[FM] Wild Roses pt. 1: Prologue

In the Great Forest, some time ago, there lived a man by the name of Gale. He was no brave or beautiful man, nor a man of high birth or stature, and in his own home he was crowded out by two younger brothers and two elder, so when he came of age, he wandered into the forest to make a home and house for himself. For a parting gift his father left him with a woodsman’s ax, and his mother a kiss on the brow, and a satchel of provisions on his shoulder and the clothes on his back were his only companions as he wandered the forest in search for a place to make his own.

After searching far and wide, Gale found a clearing in the forest, and in the clearing he found a meadow, and in the meadow he found a great field of roses, and in this field he built himself a cottage. For a new name he took the flower growing in great beds around his home, and called himself Gale Rose. Here he settled and lived, hunting in the forest, fishing in the streams, and every now and then making the perilous trek to a village on the edge of the forest to trade small wooden figurines of bears, elks and roses he carved in the evenings for steel and seeds.

One day, on the way back from time, he came across a woman lying on the forest path, battered and bruised, wounded and bleeding, and at her urging he lifted her up and carried her home to his cabin in the woods, where he nursed her back to health. Winter was her name, a woman from a distant town, who had been taken by brigands from the north and carried off, but when a great bear had fallen upon them in the forest they had taken off, leaving her for dead as they fled for their lives. As the days passed, she quickly healed and regained her strength, but when Gale offered to return her to her town, she would have none of it. There was nothing there for her to return to but burnt fields and dead men, so in the forest she stayed.

In time, Gale and Winter grew close and closer, and with the woman’s help, the little cabin was turned into a house, and the house was turned into a home. In the mild summer nights, Gale slept under the stars as Winter slumbered in his bed, but soon he had built a room for her to have for her own. Almost as large as the cottage had ever been to begin with, and decorated with beautifully carved roses from ceiling to floor, it was almost as striking as the woman herself, and when the bed had been built and filled with straw and covered with pelts from the forest, Winter would have it no other way than Gale sharing it with her.

On the first night, Gale awoke in the moonlight and looked across the bed at her sleeping form, and found that while she had all the beauty of a snow-covered forest, her name belied her warmth.

On the second night, Gale awoke in the moonlight and looked across the bed for her, but found her arms wrapped around him instead, and when he fell asleep again it was with a smile on his face.

On the third night, Gale awoke in the moonlight to an unfamiliar sensation, and looking down found his breeches gone and Winter’s lips wrapped around his cock. The waves of pleasure rolling over him, he let her go about her merry business, and when he spilled himself in her mouth, she crawled up to him with a smile and a kiss, and they both fell asleep, entwined.

On the fourth night, they both went to bed naked, and when Gale awoke in the moonlight, it was to Winter sitting atop him with a smile, before she slid herself with a low moan down onto his manhood, all her warmth and gratitude spilling out of her and filling him up from head to heel. Her fingers digging into his chest and her hips moving gracefully and speedily against him, she howled her pleasure into the night as he spilled himself within her, her quavering voice joined by a wolf in the hills.

In the morning, they bathed in the small pond at the edge of the meadow, where at the edge of the water Winter found a sturdy rock with good footing, and sitting on it drew Gale in close and gave her body to him again. When they were both spent, they washed off and returned to their home, where they gathered up some carvings and harvests, before making their way into town, hands entwined where they walked along on the forest path.

In the night, they bedded under the stars on the forest floor, in the very spot Gale had found her, and under the watchful eyes of the towering trees, they joined again in the night, Winter’s savage cries of pleasure carried away like leaves on the wind.

In the morning, they reached town, where a blacksmith was found that would take Gale’s carvings and harvests for two silver rings and a wedding at his anvil, and with what remained to them traded for cloth and thread, needles and seeds, they returned into the forest as one; as Gale and Winter Rose.

Home once again, their first, second and third orders of business was consummating their marriage, which they did with the eager passion of youth for night and day and night again, and from that day on ever day; in the evening, in the dark of night, and at the break of dawn. Autumn brought game and harvest, rain and revelations; with her belly swelling, Winter announced to her husband that she was with child, and without delay Gale set about expanding their home once more, building a new bedroom decked in roses for the child to come.

All day he worked, hammering, shaping and teasing the wood into shape, and all night he worked, hammering, feeling and teasing Winter to new plateaus of passion and pleasure.

