(no subject)
One moment, Daffodil was standing at the top of her hill, glancing out of the corner of her eye to make sure no one was watching, before throwing herself in a roll down the slope. She didn't care what they said. You could never be too old for rolling down hills. The next moment she was rolling down her hill through the thick grass and the thousand of flowers, and the moment after that, she found herself thudding into a wall that wasn't supposed to be there.
She sits up, carefully, and looks around, eyes widening. This is not her home. Her home never had such strange buildings, they're like nothing she's ever imagined. What evil witch or wizard or fairy has brought her here? And why?
She looks around. She doesn't see anyone. Why would they just leave her? Surely they're watching, waiting. Well, she'll meet them on her feet, like a Princess should.
She stands. The second her feet touch the ground, as always, the flowers start sprouting. No wildflowers, no meadowsweet and forget-me-nots, no sunflowers, no delicate tendrils of periwinkle. The plants sprouting are brambles, covered thickly in white flowers, but also in wicked sharp thorns, and thistles, beatiful raggedy purple heads and needle-spiked leaves.
She sways, colour draining from her face. She doesn't feel well. Her eyes flutter, and without a sound she collapses forward bonelessly, into the mass of plants. The plants continue growing rapidly for a moment, winding themselves around the Princess, before all is still, and the only movement is the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the slow trickle of blood from the few places where a thorn has pierced her skin.
She sits up, carefully, and looks around, eyes widening. This is not her home. Her home never had such strange buildings, they're like nothing she's ever imagined. What evil witch or wizard or fairy has brought her here? And why?
She looks around. She doesn't see anyone. Why would they just leave her? Surely they're watching, waiting. Well, she'll meet them on her feet, like a Princess should.
She stands. The second her feet touch the ground, as always, the flowers start sprouting. No wildflowers, no meadowsweet and forget-me-nots, no sunflowers, no delicate tendrils of periwinkle. The plants sprouting are brambles, covered thickly in white flowers, but also in wicked sharp thorns, and thistles, beatiful raggedy purple heads and needle-spiked leaves.
She sways, colour draining from her face. She doesn't feel well. Her eyes flutter, and without a sound she collapses forward bonelessly, into the mass of plants. The plants continue growing rapidly for a moment, winding themselves around the Princess, before all is still, and the only movement is the rise and fall of her shoulders, and the slow trickle of blood from the few places where a thorn has pierced her skin.