NEW: the summer prince.

 

Autumn was nearly spent, and the boy - the summer prince - was finally asleep. He slept, his naked breast rising and falling in a slow murmur as he lay curled in a sheltered hollow of the wood. Trees, their leaves already fallen to give the prince a soft bed on which to lie, watched him silently as they swayed in the cold late autumn breeze.

Brambles, warriors of the woodland, slowly and gently curled around him - sealing their winter fate and his. The boy mumbled in his sleep - and the brambles listened. Their harsh, deep thorns scraped their way across his naked body - leaving scarlet welts, but never puncturing, never drawing blood, they knew that he was not be marked with permanence. 

He was - to everyone, the prince of the green leaved woodland, prince of the gentle heathered moor, prince of long days and warm nights. He was both fable and tale, a story with no ending. He was a boy in sleep, soon to be encased within a sanctuary of thorns. Autumn was nearly spent, and the wide confident stride of the boy who would be the winter prince, would not be far behind.