[June 7] [Jim Henson's The Storyteller] Given Time
Title: Given Time
Day/Theme: June 7 - roses can sprout in the concrete streets
Series: Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller
Rating: PG
“Anything can be beautiful given enough time,” The Storyteller said. “It only took a hundred years for the thorns to grow over the old castle, and then, another season for the roses to bloom. They were everywhere! Great blossoms like huge drops of blood on the thorns, silky spots among the sharpness, covering the walls, growing through the streets and the floors, and coming up through the drains.
“In long-cold fireplaces, red burst into life again, roses where flames had been. Stained glass windows were blocked by tangles of briars and blooms, no less ornate or bright or beautiful. The countryside for miles around was hazy with the summer-warmed scent of roses. But no one ventured close enough to pick them, because they believed the palace was cursed.”
“Cursed with roses?” the Dog raised its eyebrow tufts at him. “Or with a lack of gardeners?”
“Everyone inside had never come out.,” said the Storyteller, spreading his hands wide. “Those who had ventured inside never came out either. The brave soul who tied a rope around his waist before going in ended up pulled out by his friends after the rope had been still for too long.
“He was sound asleep at the end of it, never to wake again while those friends lived. They took him home, and put him to bed. His wife remarried after a year, and they gave his slumbering body to the church for safekeeping. It was frightening, of course. It was unnatural, most certainly. And for years on end, the smell of roses was not so much enjoyed as feared.”
“Then what?”
“Then, the prince came. Before the tales of the curse, there were tales of the princess, imprisoned in her chambers, waiting for a kiss to set her ”
“And he didn’t fall asleep like the others?” The Dog snorted and turned back to the soup bone between its paws. “True love, right?”
“That would’ve been impossible!” the Storyteller declared. “This prince had been born nearly 70 years after the thorns started growing. He had never seen the princess, not even a picture, knew nothing about her except that a fairy tale claimed she existed at all. He was not a lovelorn royal poet following his heart into danger for the glories of love.”
“No kidding.” Some reluctant interest had come back to the Dog’s expression. “What kind of prince was he then?”
“A forgotten one. He had four older brother between himself and the throne, and two younger ones waiting for him, as well as a handful of sisters here and there. His own kingdom was full. His sisters had been betrothed to all the neighboring nobility, and he himself was getting no younger. His only hope of castle and queen of his own was to go out and find one.
“If there was a princess inside for him to marry, so much the better. If not, he would win the throne on his own. He didn’t care if she was beautiful or plain, sweet-voiced or silent, dark or pale. If she would have him, he would marry her. If she would give him a kingdom, he swore he would honor her as long as he lived.
“So, he gave the matter of the curse some thought. Everyone who passed through the gate fell into wakeless sleep, but the roses continued to bloom in season. Whatever affected the people inside had not affected the roses. So, rather than just walk in, he took off his armor except for the chain mail, wrapped his arms and hands as best he could, and began to climb the rose bushes.
“After a hundred years, the thorns were as long as stilettos and as sharp. They pierced his mail and padding, making their own blooms of red in his clothing as he climbed through the roses. The vines had engulfed the whole castle, so as the sun climbed higher, so did the prince. His blood fell on the sleeping bodies far below, and as the sun began to set, he reached the top of a tower.
The hundred years had taken its toll. The shingles had been worn away long ago. The room was full of dead leaves and debris. The furniture in the room was crumbling and weatherworn. What had once been tapestries and draperies were now faded threads.
“Time had not stopped here, he thought. Perhaps when the ceiling had given away, the magic had escaped the room. There were spiderwebs everywhere, and when he looked closer, he saw the spiders themselves, going about their work. They weren’t asleep, and it gave him hope that his exhaustion was from the climb and that he would wake up. He had been sensible enough to bring a candle and flint, so he lit that with his pierced and bleeding hands and sat down to patch his wounds up as best as he was able as night fell over the world.
