The knight continued through the day to make his way to the castle. Although the sun hung bright and heavy in the sky, he stopped only briefly to rest a moment in the scant shade of the tangled thorns. Their gloom was relieved in random patches of small lacy flowers, with a delicacy incongruous to the thorns.
The sun set and the moon rose, pale and wan, but he continued. His journey was painfully slow as he made his way through the thorny bristles that scratched his bright armor, and he could barely see his path with the light of the dim moon. Glinting bones of those who had come this way before and failed served as both a dire warning and a grim marker for a path. Presently, the moon, too, set, and the sun rose again.
At last he reached the thorn choked gate of the castle. It was curiously quiet and dusty; an aura pervaded throughout of tranquillity and haziness. He reached the door and pushed the solid wood back. Hinges gone too long without oil creaked, the sound echoing through long undisturbed silence. He stepped hesitantly in to a hall coated with a finger’s width of dust. It was warm and bright in the hall, the morning sun slanting through the windows, filtering in dust. There was no one around, and yet the silence seemed expectant, rather than empty.
She noted his careful approach and impatiently twisted a lock of hair about her slender finger. All was ready, if only he would hurry. She lay back down on the brocaded quilt and proceeded to wait.
The knight warily unsheathed his sword, making a length of blinding light among the dust and lazy sunlight. He ventured through the armory, the great hall, and made his way through every undisturbed room. At last, he had only the tower room left to search. His heart quickened, filling his senses. Outside the wooden door, he stood hesitantly for a moment, willing calm into himself. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed open the door.
Bathed in sunlight, she lay on a great bed in the middle of the room. Her hair was spread out on the silken sheets, strands of glimmering sunlight. Her eyes were closed, long, thick lashes falling on ivory skin. Her mouth was curved sweetly, as though she dreamed pleasant dreams.
Afraid to breathe, the knight knelt down, as quietly as he could in his armor. He tucked his sword slowly to the side and bent his head, slowly closed his eyes and touched his mouth to hers.
She changed entirely, from a beautiful, elusive dream to living reality. Her eyes fluttered open, she placed her arms shyly around the knight’s neck and allowed him to carry her to the floor. He placed her down gently, afraid he might shatter her into shards of porcelain, or in any way displease her. “My lord,” she said, her voice low and sweet. “My hero has finally come to save me.”
He could say nothing, do nothing but gaze at her, unbelieving that this goddess had lowered herself to speak to him at all.
“You have rescued me from a terrible curse,” she continued graciously. “Name your reward. It shall be granted.”
Still he was silent, unable to say anything.
She laughed gently, her voice like water bubbling over a stream bed. “You may have as long as you like to decide. In the meantime, rest. You are tired and thirsty, and I can at least offer you my hospitality.”
She turned away, offering a rich, velvet clad arm to him. He accepted it tremulously, stammering his thanks. She brought him to the great hall. It seemed brighter, more vibrant, in her presence. In silence, he watched her as she brought out a bottle of fine, aged wine and two goblets of silver with an intricate design, perhaps of delicate lacy flowers, engraved upon their bright surfaces.
She turned towards him, deftly pouring the deep red wine into the goblets. It gurgled softly as it flowed. When both goblets would have spilled over with another drop, she handed one to the knight who gladly drank it down. She savored hers, little by little, and with great satisfaction.
The world began to spin for the knight, all colors blurring into one chaotic, unending nightmare. He tried to speak but found his tongue heavy and unwilling to obey his order. His last image before his vision turned to black and he slumped over the table was of the lady, haloed in gold. She was smiling.
She watched him die, slump forward on the table, suddenly boneless. The silver goblet fell from his numb hand and spun lazily before it toppled over with a metallic clink. One last blood red drop crept from the glass and slipped, forgotten, onto the floor.
***
She tossed the clean white bones carelessly into the hemlock and thorns below with one pale hand. She daintily brushed the last of the blood off her mouth with a silken handkerchief. She cleaned up the remnants, wiped off every stain of wine or blood.
When all was done, she stood by the window, letting the sunlight illuminate her golden hair. She stood, waiting patiently for the next one to come, all the while playing with her flaxen hair and smiling. It had happened many times before and would continue to happen...as long as there were heroes willing to rescue the beautiful princess asleep in the tower. And so she waited, patiently, patiently.
This was one of my first stories, and still in many ways one of my best. I really got addicted to retelling fairy tales after writing it.
