Perhaps she uses them to fend off the curious

Perhaps to cut those too comfortable

She does not need to fear a thing

When her thorns can dig so deep within

Perhaps they grew from her of spite

Or so that she might survive the night

The thorns of a flower

The touch they remember

The love they withstand

Like the cuts on your hand...

The leaves rustled in the cold, howling, wind. The tree trunks creaked as they swayed side to side with increasing intensity. ‘They call this land home.’ Said a voice from the darkness. But it fell on deaf ears, as the forest was empty of any living souls....

The torchlight barely met the stone ceiling above the three weary old men. One a soldier in King Alfred’s army, one a noble lord from Cuttenbargh and the other unknown to the others. They had awoken in this strange place of darkness with no recollection of how they had arrived. The soldier, already with sword unsheathed, scanned the black, stone, walls. They had no top… they simply rise, he though...