Tale As Old As Time

In this one, the princess is not locked in a tower or a dungeon, not locked in at all, but is perhaps three hours away by car in a dorm room, or eight hours away by plane in a two-bedroom apartment with a man that the beast has met only once. Across the land, the beast still wields his grip, like a monarchy unyielding even as it dies out. The beast calls the princess and if she does not pick up, the beast brandishes his anger like a gauntlet around her bared throat. When the princess does pick up, she speaks too much, or too loudly, or about something the beast knows nothing about. And so, as if it was foretold the beast wounds her, snide and unrelenting until she is silent. Until she picks up but barely speaks. Until she stops answering at all and tells tales about other dragons she must fight, other kingdoms she must traverse. After years of curses and broken blood oaths, when she has shorn her hair and abandoned her silks and satins, the princess tells the beast that his reign is over: he cannot call anymore, he has been slain by her beating beating unquiet heart. The beast roars like her voice will destroy him: the princess is disgusting, the princess will regret this, the princess will change her mind when she hears what the kingdom thinks of her. She does not cry, she does not run, she does not lay her new armor down. 

The townspeople warns: 

girl, he is the only beast 

that you’ll ever have.