Of Spindles, Scales, and Thorns

The white milk dribbled down Thornveil’s sharp teeth. Fresh red, stood bright against her light fur, vibrant and taunting, as if a fragile string was dangling… 

The light patter of Aurora’s feet, signaling that she was awake, shoo-ed Thornveil into her corner of the room, tail standing straight, with the bustling servants entering the room. The sunlight streamed through the mesh curtains (the purpose of which seemed pointless), with the maids immediately tending to the princess. 

She was bathed, briskly tucked into layer after layer of petticoats, and finally pulled tightly into a corset. Makeup was haphazardly dotted onto her face—her hair twisted into a simple braid. They had left the room as quickly as they had entered. 

The princess moved from the vanity to the cold, hard floor. Her smooth legs pressed into the marble at her feet, sending goosebumps up her spine, as the incoming wind pressed an icy finger down her back. She ran a raw, chipped nail over the embroidery of her dress. 

Honestly, it was beautiful. There were gorgeous flowers running up and down the hem, painting promises of a peaceful evening. The fuschia was very apparent, inviting even, but the princess moved her hand to the stitched thorns surrounding them. The padding of her fingertip caressed the tip of the point, beckoning it to sink deep into her skin, as if it were real. 

Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where an ancient spinning wheel sat cloaked in shadows, its presence a constant, unspoken reminder of her inevitable doom. The conditions of the curse were simple, really. Experience joy and die or embrace death’s cold arms through a mere prick of the wheel. Either way she was cursed to feel numb, robbed of any opportunity to experience even a wisp of tranquility or happiness. 

It was also a little cruel, placing the wheel in her room, giving her the opportunity to choose her own fate. Who did that to a teenager? She supposed it was strategically placed there to serve as motivation. Maybe the hope was that she could somehow break the curse if she willed so hard enough, though Aurora did not think that was how curses worked typically. She just wanted her freedom. 

The spindle gleamed faintly in the dim light, as if mocking her with its quiet patience. She tore herself away, forcing her thoughts back to the ornate pattern on her dress. The wheel had been looking too inviting lately. 

The harsh smack of the door being thrown open drew the princess out of her haze, standing up to meet Merryweather’s gaze.

“Aurora,” she said, a lilt in her voice, “Happy Birthday!” Another deep breath, feigned excitement, “Another year older!”

A smile skirted around Aurora’s lips, fading just as soon. Everyone knew about her curse. The quiet storm in her mind was brewing. The cruelty of it all, facing death when flirting with happiness—only deserving of a shapeshifter’s daughter. The rumors were always rampant, whisperings of how the king had brought home a she-devil. The word queen, forced upon the people, was spat out in disgust. But that was her fate—her curse had been sealed a long time ago. 

“Thank you Merryweather.”

Merryweather’s cheery demeanor faltered for a moment, her smile thinning as if she could sense the weight of Aurora’s indifference. “The celebrations are already underway,” she continued, clasping her hands. “Everyone is waiting for you in the Great Hall. The cake, the gifts, the dancing—” Merryweather cut herself off, reading Aurora’s shift in stance.

She had tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “All for me?” she repeated, her voice laced with a faint bitterness. 

Aurora stepped closer to Merryweather, the edge of her gown whispering across the floor, prompting the fairy to stiffen, her wings twitching as though she were resisting the urge to flee. “Aurora, I promise you, this is a joyous occasion. Please, forget about the curse for one night.” It was a plea—one that the princess would not stand for. Thunder was brewing.

Aurora, her voice calm yet cutting, questioned her, “What joy is there in celebrating a curse? Knowing that my life hangs by the thread of a spindle or one smile?”

Merryweather’s smile dropped entirely now, replaced by a flicker of pity. She opened her mouth to respond, but Aurora waved her off.

“Don’t worry,” Aurora said, turning her back to the fairy and glancing out the window. The French sunlight caught her pale complexion, painting her in an ethereal light. “I’ll play the part... maybe” Her voice was soft but sharp, like the thorns she so admired. Without waiting for a reply, Aurora strode past Merryweather, her skirts sweeping the floor with a serpentine grace.

As she reached the doorway, her hand brushed the frame, lingering there for a moment. A new calm had taken over her features—this one different from the fleeting expressions she’d worn earlier. It was dangerous. It seemed lightning was about to strike.

______________________________________________________

The hall was buzzing with excitement, the flicker of candlelight reflecting off polished silverware and golden decorations. Guests—distant relatives, courtiers, and nobles—mingled in clusters, their voices a murmur of polite laughter and idle conversation. The air was thick with anticipation, a false sense of joy pinned to their demeanors so softly, similar to the delicate lace of Aurora’s dress.

She lingered at the edge of the grand hall, her hand brushing the stone of the doorway as she watched the guests from the shadows. The air grew heavier, like the weight of a storm about to break, when the main doors of the hall creaked open.

Aurora entered the room, her presence immediately drawing the eyes of every guest. She moved with a languid grace, as though the world itself were beneath her. Yet every step she took felt deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. The expression she adorned herself with was more an extension of her thoughts than any true emotion. It hid nothing but a longing for something more—a sharp edge behind her eyes.

