The whole place is covered in roses now—vines and bushes and even primroses sprouting underfoot, between the grass, growing green and blooming pink on earth that was once muddy and bloodstained. The vines have grown so tall that they form a great latticed dome over everything, casting frothy green-ish shadows even in the winter, for the enchanted roses never stop growing.
Some come to marvel at the array of silky buds and blooms, at the sea of fallen petals, browning around the edges, that surrounds the fort like a moat.
Others come to stare at the harsh red thorns, and shudder at the thought of what lies beyond. Children prick their fingers and hastily suck away the blood, daring each other delightedly to try to crawl inside.
One man visits more than others, not to look at the flower, nor to shy at the thorns, but to gaze, lost in thought, at something inside.
They whisper that it is something he left there—something so precious he nearly gave up his freedom for it. People shake their heads at this and mutter that he must be a greedy man to risk that, but only a few know what it really is.
He stands in a many-pocketed coat, with a face meant for grinning and yet used now only for frowns, and watches for something he will never see again.
There is a story everyone knows about a prince who slashes his way through tangles of thorns (and in some versions, also, a fearsome dragon) to save his love and wake her with a kiss.
The man who gazes so often at the roses is strong—he could surely wield a sword. The scars on his skin speak of bravery—he surely has the courage to enter the entombed fortress. There is something in his eyes that speaks of love—he certainly loves deeply enough to fight for it.
Why is it, then, that he only stares, and never speaks, never approaches?
When the spring grass sprouts, he is there. When the sky turns summer-blue, he is there, feet planted between the dandelions, watching. In autumn dead leaves drift around him, and in winter snow catches in his hair and on the hem of his coat. Always, he is only watching.
It is spring again, and everything is blooming. The briar roses by the gate bloom brightest, kissed awake by the sunlight.
The man sighs and turns away at last.
He has a sword, he has courage, and he has love—but no kiss can wake his rose now.