Maiden: A Feast of Fate Story

Maiden

In a land, far away from any kingdom, lay a field of brambles, impenetrable by any but the most determined adventurer. Each vine was covered with thorns as large as horses, the tips as sharp as the keenest dagger. No path ran through the weeds, and the ground was shaded from all light by leaves the size of wagons. Not even animals dared risk the darkness, fearing to be lost, to never see the light of day again.

In the midst of the tangled vines stood the most beautiful tower. It reached toward the sky, carved from the purest marble. A roof of red faience tiles topped the delicate construction, the color echoed in a stained red door set at the top of a staircase that wrapped around the slender tower. The entire structure gleamed in the shining light of the sun.

The stories of this tower were many, and as varied as the people who told them.

Some told tales of a wicked beast who lay wrapped around the base of the tower, chasing off all those it did not devour upon first sight. Others told tales of an enchantment laid upon the grounds, one that caught all comers unawares and trapped them for all time as statues. Those stone figures decorated the grounds of the wondrous garden at the base of the tower.

Yet others spoke of a powerful sorceress who lived within the tower. So great was her magic that she could ensnare men's hearts with a smile or a nod of her head. And when she tired of their attentions, they were released back into the world, their minds twisted and broken.

Many of the stories focused on the figure who lived in the tower. The inhabitant was always a young woman, living alone. But that was the only consistent detail. Some said her hair was long, others that it was short; some said it fell straight, others in curls or in gentle waves. Some said her hair was black, some blonde, and some even said she had hair the color of the flaming sun at dusk.

And as varied as the stories about the Maiden were, none of them were false.

Once, she had appeared with skin as pale as cream, with flaxen curls and rosy cheeks. Then she had been called Helen, and her face had launched a thousand ships, beginning a great war at the city of Troy.

At another time, she had gone by the name of Guinevere, the perfect example of a proper queen. Her hair was worn beneath a veil, only revealed to her husband, and both her wrists and ankles were covered by her dresses . All her looks were demure. All her smiles were shy. And all thought those smiles were aimed towards them, leading to the destruction of Camelot.

The list of the Maiden's names and homes was endless.

Each time she thought she had finally found a home safe from jealousy, safe from the next disaster that seemed to plague her, that hope was dashed upon the ground. And she had fled, farther and farther, looking for the next set of arms that would offer her sanctuary.

Eventually she had found this tower, built even longer ago than she could speculate. The years seemed not to mark the stone, and, though there was no sign of any other inhabitants, the rooms were not covered in dust.

The tower became her sanctuary, her safe haven from all the envy and hate that rose up at the sight of her face among men. As she began to feel more at home, the brambles began to grow, sheltering her further from the stares of men. For the first time, she did not fear to step outside her door, did not fear she would hear the clash of swords or the shouts of battle should she not hide herself away from the world.

This was when the true magic of the tower made itself known.

The loveliest rose garden took root at the base of the tower. The plants sprang up of their own accord, the blossoms hanging heavily on the bushes, their bright colors and heady perfume filling the air. It was the perfect sized garden in which to wander between the branches, or even run beneath the spreading blue sky.