“With that done, he looked around for a clear spot to sleep in. He curled up in some of the dead leaves and slept as soundly as the cursed until the chill of early dawn jabbed him like the thorns had. He awoke shivering, and since he had torn his cloak into strips to bind his hands and arms, he went looking through the room for something sturdy enough to wrap in. He brushed spider webs aside and pulled at the rotting old draperies. They came apart in his fingers and uncovered something that nearly froze his brave heart.
“A woman lay under the detritus. Some poor soul asleep, he thought, forgotten in the tower, buried under decayed curtains and dry leaves. She hadn’t awoken when the spell was broken from her room, but her clothes had aged from what had once been finery to a threadbare mess, held together with dust and mold and a layer of spider webs. Her face was young under its own layer of dust and cobwebs, but the hair had turned as gray as steel and was full of bird and mouse nests.
“It was her jewelry that told him who she was. She had rings on every finger, gold around her neck, rubies in her ears, and tiara like starlight in her hair. Only a princess would’ve been decked in such treasures just to sleep. So, heart hammering with hope, he wiped away the webs and dust from her face, shooed away a persistent spider, and kissed her.
“The girl who had gone to sleep in the midst of celebration awoke to a ruin, to find the bloodied face of a stranger peering down at her. The princess who had been given every finery in the land had to wear a sweaty, blood-stained shirt when her ancient dress crumbled as she sat up. She was frightened, of course. Dismayed, most certainly. But this stranger was hurt and weary and kind to give up his own shirt for her.
“She heard his story, and though she didn’t believe it at first, had only to see the great rose bush covering her home and the gray in her own hair. She had wept then, for the years lost, and when the prince had gone to sleep in her musty old bed, she sat with him all the night until the sun rose.
“When he awoke, it was his turn to be startled. Where had been only silence there was now the hum of voices, some weeping, some shouting. He was alone, in a chamber, still a bit musty, but hung with fine things. His clothes had been cleaned and were set beside his bed.
When the princess had awoken, so had everyone else. Miles away, in the old church, the young man who had tied the rope around himself awoke suddenly as well, badly frightening an elderly friar.
He was taken to the throne room, which was noisy with the sound of chopping. The room was still thick with thorn bushes, but a way had been cleared to the throne. The princess sat there in a new gown that had survived the long years, the mice and birds brushed out of her gray hair.
“The roses,” she said. “Have turned white. All but the ones on the far tower where you climbed. They are red as your blood. You have suffered much to save us. Our kingdom is in disrepair and it will be a year or more before it is as it once was, but we will reward you however we can.”
“And the prince, scabbed and scarred from his climb, knelt.
“I came to seek the hand of the princess in this castle,” he said.
“She is not what she once was,” the princess said. “Like her kingdom, she has aged and crumbled. Much needs putting right.”
“If you will have me,” he said. “I will help you.”
“And so the princess, being no fool, married the prince from another country, and though it was nearer to ten years before their kingdom was rebuilt, those who remembered said it was better than before. The roses still grew where they had been allowed to stay, white as snow in the summertime, except for the roses on the wall of the west tower, which stayed red long into the fall when the others had faded.
“The princess who was now queen ordered those to stay in honor of her husband, and when her children were born it was the game of the young ones to try and climb the vines as their father had done, until a special gardener had to be hired to trim the points off the thorns. This was, of course, the young man who had awoken in the church, who having found all his family gone, had gone back to the castle, and as he trimmed he told the royal children the story of the roses, and in time, one of them traveled far enough to tell the tale to me.”
“And that’s why you’ve been nursing this little sticker bush for so long.” The Dog rolled its eyes to a clay pot with a ragged-looking briary plant in it.
“With no enchantment but stories to feed on, it has grown slowly,” the Storyteller admitted. He pulled the leaves back, careful not to jab himself. “But…” He motioned and the Dog peered over his shoulder to see three small buds nestled in the briars. “Given time….”