With each day, Winter grew, the house grew, and the gales of winter grew, and soon they were entombed in the snow, the roses lying dead and dry under the snow, but with a full larder and a warm bed, the winter months passed like days, and soon spring saw the bushes bustling with buds and coiling against the warmth, reaching for the sky and growing strong.

On the night of the equinox, time came for Winter to bring forth her child, but even with a midwife brought in from town it was no use. It transpired that Winter was carrying not one, not two, but three children, and when each of the three baby girls were brought forth, her life had all but drained from her, and all that was left to her before she passed was to whisper to Gale their names and a final declaration of love undying, and she was gone.

Dressed in her finest clothes, a silver ring on her finger, she was buried amongst the roses, and where she lay, the finest bush of them all sprang up; with ghostly blue roses sprouting from vines with silver leaves and never a thorn, growing strong and hearty through the year, laid low not by rain, snow, sun or sleet.

Each year, on the day of their birth and her death, Gale gathered his daughters around the stand, and told each of them stories of their mother, and in the spring winds the roses whispered words of love and encouragement for all of them to hear, and each year, as they grew and came into their own, it became clear to all that while the roses were each the same, they were each different as night from day.

The first who had been brought forth had been given the name Spring. Growing as tall and sure as her namesake, even in her youth she towered over her sisters, and as she sat on the porch watching her father carve his trinkets and engravings, she grew fascinated; not with the wood, but with the glinting metal of the knife. For as much as he could, Gale taught her how to use it safely, but carving wood never appealed to her, rather bringing down beasts and brigands was her thirst, and on her thirteenth birthday, Gale bought her a sword from the village, as fine a blade as he could afford, and with tireless practice she darted across the meadow, striking down menacing stands of thorny roses, cutting fearsome bales of hay to ribbons, and dismembering encroaching and terrible branches along the edge of the clearing with dangerous precision. Her fifteenth year she spent in the village, where an old soldier taught her all he knew of swords, forging her raw talent and passion into dangerous and devious skill.

The third to be brought forth was named Autumn, as wild and implacable as her namesake, from the day she could walk she loved nothing so much as running through the forest, swimming through the streams, stalking her prey and collecting the gifts of the forest whereever she could. By the time she was nine, her hunting and foraging was enough to sustain the family of four with food to spare, and by the time she was eleven she was nothing so much as a ghost when she slipped past trees in seek of her prey. On her thirteenth birthday, Gale bought her a bow from the village, as fine a one as he could afford, along with a bag of arrowheads that soon brought an unrivalled boon to the table of the forest home. Her fifteenth year she spent in the forest, living of the land and honing her every skill, returning only occasionally with gifts of furs and meats and forest fruits for her family.

The middle child was named Summer, and she was as mild and warm as her namesake, and with blue roses from her mother’s stand in her hair, she was never far from home, tending the roses, helping Gale with his carvings, tending to Spring’s cuts and bruises and preparing lavish meals from Autumn’s meats and fruits. Yet, like her sisters, she too yearned to learn of the world and its wonders, and when they were eleven, she had Autumn lead her to a secret grove deep in the forest, where a forest witch made her hovel and home. For the price of a blue rose with silver leaves, the witch took her inside, bidding Autumn to wait outside, and what happened inside Summer would never remember or know. When Autumn returned her to their home in the rosewood, she slept for night and day and night again, and just when her father and sisters feared she would never wake, her eyes sprang open, burning with the queer fire of forest magic. From that day on, everything seemed simply to go smoothly for Summer, and anyone she touched. When she tended Spring’s cuts and bruises, they seemed to heal faster, and when she prepared meals, they seemed to taste better, and all around the house in the rosewood, the great stands of roses grew wild and bloomed with fragrances they had never seemed to have before. On her thirteenth birthday, Gale gave her his silver ring, for the love their mother had borne them all with, and on her fifteenth she brought it to the forest witch, who took it as a price for taking her in for the year, shaping her powers and bringing forth her magic in truth.

That winter was hard and long as any in living memory, and when the three sisters returned, Gale was taken by a fever, and on their sixteenth birthday he passed. He was buried under the great silver stand of roses alongside his wife, and around him, entwined in the silver leaves and blue flowers, new ones soon sprouted, scarlet roses on golden boughs, always one or another of the red flowers kissing up against a blue one, and where there had once been one voice in the spring winds, there were two, unheard to all but three Wild Roses.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/5ktd2s/fm_wild_roses_pt_1_prologue