The grand table at the center of the hall was laden with delicate pastries, fruits, and in the middle stood a blue lopsided cake, towering over everything else. Perhaps it was a gift—a cheapskate who neither wanted to spend the time nor money on something meaningful. The colors, to Aurora, were an insult. The bright reds and yellows mocked her, like the brightness of a fleeting moment of happiness that would burn her if she lingered too long.

Merryweather followed her into the room, visibly uneasy. She made her way to Aurora’s side, her expression tight. "Shall we begin the celebrations, then?" she asked.

Aurora didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she picked up a small knife from the table, twirling it in her fingers, watching it gleam beautifully. The tension in the room thickened as she pressed the edge of the blade against her thumb, just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“You see,” Aurora said, her voice calm but chilling, “how simple it is to bleed for nothing.” Her fingers, now painted with red, drew patterns on the edge of the table cloth, the crimson spreading like a mark of something both defiled and divine.

The guests shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances, but none dared to speak. They had long learned that silence was safest in the princess’s presence, especially when her mood was unpredictable, like a storm.

“Why pretend?” she continued, her voice low, carrying over the hushed whispers. “Why pretend that this is a celebration when nothing is real? When everything is a cage.” A carelessness was ever-present in her voice.  

The prince stepped inside, shattering her dark thoughts, his polished boots echoing against the marble floor. He was tall, golden-haired, and unblemished—a stark contrast to the suffocating gloom of the castle. He carried an air of practiced confidence, but his eyes betrayed his unease, darting across the crowd as though searching for something—or someone.

Here comes the hero, she thought, her fingers tapping idly against the cold stone. His sword, glinting at his hip, promising a false sense of security. Perhaps it made him feel better? How cute.

The crowd parted for him as he moved closer, his eyes locking on Aurora as if drawn by some invisible force. She stayed rooted in place, her expression unreadable. The hall fell silent, tension thickening, almost palpable. Nobody would have shown up if given the choice. Who would willingly put themselves in this type of situation…? Aurora really thought she was quite funny. Too bad there was no one to laugh at her jokes.

Before the prince could speak, another presence filled the room. The queen entered, her steps deliberate and soundless. Her towering form was cloaked in shadows despite the bright candlelight, her face veiled in a silk mask that did little to hide her regal yet cold demeanor. Whispers rippled through the crowd, hushed voices murmuring about the she-devil queen.

Aurora’s gaze flicked to her, expression tightening imperceptibly. The queen’s presence always had this effect—a silent reminder of the curse that bound Aurora to her mother.

The prince unsheathed his sword, the rasp of steel against scabbard shattering the silence. “She’s here,” he said, his voice steady but laced with conviction. His eyes didn’t leave the queen as he continued, “Elle-diable” — the twirly accent decorating the word. Aurora didn’t understand why all princes thought so highly of themselves, as if they could solve everything. What was he even doing here? Who even invited him?

The prince’s blade gleamed under the light of the chandeliers, as he took a single, deliberate step toward the queen, who stood frozen at the far end of the hall. Her regal posture didn’t falter, but her golden eyes—so very much like Aurora’s—burned with unspoken emotion.

Aurora didn’t move, her body rigid as the air seemed to hum with a rising storm. She watched, breathless, as her mother’s lips parted, the faintest quiver betraying her composure.

The queen froze, her dark eyes narrowing behind the veil. Aurora felt her heart quicken, her hand gripping the doorway for balance.

“What nonsense is this?” the queen said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers through the room.

But the prince was undeterred. “You cursed this kingdom,” he declared, his voice rising. “You cursed your daughter, and now you hide behind a mask. Show us your true form!”

Why were they always so dramatic?

A low, guttural sound rumbled through the hall—a sound that was not entirely human. Her mother’s silhouette seemed to twist and distort, her shadow stretching unnaturally across the walls.

With a sharp crack, the queen’s transformation was complete. Her silk mask fell away, revealing gleaming scales and molten eyes. Massive wings unfurled from her back, scraping the high ceilings as the hall erupted in chaos. The queen’s true form—a towering black dragon—was undeniable now, her roar shaking the very foundations of the castle.

Aurora’s heart thundered in her chest, not from fear but from exhilaration. Her fingers tingled, itching to feel the thorns she longed for. She didn’t cry out; she didn’t run. Instead, she stepped back into the shadows, her lips parting in a soft, trembling smile—or at least the closest thing to a smile she could get to without triggering the curse.

The dragon roared, a feral sound that shook the walls, and the prince raised his sword with a calm, deadly resolve. “You’ve stolen enough lives,” he said, his voice a quiet promise of vengeance. “You won’t take hers.”

The queen lunged, her jaws snapping with lethal precision. The prince rolled beneath her massive frame, his blade grazing her underbelly. The queen shrieked, a sound so piercing that Aurora’s knees buckled. She clutched at the wall for support, her nails scraping against the stone. A strange thrill coursed through her, sharp and electric. This is what it feels like to watch someone die, she thought, her breath catching in her throat.