Day/Theme: June 7 - roses can sprout in the concrete streets
Series: Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller
Rating: PG
“Anything can be beautiful given enough time,” The Storyteller said. “It only took a hundred years for the thorns to grow over the old castle, and then, another season for the roses to bloom. They were everywhere! Great blossoms like huge drops of blood on the thorns, silky spots among the sharpness, covering the walls, growing through the streets and the floors, and coming up through the drains.
“In long-cold fireplaces, red burst into life again, roses where flames had been. Stained glass windows were blocked by tangles of briars and blooms, no less ornate or bright or beautiful. The countryside for miles around was hazy with the summer-warmed scent of roses. But no one ventured close enough to pick them, because they believed the palace was cursed.”
“Cursed with roses?” the Dog raised its eyebrow tufts at him. “Or with a lack of gardeners?”
“Everyone inside had never come out.,” said the Storyteller, spreading his hands wide. “Those who had ventured inside never came out either. The brave soul who tied a rope around his waist before going in ended up pulled out by his friends after the rope had been still for too long.
“He was sound asleep at the end of it, never to wake again while those friends lived. They took him home, and put him to bed. His wife remarried after a year, and they gave his slumbering body to the church for safekeeping. It was frightening, of course. It was unnatural, most certainly. And for years on end, the smell of roses was not so much enjoyed as feared.”
“Then what?”
“Then, the prince came. Before the tales of the curse, there were tales of the princess, imprisoned in her chambers, waiting for a kiss to set her ”
“And he didn’t fall asleep like the others?” The Dog snorted and turned back to the soup bone between its paws. “True love, right?”
“That would’ve been impossible!” the Storyteller declared. “This prince had been born nearly 70 years after the thorns started growing. He had never seen the princess, not even a picture, knew nothing about her except that a fairy tale claimed she existed at all. He was not a lovelorn royal poet following his heart into danger for the glories of love.”
“No kidding.” Some reluctant interest had come back to the Dog’s expression. “What kind of prince was he then?”
“A forgotten one. He had four older brother between himself and the throne, and two younger ones waiting for him, as well as a handful of sisters here and there. His own kingdom was full. His sisters had been betrothed to all the neighboring nobility, and he himself was getting no younger. His only hope of castle and queen of his own was to go out and find one.
“If there was a princess inside for him to marry, so much the better. If not, he would win the throne on his own. He didn’t care if she was beautiful or plain, sweet-voiced or silent, dark or pale. If she would have him, he would marry her. If she would give him a kingdom, he swore he would honor her as long as he lived.
“So, he gave the matter of the curse some thought. Everyone who passed through the gate fell into wakeless sleep, but the roses continued to bloom in season. Whatever affected the people inside had not affected the roses. So, rather than just walk in, he took off his armor except for the chain mail, wrapped his arms and hands as best he could, and began to climb the rose bushes.
“After a hundred years, the thorns were as long as stilettos and as sharp. They pierced his mail and padding, making their own blooms of red in his clothing as he climbed through the roses. The vines had engulfed the whole castle, so as the sun climbed higher, so did the prince. His blood fell on the sleeping bodies far below, and as the sun began to set, he reached the top of a tower.
The hundred years had taken its toll. The shingles had been worn away long ago. The room was full of dead leaves and debris. The furniture in the room was crumbling and weatherworn. What had once been tapestries and draperies were now faded threads.
“Time had not stopped here, he thought. Perhaps when the ceiling had given away, the magic had escaped the room. There were spiderwebs everywhere, and when he looked closer, he saw the spiders themselves, going about their work. They weren’t asleep, and it gave him hope that his exhaustion was from the climb and that he would wake up. He had been sensible enough to bring a candle and flint, so he lit that with his pierced and bleeding hands and sat down to patch his wounds up as best as he was able as night fell over the world.
