The King wanted a wife he could destroy.
When the Princess rose from twenty quilts and twenty mattresses, her body one dark bruise, he slipped a ring on her finger and watched it sprain from the weight, and called it love.
In the night, he crushed her sweetpea-petal body to him for the glory of her shriveling.
He cried out for the guards, for help, for anyone, when she crushed him in return. His voice crumpled in his throat.
In the morning, the Queen rose strong and plucked from the bed a dark, withered pea.