Disclaimer - I don't own the fairy tale Briar Rose. After all, if I did, would I be writing this? Most likely not. :oD
A/N - Dark, serious fic - it's rated PG-13 for a reason. There are a few mentions of blood and the like: they are mild. However, if you do not think you want to read such things, I would advise that you click the back button now.
"She will prick her finger on a spindle and die!"
Ten words. A curse, sealing her fate.
"She shall not die, but only sleep."
Seven words. A spell, freeing her from death. Or did it? The fairy did not specify how long she would sleep; how many years she would wait. Will centuries pass before she is free from Morgana's wrath?
Inside the castle she slumbers on, a drop of blood falling from her finger where she has pricked it; the blood upon the spindle still wet. The curse has only just begun. Outside, the hedge has begun to grow, its blossoms, deep red, nod in the wind. Already there can be seen in the hedge a prince, trapped and bleeding, his life force running on to the smooth grey cobbles of the road. He is dying, and for what? A fairy's - Morgana's - harsh words; her curse? The beauty of a princess locked in slumber? The thought of wealth beyond imagining? A magic spell?
Many will die; this prince among them. Only one will be able to survive the grasp of the thorns.
But only if he dares to fight them.
Some months later, another prince rides to the castle, prepared to brave the thorns to save the woman he loves from the curse. His sword is sharp; his hand is steady; his banner flies proudly in the wind. He is ready to cut away the briars to free her.
However, he is not ready for what lies before him. The slain princes, with their half-rotting flesh hanging off their bones, pecked by the carrion birds and pulled ever deeper into the vines. There is a reason the roses are red, here in this accursed kingdom without a king. Blood is the price of freedom.
He cannot help but recoil when he sees their dead faces grinning at him, with teeth now yellowed by the passing months. He dismounts from his horse; and stares at them, half in wonder, half in horror. Coming upon this unexpected obstacle, he loses all will to free his beloved. His sword falls to the ground; his shield clatters onto the ground beside it. His banner falls forward into the thorns, soon shredded by the briars. His resolve is gone. He cannot free the princess.
Turning, he runs away down the road, back to his kingdom, where he tells the tale of his horrible discovery to all that will listen. Sickened, his father excuses his cowardice, knowing that he himself would have done the same in his son's place.
A year passes. Noblemen's sons, princes from different lands and knights errant are still drawn to the castle where the princess sleeps on, despite the pleading of their mothers, sisters, brothers. None are successful; there are no survivors. All die upon the thorns.
In the next kingdom, a celebration is taking place. The prince has been wed, to a genteel lady of noble birth. All of this past year has been spent wooing her, trying to forget what has happened, what is happening in the palace hidden behind the hedge of briars, where his true love still sleeps. Often now he wakes from nightmares of what might have happened had he braved the thorns, of what his face might look like now.
If only he had known that he was the one . . .
The one to break the spell .
Six months later, his wife bears him a son.
A/N - Please review and tell me what your thoughts are. This is supposed to serious, so feel free to give me constructive criticism, or tell any thoughts that you might have. One reviewer noted that a previous story of mine that ran something along these lines reminded her of a story by Patricia Wrede. Please note that I have read that story - but when I read it, I was ten. I'm almost sixteen now. It's been a while. Feel free to point out any parallels. :o)
A/N - Dark, serious fic - it's rated PG-13 for a reason. There are a few mentions of blood and the like: they are mild. However, if you do not think you want to read such things, I would advise that you click the back button now.
"She will prick her finger on a spindle and die!"
Ten words. A curse, sealing her fate.
"She shall not die, but only sleep."
Seven words. A spell, freeing her from death. Or did it? The fairy did not specify how long she would sleep; how many years she would wait. Will centuries pass before she is free from Morgana's wrath?
Inside the castle she slumbers on, a drop of blood falling from her finger where she has pricked it; the blood upon the spindle still wet. The curse has only just begun. Outside, the hedge has begun to grow, its blossoms, deep red, nod in the wind. Already there can be seen in the hedge a prince, trapped and bleeding, his life force running on to the smooth grey cobbles of the road. He is dying, and for what? A fairy's - Morgana's - harsh words; her curse? The beauty of a princess locked in slumber? The thought of wealth beyond imagining? A magic spell?
Many will die; this prince among them. Only one will be able to survive the grasp of the thorns.
But only if he dares to fight them.
Some months later, another prince rides to the castle, prepared to brave the thorns to save the woman he loves from the curse. His sword is sharp; his hand is steady; his banner flies proudly in the wind. He is ready to cut away the briars to free her.
However, he is not ready for what lies before him. The slain princes, with their half-rotting flesh hanging off their bones, pecked by the carrion birds and pulled ever deeper into the vines. There is a reason the roses are red, here in this accursed kingdom without a king. Blood is the price of freedom.
He cannot help but recoil when he sees their dead faces grinning at him, with teeth now yellowed by the passing months. He dismounts from his horse; and stares at them, half in wonder, half in horror. Coming upon this unexpected obstacle, he loses all will to free his beloved. His sword falls to the ground; his shield clatters onto the ground beside it. His banner falls forward into the thorns, soon shredded by the briars. His resolve is gone. He cannot free the princess.
Turning, he runs away down the road, back to his kingdom, where he tells the tale of his horrible discovery to all that will listen. Sickened, his father excuses his cowardice, knowing that he himself would have done the same in his son's place.
A year passes. Noblemen's sons, princes from different lands and knights errant are still drawn to the castle where the princess sleeps on, despite the pleading of their mothers, sisters, brothers. None are successful; there are no survivors. All die upon the thorns.
In the next kingdom, a celebration is taking place. The prince has been wed, to a genteel lady of noble birth. All of this past year has been spent wooing her, trying to forget what has happened, what is happening in the palace hidden behind the hedge of briars, where his true love still sleeps. Often now he wakes from nightmares of what might have happened had he braved the thorns, of what his face might look like now.
If only he had known that he was the one . . .
The one to break the spell .
Six months later, his wife bears him a son.
A/N - Please review and tell me what your thoughts are. This is supposed to serious, so feel free to give me constructive criticism, or tell any thoughts that you might have. One reviewer noted that a previous story of mine that ran something along these lines reminded her of a story by Patricia Wrede. Please note that I have read that story - but when I read it, I was ten. I'm almost sixteen now. It's been a while. Feel free to point out any parallels. :o)