Could be a one shot. Could be continued. Let me know.

Years later he would declare it had been the silence that drew him to the dark patch on the horizon. Years later he would swear blind he had felt no tug, no wistful links through faded recollections.

But all that would be in the future and right now maybe he should push on; the light slips from the sky, smudges turning to shadows. It isn’t even the day for riding out, yet he still spurs on his horse to the beginning of the tree; to where the dark patch begins.

He admires the picture it makes as the snow finally fulfils the clouds promise. Dismounting, he stands and lets the flakes drift against his boots and land on his eyelashes. He ignores them, compelled into putting down roots by the trees ahead of him. They call to him; sing in his sap and the thick, thorny brambles below reach and beckon.

The moment the sun slips out of view he understands. This forest is his fate. Besides the fairies no-one else knows how long he has wandered looking for it. He has been round the world three times over.

Ironic than that this forest borders his home.

Later, everyone would insist he would not have been scared a bit, that quaking in his boots was not his style.

The stories say he carried a sword.

Yet, if you could ask him, he’d correct you. Axes are far more practical whilst travelling. Swords aren’t much good for anything. Except killing.

So he is standing, watching the trees for some sort of confirmation, axe drawn.

The sign appears in the form of a perfect briar rose, in bloom with blatant disregard for the season. It is his signal and for the first time in his life he recognises that what he feels is pure terror.

Everybody knows the stories. Mothers and grandmothers preserve them around the fire.

Recalling them brings the memories of hot chocolate and sharp oranges back to his tongue.

When he was a child still and first heard of the dozen or so men who had gone into the forest and never returned; their fates were blamed on fairies, evil witches or spirits.

Eventually he realised their disappearance had less to do with fairies and more to do with humans.

Eventually he realised he could not suffer their fate. He had left.

The thorns dig in deep under the skin, he acknowledges, as his fingers grow numb and prickly by turns.

The three spins about the world have changed him. No running from destiny or death, his mother told him as he set off.

It is with annoyance that he accedes she was right. They have made his destiny for him, centuries before he was born. This is his rescue mission.

He is promised to the briars that grasp for him in the silent world which offers small comfort. Hot chocolate, that’s what he wants, rather than to be the hero when he can’t feel his fingers.

If it wasn’t a matter of honour…

Yet it is. A dangerous task, but not without its rewards. He smiles.

The promise will not be broken by him as it has been by princes. Especially when it was made to a maiden.

He shifts his grip on the axe.

Promise.

Honour.

Maiden.

A real tale, he thinks. Something for his children to listen to around the fire with sharp oranges and wide eyes.

He takes his first swing at the briars.

Woodcutters are simply more in tune with nature, he observes, as the brambles melt away, revealing his path.

Deep in the heart of the thorns, the frost thaws and another flower begins to bloom.