There once was a maiden named Sanwella, who was cherished for her high, rosy cheeks and shiny, white blonde hair. She did not think too hard on a wide range of topics and spoke little, so she was very much loved in her small village. One of her admirers was a fairy named William Briar who ventured from the Faerie to deliver Sanwella a fresh bouquet of the most wild and beautiful flowers every three days. This was an easy task for William as he was a florist, and his job was to create new and wild flowers for the royal courts. Sanwella always giggled shyly and spoke little to William when he delivered each bouquet.

To fall in Sanwella’s good graces, William decided to deliver to her a very special bouquet with flowers that had never before been seen in either world. He went to work gathering inspiration; it would smell as sweet as Sanwella; it would be as pale as he skin; it would feel as soft as Sanwella to the touch; and just by the its sight, it would make hearts flutter. William Briar would visit Sanwella over the course of months, reminding himself of her essence, and move back to his workshop to craft.

The months went on, and Willam Briar’s life was almost entirely in two places: Sanwella’s home or the flower workshop, accomplishing little at both. Sanwella would giggle and put her hand on William’s but for the most part paid him little mind. The flowers seemed to refuse to comply with his wants, never being beautiful enough or soft enough for his  high standards. The moment when it seemed that Sanwella’s attention to William dried up, he had achieved his masterwork; the perfect flower.

But he had overheard the other fairies speaking to each other of a fantastic wedding happening just next week. Sanwella was to be wed. The invitations had been sent months ago, and not only did Sanwella have no intention to marry William Briar, but he had not even been invited.

William Briar’s heart was broken. And as he was collecting his masterpiece to be destroyed, he decided against it, and instead gave it one more addition.

Sanwella’s wedding would go down as one of the most splendid celebrations in the countryside for years. Hundreds had attended the wedding, humans and fair folk alike had come from all over to see her received by some man (his name was Matthew Ashenbrooke or something silly and human like that). Of the hundreds that made their appearance at the ceremony, only a handful were invited to the reception; the newlyweds most personal and immediate friends and relatives.

Just as the feasting began, William Briar had entered the reception hall with a strange bouquet of white flowers. The room went quiet, not because it was an especially dramatic moment but because many did not know who William Briar was, and those who knew the name strained to remember him. No one noticed the blood dripping from the bouquet. William walked to the dais where Sanwella sat with her new husband.

“I have brought a gift for the bride,” William handed the bouquet of strange white roses to Sanwella, but when she reached to receive for them, he pulled away. “I have made these flowers just for you, Sanwella. None exist anywhere else. I have put everything that reminds me of you into them.

“The flowers are white, for I know how pure you are. The flower blooms, but never reveals its heart, for I know how shy you are, And their fragrance is sweet and subtle, for I know how only those nearest to you can enjoy your company.”

With this he let her take the flowers, but as soon as she touched them, she let them fall. Red welts began to bead upon her fingers as the flower’s had bitten her with their sharp thorns. Sanwella brought her hand close to nurse it, finally noticing the deep welts in William Briar’s own hand, as he had held the bouquet with a tight grip, the blood raining onto the flowers, dying them a deep sanguine.

“And there are thorns,” William Briar said, “for I know you often hurt those who wish to have you most.”