friend informed her, almost soberly, "I'm not allowed to even walk by you once you're crowned princess tomorrow."

It was a fact she found difficult to accept. A princess could not mingle with commoners as much as she wished she could. What more from the executioner's son? He was considered dirty, sinful, discriminated for what he does to the prisoners who were sentenced to death. But Tenten wished to object. Someday, when she was queen, she'd change that…

He added, "I'll have to start addressing you as 'Princess', too, or 'Your Highness'. I'd also have to bow every time I see you," He turned to her, watching her still admire the staircase presented before them, "And I'll just be… the executioner's son all over again."

"Of course not," she refused it, shaking her head, "You'll be the only one to never call me those titles. I'm forever Tenten to you, remember that. Address me as so in private and don't address me in public at all. They'll have you killed for even touching me. I'd never forgive the world if you get hurt," And she gave his shoulder a mild clap, "And you'll be my Neji. Always."

Neji smiled with her, "Always, then," he acknowledged, "Thank you, Tenten."

With that, she took his hand and invited him to a waltz, one accompanied by the silence of the walls and the twitter of the magpies outside.

No one knew of whatever was between the princess and the man behind the guillotine…

—.o.O.o.—

The grand staircase was an intricate and valued piece of architecture, based inside the palace beneath the crystal diamond chandelier with golden steps lined with rouge carpeting. They say that the first blue bloods of the country's royal family descended upon those steps, hand in hand just after becoming brought together with matrimony. From then on, it was believed that the heirs must trail through the grand staircase on their wedding day…

It was a piece that honored everyone in the palace, in the land… But, tonight, the grand staircase was the only place she could run to…

A lavish blossom of golden threads and satin enveloped over the bottom steps of the staircase, layers of skirts running down like water. The hems glinted with sequins, the sides clouded with ethereal beads and dots of fabric glitter, like fruit flies' beams. And her tiny feet poked their heads from beneath the puffed cloths. She would've been a wondrous sight to behold, if her flushed cheeks weren't so soaked to the skin.

A happily ever after, it was all every princess, even every stable girl would wish for upon the passing shooting stars. Except her, at least. Princess. Not quite a title she'd proudly bear by her name. It sounded foolish, outlandishly revolting. No one has ever called her one, though she dreamt of it once. And her friends, the bard's sons and daughters, would crown her with daffodils in their respect.

There is no happily in her ever after. She only had an arranged marriage tomorrow morning, a dawn greeting of false love to a stranger she'd never met. Whoever he was, he was after the inheritance, the wealth her name bore rather than what her heart could offer. Such misery it'd be to sit on a throne, to stand beside as a shadow and to tend the children like flocks until she withers a crone.

There'd be no fairy godmother. Her prince, be far from the knight in shining armor. He, in fact, is the dragon, the abyss she could not be saved from. And this wedding gown she had tried on, the majestic summer glow, felt like a rag, choking her in its mercy. She'd have to dance in the dreadful thing, too…

Taking her by mild surprise, a cold hand met her shoulder. She hoped it wouldn't be a guard, ready to carry her back to her quarters. Midnight shift guardians always would oblige her to return to her bedroom until the sun has risen. But, her gut wandered at who has found her in her nighttime sorrow…

The executioner's son. Pale moon features bleeding against crow's plumage, she swears she could see his guilt for all the deaths and capital punishments he and his father had drawn out. But all knew it was simply their debt to the kingdom, to be forever ostracized for the blameless and culpable blood they had spilt. With the black hood against his back, the princess nearly gulped at sight of him. Yet she knew better…

He merely raised his brows at the royalty—no bow, no greeting, no wave. And there, he handed her his handkerchief, porcelain as his lips. And, to his satisfaction, she meekly took it from his grasp, making their fingers kiss for a brief moment. "Please don't cry anymore," he whispered, giving her an intent yet compassionate stare before walking past her, away from the grand staircase.

She wiped her powdered cheek with the handkerchief, savoring the gentle caress it offered to her. Such comfort, she thought. And how it felt so much like his hand made her chest heave a dry sigh. The executioner's son was once her best friend.

—.o.O.o.—

The grand staircase was still standing, lost its luster, but still everlastingly grand. Over the land, it still towered. Yet, all over the castle, it has turned into a venue for a great insult brought upon the entire kingdom, the entire royal line, especially to the heir, the princess who was to marry… to escape whatever ill fate had to be given…

The rebels roared in their angry protests, raising their clenched fists with their voices. Invaders have taken the royal palace by storm, marking a disastrous moment in the country's history. Royalties were hostages. Citizens came, brutally tortured. And the palace staffs—cooks and maids—were forced to do the enemies' bidding, to bow before them.

A princess was a trophy, one like a coveted and prized elk in a winter-showered forest… the kind that the predator wishes to see hanging lifeless on a brick wall over the ghastly fires of the chimney root. As it is so, the same weeping princess, once cowering at the grand staircase, was in chains and wounds. She was made to tail an anonymous rebel towards her destiny:

The guillotine at the center of the town's square awaited her.

Shoved to her knees, she felt the wood fasten around her neck, trapping her. The pulse in her bound wrists screamed in terror with her tears. No blindfold spared her from the maddened and jeering faces of the adversaries. Such humiliation just before the time of her death made the princess only wish that the blade come quickly, to save her from the hell that stabbed her.

She looked up at the masked executioner. A scarred glare met hers. Behind the mask, she assumed, was the same man who had offered her a handkerchief on the night she mourned alone—or so thought—the same man who had never referred to her as his highness, not a bow from him or a greeting of respect…

… For he has always called her Tenten. For that was all she would ever be to her. Princess or not, she was his Tenten.

Tempted to throw an insulted remark at his lack of loyalty, she opened her mouth weakly at the man who held the rope that kept the blade in its place, above her head. But, before she could call for his attention, another poor soul was thrown through a guillotine, just beside her, ready to be executed as well. And her jaw only clamped shut at who it was.

"I have told you already," the victim beside her, also fastened to a guillotine beside hers, said softly, "Please don't cry anymore."

Once again, she was exchanging looks with the executioner's son, who she had silently thought to be the same one who'd drop the blade upon her throat. To her relief, he was not the one behind the mask. But, to her dismay, he was going to die with her. "Why?" she mumbled, questioning his decision. She knew that those who served in the palace were kept alive, to be used as slaves afterwards.

The executioner's son only replied, "I lived by this blade. I die by it," The princess sensed his cold finger stroke lovingly the back of her hand, straining in his tied-up state, "I live by your side. And I die by your side, too." He feebly smiled at her, somewhat glad that he'd have to end things this way. She, on the other hand, only cried harder than she ever would.

"Thank you, Neji," she mouthed, through pouring tears and coming rain. He didn't respond; he wrapped a finger around hers, for it was all that the rope that bound them could ever allow.

And there, the blades flew, slicing through air before ending their melancholy. Strangely, no one applauded the death of the princess and the executioner's son…

—.o.O.o.—