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He would never play ball with the other boys again.
Never dance in the rain and splash in puddles until his mother scolded him, laughing as she wiped the mud off his face.
Never smell fresh hay. Never nuzzle a cow's nose and have them nuzzle back. Never sneak behind the woodshed to kiss the girl who lived in the house by the bridge.
He stared, wide-eyed, out the tiny window, and thought of jumping. But they'd taken even that - the windows were too small, the men in silver plate always watching, eyes hard and leering. A man had looked like that at his mother once, and his father had hit the man in the mouth. But nobody was going to do that for him.
He was locked in a tower like a princess in the stories, without a voice or a name or any identity outside of what they gave him. He wouldn't wait to be rescued.
A score of years later, he'd freed himself, and never needed a prince.
One came anyway, but not to be his savior.