Blood—thick, black, and gleaming—dripped onto the pristine floor, pooling around the shattered remains of porcelain plates.

Aurora tilted her head, transfixed. The sound of the queen’s labored breathing, the hiss of the blade carving through her scales—it was so enchanting. She bit down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang grounding her in the chaos.

The prince was relentless, his strikes calculated and brutal. He drove his blade deep into the dragon’s side, twisting it with a force that sent the beast reeling. Her tail lashed out in desperation, catching him across the chest and sending him crashing into a pillar.

The prince staggered to his feet, blood smeared across his jaw, a particularly crimson drop making its way to his eye. She hoped it blinded him. He met the queen’s glowing eyes, unyielding even as the odds seemed insurmountable.

“Is this what you wanted?” Aurora whispered, the words barely audible. Her voice was laced with a dark, giddy thrill, directed at no one in particular.

The final blow came swiftly. The prince leaped onto the queen’s back, his sword plunging into the base of her neck. The dragon thrashed violently, her roars echoing through the hall as her wings unfurled in a last attempt to take flight.

The prince twisted the sword, ichor spilling from the wound in golden rivers. Aurora couldn’t tear her eyes away. The way the queen writhed, the way her claws scrabbled at the floor—it was hypnotic. Pain suits you, Mother, she thought. Perhaps this is the justice you deserve for cursing me.

The dragon’s tail lashed out, striking a nearby table and sending shards of glass and metal flying through the air. One shard struck Aurora’s hand, the sharp sting drawing a bead of blood from her fingertip. She stared at it, mesmerized by the ruby now adorning her. The sensation introduced her to a moment of intimacy with pain she hadn’t expected.

The prince, oblivious to her reverie, delivered the final blow. His blade pierced the dragon’s chest, sinking deep into her heart. The queen let out an ear-splitting roar, her body convulsing before collapsing to the ground. The mighty dragon’s form flickered, shifting back into the queen’s fragile human shape.

Blood pooled around her, staining the hem of Aurora’s dress. Her mother’s eyes, once fierce, softened as they found her daughter.

“Aurora,” she rasped, her voice weak but laced with an unspoken plea, of what Aurora has no idea. It didn’t matter either way.

Aurora took a step forward, her hand still deliciously tingling from the cut. For a moment, she imagined reaching out to her mother, offering comfort. But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.

Aurora’s gaze lingered on her mother’s lifeless form. The prince turned to her, his face a mix of exhaustion and relief, his sword still dripping golden ichor. “It’s over,” he said, his voice steady. “She’s gone. You’re free now.”

Aurora snapped to him, her face blank, only stared at him, her eyes glassy. Thunder clapped—internally or externally, take it as you will.

Something flickered inside her. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she had thought. Brambles budded off her backbone, deeply rooted in each one of the 23 discs that made up her spine. Aurora let the thorns kiss the prince’s neck, wrapping around his Adam's apple. She continued to make eye contact with him, as the life left from his eyes, sword still clutched in his hand. What an anticlimactic way to die. Jeez.

With that she turned around and left the broken little party, thrown in her celebration. How ironic. At least now it was fitting. 

The wind greeted her like an old friend, brushing against her face as she stepped into the night. The thorn bushes awaited her, twisting and writhing in the moonlight, alive, pulsing. She didn’t hesitate, her bare feet crunching against the frost-covered ground as she approached the thorny briar, its branches twisting like dark tendrils in the moonlight, reaching for her as though they, too, craved her touch.

Pressing a hand to the nearest thorn, Aurora let the beautiful thing pierce her palm. The pain was sharp and immediate, grounding her in a way nothing else could. She exhaled a slow, trembling sigh, as the second thorn pierced the soft flesh on the inside of her wrist. Another step forward, then another. The thorns welcomed her, sinking blissfully into her skin, drawing crimson lines down her arms, her legs, her back. Her dress snagged and tore as the brambles caressed her, the noise and chaos dissolving into the quiet hum of the wind.

She leaned into the pain, letting it guide her. The thorns carved delicate, chaotic patterns across her skin—criss crossing roads on her wrists, spiraling trails on her scalp, delicate threads along her neck and eyes. Blood mingled with the sharp fragrance of the brambles, staining the ground beneath her.

Each cut felt like a release, each sting a reminder of who she was. She had managed to avoid pricking her finger, plus her prince had come and 'saved' her. 

Now she was free.

But freedom was a cruel illusion, wasn’t it?

The people would retell the tale, twisting the tiny details to fill their hearts with hope, to soften the brutal shock of reality. They would sing of the brave prince and the princess he saved by killing the vicious dragon, their voices lifting to drown out the truth.

Aurora let out a soft laugh, bitter and broken. Perhaps they were no different from her. They clung to their illusions, their fantasies, just as she clung to her thorns.

The briars closed around her, their embrace unrelenting but familiar, and the world beyond disappeared into the shadows.