“With that done, he looked around for a clear spot to sleep in. He curled up in some of the dead leaves and slept as soundly as the cursed until the chill of early dawn jabbed him like the thorns had. He awoke shivering, and since he had torn his cloak into strips to bind his hands and arms, he went looking through the room for something sturdy enough to wrap in. He brushed spider webs aside and pulled at the rotting old draperies. They came apart in his fingers and uncovered something that nearly froze his brave heart.
“A woman lay under the detritus. Some poor soul asleep, he thought, forgotten in the tower, buried under decayed curtains and dry leaves. She hadn’t awoken when the spell was broken from her room, but her clothes had aged from what had once been finery to a threadbare mess, held together with dust and mold and a layer of spider webs. Her face was young under its own layer of dust and cobwebs, but the hair had turned as gray as steel and was full of bird and mouse nests.
“It was her jewelry that told him who she was. She had rings on every finger, gold around her neck, rubies in her ears, and tiara like starlight in her hair. Only a princess would’ve been decked in such treasures just to sleep. So, heart hammering with hope, he wiped away the webs and dust from her face, shooed away a persistent spider, and kissed her.
“The girl who had gone to sleep in the midst of celebration awoke to a ruin, to find the bloodied face of a stranger peering down at her. The princess who had been given every finery in the land had to wear a sweaty, blood-stained shirt when her ancient dress crumbled as she sat up. She was frightened, of course. Dismayed, most certainly. But this stranger was hurt and weary and kind to give up his own shirt for her.
“She heard his story, and though she didn’t believe it at first, had only to see the great rose bush covering her home and the gray in her own hair. She had wept then, for the years lost, and when the prince had gone to sleep in her musty old bed, she sat with him all the night until the sun rose.
“When he awoke, it was his turn to be startled. Where had been only silence there was now the hum of voices, some weeping, some shouting. He was alone, in a chamber, still a bit musty, but hung with fine things. His clothes had been cleaned and were set beside his bed.
When the princess had awoken, so had everyone else. Miles away, in the old church, the young man who had tied the rope around himself awoke suddenly as well, badly frightening an elderly friar.
He was taken to the throne room, which was noisy with the sound of chopping. The room was still thick with thorn bushes, but a way had been cleared to the throne. The princess sat there in a new gown that had survived the long years, the mice and birds brushed out of her gray hair.
“The roses,” she said. “Have turned white. All but the ones on the far tower where you climbed. They are red as your blood. You have suffered much to save us. Our kingdom is in disrepair and it will be a year or more before it is as it once was, but we will reward you however we can.”
“And the prince, scabbed and scarred from his climb, knelt.
“I came to seek the hand of the princess in this castle,” he said.
“She is not what she once was,” the princess said. “Like her kingdom, she has aged and crumbled. Much needs putting right.”
“If you will have me,” he said. “I will help you.”
“And so the princess, being no fool, married the prince from another country, and though it was nearer to ten years before their kingdom was rebuilt, those who remembered said it was better than before. The roses still grew where they had been allowed to stay, white as snow in the summertime, except for the roses on the wall of the west tower, which stayed red long into the fall when the others had faded.
“The princess who was now queen ordered those to stay in honor of her husband, and when her children were born it was the game of the young ones to try and climb the vines as their father had done, until a special gardener had to be hired to trim the points off the thorns. This was, of course, the young man who had awoken in the church, who having found all his family gone, had gone back to the castle, and as he trimmed he told the royal children the story of the roses, and in time, one of them traveled far enough to tell the tale to me.”
“And that’s why you’ve been nursing this little sticker bush for so long.” The Dog rolled its eyes to a clay pot with a ragged-looking briary plant in it.
“With no enchantment but stories to feed on, it has grown slowly,” the Storyteller admitted. He pulled the leaves back, careful not to jab himself. “But…” He motioned and the Dog peered over his shoulder to see three small buds nestled in the briars. “Given time….”