By Aethelfled (Jenny Ferragut) of the Guard
I am sorry. I am so sorry. I suppose you cannot understand me. Even if you could, I suppose you would not listen, not with my thorns stained by your blood and my branches pinning your limbs. I guess it will not hurt anything if I talk to you anyway. I have been so lonely. Even the birds stay away from here - away from me. I don't blame them.
It is not my fault I am like this. Will you listen? Your lifeblood is leaking into the ground now. You can't struggle anymore. At least you can know why you are dying this way. Maybe... maybe you will forgive me for killing you.
I was a spindle, years ago, a beautiful thing made of rosewood and carved to resemble a rosebud with a single thorn. I had no roots, no leaves, and the tools of man had shaped me for the use of others. I did not at first know why I was woken. I did not recognize the scarlet drop that was soaking into my single, strange thorn, nor the magic stirring like sluggish sap beneath it. Indeed, I had only just realized what I had become, when I was forced out of that beautiful shape. The magic raced over and through me like wind-tossed rain, stretching and twisting me, pushing me to grow and change so quickly that my whole being groaned in protest. Almost before I knew it, I had formed a canopy over the entire castle, from the highest tower to the very edge of the castle grounds.
When it finally released me, I knew something very wrong must have happened, something far worse than simple, if unusual, growth. Every rose bush and bramble takes great pride in its flowers, and a lesser pride in the thickness of its foliage. I am no exception, so I was distressed to discover that I had not so much as the smallest leaf, nor a single petal, but only a tangle of dark wood and darker thorns. If I had had my way, I would have gone back to sleep right then and there, but I could not. I was to be the guardian of this place, and the magic would not let me go.
At first I thought I could bear it. I decided that if all I was allowed to grow was thorns, then I would take pride in my thorns. I made them as long and sharp as I could, hoping all the while that the magic would relent and give me my blossoms, or at least leaves. I was a fool.
One day, less than a season later, I felt something - something horrible and altogether outside of my experience: Pain. I saw a knight hacking at my branches with his sword. Instinctively, I recoiled from his blade, and to my shock as much as his, my branches actually moved, clearing a path in front of the man. He entered the path with all the suspicion of a trained soldier, while I focused on opening up the path ahead of him - it was the first time I had felt pain as humans feel it, and I didn't want him to cut me again. Then, when he got about halfway through, I felt that same sluggish stirring, which had heralded the beginning of my growth in the branches closest to him.
Suddenly one of them lashed out at the knight, a thorny whip, which caught him unaware, wrapping around his exposed calf, where his armor did not reach. His cry of surprise and pain was accompanied by another swing of his steel blade, and I wished I could echo him as a foot of my own body was hacked away. Desperately I focused on the rest of my branches, which were lashing at him from all sides, impelled by racing sap that was the magic within me. The pain from his counterattacks shattered my concentration again and again, but my long, sharp thorns continued ripping into him, scenting the air with the coppery tang of blood. Eventually, he stopped fighting, but still the magic sent my vines whistling through the air. Helpless, I could only bear silent witness, feeling his flesh tearing with each impact, listening to the quiet whimpers that accompanied each meaty thud. At last, with my branches firmly tangled around the knight's broken body, the magic released me.
. . .
It has been the same for every man who has come here since, including you. I know from experience that however gently I try to release you, I will only hurt you more. I tried to warn you, as I have tried to warn every creature, which has come here since that first. You never seem to understand. You are suffering because I cannot make you understand.
Wait. You are not suffering anymore. There is nothing but bone and armor caught in my branches where you once were. Why did I dream of you now? These waking dreams are becoming harder and harder to separate from reality. It has been years since a man tried to enter the castle.
Dead. All of those brave men. Or asleep, I suppose.
Some men whimper in their last moments. Others scream. A few pray. You are the only one who was silent. Perhaps, that is why I speak to you and not the others. I want you to understand. I have come to know a dozen different subtleties to the scent of blood, but it was never by my choice. I do not want this.
I want to sleep. Why will the magic not let me sleep? I have been awake for far too long. Almost a hundred years now I think. Nothing was meant to be awake so long. I am so tired...
Who is that coming? A young man, almost a boy, with a sword and a determined look, and an old man trying to pull him back.
Oh no. No no no no no no no no no! Turn around brave boy; listen to your elder! Do not spill your hot blood on my cold thorns!
I rattle my branches, showing them the bones of others, human and animal, who have ventured into my despairing grasp. The boy shakes off the man, looks at him, and points his sword at me. "I will break the curse or die trying."
Oh no, brave boy, do not grieve the old man! You will die, because the magic will not let me spare you. Turn back, turn back foolish boy!
He does not hear me. None of them ever hear me. I cannot watch this happen again. Not again. But I have no eyes to close, no ears to plug. The magic forces me to be aware as well as awake. Already I can feel it stir as the brave, foolish young man comes closer. His sword rises, falls.
Pain. I learned to ignore the pain years ago. I will not pull away now. I will not make it any easier for this boy to meet his sad fate. His arm comes down again and again and again. I beg through my pain: Please, boy, stop this and save yourself!
Now the magic rises up, and, against my will, my branches move aside from the young man's path, the broken ends oozing thick sap. He takes the route revealed without hesitation. If he knows it is a trap, he does not seem to care. I can sense the magic preparing to strike him down.
I am tired of this. Tired of the pain and the blood. Tired of being forced to put so many to sleep before their time, while I am forced to remain awake far beyond mine. Most of all, I am tired of being always the thorn and never the flower!
A hundred years I have been the unwilling guardian to this place. A hundred years of pain and grief and loneliness, subject to a force that snuffs out the life of every creature that approaches me! I will stop this now! I will stop the magic, and I will not be the thorn anymore!
I WILL BLOOM!
. . .
I failed. The magic is gone, and my branches are blood red again. There seems to be more than ever. Perhaps it is simply that it has been so long since a man was caught, I have forgotten.
What is that smell? It is not the coppery scent of blood. So strange, yet so familiar. I have not smelled it in all the time I have been awake...
That is not blood that colors my branches...
My roses! And now the rest of my branches are blossoming as well! The thorns are bursting into bloom - explosions of scented petals that rain down on the beautiful, brave boy who has at last passed into the courtyard which none have seen for a hundred years.
He enters the castle, heedless of the miracle going on around him, and a short time later emerges with a beautiful girl. She stares up at the shower of rose petals falling from my branches and smiles as if she shares my joy. Now, as the last of my thorns blossoms, I feel my awareness beginning to slip away. The magic that kept me awake is gone at last.
Thank you, brave boy. Live well, and sleep peacefully.