Once upon a time, there lived a prince who loved to paint.

He painted the sky when the sun rose up into it in the morning. He painted the rain when it thundered down onto the stone pathways in his castle courtyards. He painted the squirrels and the chipmunks and the ducks and the birds and the flies and the ants and the rats when they scurried by the walls of his castle.

But while Prince John painted, there was no one to rule his kingdom and to protect his people.

When Prince John had to choose between spending the royal coins on feeding his people or expensive painting supplies, he bought the expensive painting supplies, and his people went hungry.

One day, a young woman, wearing rags so layered that she could no longer tell what garments the rags once were and with fabric so thin that—even layered—it barely covered her body, stole into the castle and hid herself in a dark corner to wait for the prince.

When the prince walked by, she jumped out at him.

Prince John screamed a high-pitched and shrill sound and dropped all of his art supplies onto the stone walkway.

He ignored the young woman entirely as he bent and desperately attempted to gather his treasures from the cold floor.

“My prince,” the young woman said. “My family is starving. My village is starving. My country is starving. While you paint, your people go hungry. Please feed your people. Please rule your kingdom.”

Prince John did not even look at the young woman or acknowledge her in any way. “Guards,” he called.

“Please, my prince,” the young woman said. “We need you.”

Finally, he looked at her, but he didn’t see the young woman covered in rags who had bravely confronted her prince to save her people. He saw an old hag who was interrupting him from painting.

“I am not like the other princes,” Prince John said. “I am different. I have a love— I have a passion that is more and that goes beyond everyday concerns such as food and comfort. Painting is why I wake in the morning and why I breathe. Painting is all that matters in life. Someone like you could never understand.”

“I do not understand,” the young woman said, “but if you love painting so much, then you will paint. I curse you!”

She spat and the spit hit Prince John’s cheek.

He lifted a hand slowly to wipe the spit away and then stared at his wet finger in horror.

“You will paint day and night. You will paint only me. You will appoint me as your counselor, and I will rule the kingdom while you paint me.”

Prince John opened his mouth to protest, but instead he furiously grabbed at his art supplies. He snatched up a canvas and a paint brush. He squeezed paint onto a pallet. He began to paint. He painted her, only her.

He painted her for 100 days and 100 more days. He painted her until his fingers itched to paint something else. He painted her until he grew bored. He painted her until he started to think that he might start to hate painting if he painted her anymore.

The witch ruled his kingdom, and he followed her around with a paintbrush.

But then something changed.

Prince John was finally so bored with painting her that he began to pay attention to the way that she ruled his country. He began to notice the way that her chin stuck up when she fought with his advisors. He began to notice the way that her eyes shown with tears of passion when she handed out food to the people of his kingdom. He began to notice how her hair flowed behind her like a royal cape. He began to think that she was beautiful.

“I think,” he said to her one night, “that I might fall in love with you.”

“Is this another attempt to get me to release you from your curse?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I am serious. When you cursed me, I was furious and I thought that nothing could be worse than this prison that you forced me into when you turned my own love and passion against me.”

She stared him down with those hard eyes that he had grown used to and had become fascinated with.

He admired the cunning behind his witch’s eyes so greatly.

“But you were right,” he said. “Painting matters. But my people matter too. I never would have seen that if I hadn’t been cursed to watch you ruling my kingdom.”

“I am glad you see it,” she said. “But that won’t end your curse.”

“I don’t want to end it,” he said. “Marry me and rule my kingdom, and I will paint you for the rest of my life.”

After many days or months or years, the witch agreed to marry Prince John. And as they wed, they shared true love’s kiss, and Prince John’s spell was broken.

So Prince John was no longer forced to paint the witch and only the witch, but he kept his promise anyway, and he painted her every day.

And she ruled his kingdom for him.

And they lived happily ever after.