And thorns across her brow
So fair, so cold.
Like winter's bloom in spring.
And drops of scarlet at her feet.
She lay unmoving on the soft satin of the coverlet, dark hair encircling her pale face. She was not dead, her heart still beat beneath her bosom. Her chest still rose in steady rhythm. Her face was solemn; no smile lay across her lips, the sleep was too deep. Her slender hands, unmarked except for one scarlet drop, on the utmost tip of her index finger, contrasted against the midnight blue of her gown. Dark lashes brushed against her face, enclosing jewels.
All around the slumbering form, thorns entwined with the faint scent of rose. None touched her nor marked her, they only served as protection.
Time passed without notice. Until the day a lone figure in white, stepped into the castle.