The Princess and Her Sword: A Tale of Self-Rescue

For the woman who mistook longing for destiny, and rose anyway.

The ruins didn’t break her. They revealed her.

“She wasn’t waiting for a knight—she was remembering she was forged in flame.” —Elowen

There was a time I thought losing you would take the ground from under me. Not because you were the one— but because I had built a future around the shape of my hunger and mistook the ache for truth.

I didn’t fall apart. I fell inward— into the quiet chambers I had abandoned while chasing the echo of a man who was never mine. And in that dim, honest place, I found my sword.

Meeting him was never a fairytale. It was a mirror. Not of who he was, but of what I had been taught to crave. The rescues. The storybook endings. The soft illusions I painted like sacred murals. None of them held me.

Because I was never the damsel. I was the storm. Barefoot on the ruins. Crown askew. Blade steady.

I’ve fought wars no one witnessed. I’ve bled in silence and stitched myself back with breath and stubborn hope. And still, I waited— not for him, but for the man my soul already knows. The one who will carry his own blade. The one who will not save me, but stand beside me.

“You were never meant to be saved — you were meant to rise.” —Elowen

So I end the myth of tragic love. I end the ache of waiting for a man who was only a lesson. I choose myself— not as a consolation, but as a coronation.

If he comes, he may walk beside me. But I will not shrink to fit his story. I am the author now. And this chapter begins with a sword in my hand and my name returning to my own mouth.

@notesformysoulmate

This piece is protected—not to guard the quiet, but to honor the cocoon, the thaw, and the return it held.
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