After the end, the thorns will fall

Winner of the 2026 My Fair Lighthouse fiction competition

Eon gasped awake into the icy morning. The frost had seeped under the tent flap, claiming the air warmed by his breath, and leaving a stinging rind under his nose. He scrubbed it away with a coarse sleeve and yawned, cracking his lips with the stretch. He hauled himself up, scanning the floor for his fallen blanket, when his bleary eyes landed on something among the mess.

A white flower. Aurora was back.

She was there in the frosty undergrowth when he emerged into the light, blinded by the sun he had been sure he would never see again. Eon wrapped the blanket tight around himself, but she seemed at ease in the thin dress she still wore. Eon supposed the early winter was a greater comfort than the chambers she’d inhabited when he found her. She crouched like a startled animal between the heavy trunks of the trees that shielded them from the worst of the weather, her green eyes and nose pointed, nymph-like, down the path Eon had carved with what remained of his blade.

He bowed his head. “Princess,” he croaked, but her gaze didn’t waver. Her bare feet were worn and blistered. She must have been following him from a close distance, melting into the trees as seamlessly as if she had been one herself. Well, that wasn’t far off the truth. If he looked closely at her exposed throat, the sure marks of the brambles and thorns were still there, only faded, covered by the frost.

“It’s another three days’ walk until the next town,” said Eon, unheard. “I can buy you some shoes, warmer clothes. I’ll find something to eat and then — ”

And then, and then, and then —

And then what? Travel home? Back to real life, hungry to swallow another philosophy and pretend the previous ones weren’t so sour he couldn’t stomach them? Wasn’t home the very thing he’d fled when he found her?

Aurora stood up to her full height, turned, and walked off into the forest, seemingly deciding for the both of them. Eon followed after her, careful not to trip in his unlaced boots. He knew that they were wasting the daylight, but after three days in the woods, and no more wolves to show for it, he forgave a brief detour, and came upon a flat opening high over the valley. Aurora planted herself on the snow-covered ledge, her legs swinging over the sudden drop as if she did not see it.

On the other side of the valley, looking significantly smaller in the daylight, stood the castle.

Aurora’s head was tilted to one side as she watched it closely, perhaps waiting for it to crumble to pieces and fall into the gorge. Eon came to sit beside her.

“It will fall within a year,” he said, unsure whether to sound hopeful or sad. From here, it looked all grey and stony, though he would never forget being tangled in those petrified vines and thorns, feeling every motion, even a deep breath, retributed with a new tear in his skin. And yet, with each drop of blood shed on the ragged stones, he had pushed further in, through those briars that held the castle together even now.

But the thaw would come, sure as the spring rains, and the summer heat, and the elements would have their way with this place. Eon didn’t need to bring it down himself, just get her out.

He produced the flower from beneath the blanket where he’d shielded it from the cold. The petals were paper-thin, but survived the blast of air that came from the valley like a bellow as he held it up to the cold sun.

“Do these hurt the same?” he asked. Aurora shook her head, and Eon thought he saw a smile before she turned her head sharply away. A quiet, but sharp whistle sounded somewhere overhead. They both turned to spot a blackbird bobbing on a bald twig.

Another whistle met it, airy and tuneless, and Aurora coughed out a few notes before stopping.

“Don’t worry, Princess,” Eon chuckled, “you’ll find your voice soon. Come on.” He stood and offered her his hand. She took it with some hesitation, studying his scarred hands, the crisscross of new wounds overwriting old ones. They seemed to appeal to her, and she let him lead her back to the camp. The blackbird followed behind, bringing his song with him.

And in their wake, the first stone of many fell from the old castle’s parapet, crashing into the valley, heard and mourned by none.