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Once there was a maiden with ruby hair and a heart of fierce thorns. Her talents and beauty were widely renowned and so she was brought before the king.
“Yield to me,” he said, but she would not. He aimed to strike her down with his terrible magic. But before the spell hit, she was gone. In her place was a rosebush.
Years passed, and the rosebush grew without sun or water or soil. Though the wicked king was desperate to remove it, the stems were too tough and the thorns too deep. So he issued a challenge, promising the heart’s desire to whomever could fell it. Yet with all manner of folk and all manner of method, still it stood. Defiant.
What more could be tried that had not already? But one day, a courtesan arrived and set to work, drinking deeply of an open rose. She dipped her fingers in and danced them along and between the petals, before giving the flower a single kiss.
In a moment, the bush was gone and there again was the maiden.
“What is your wish?” asked the King.
“Her hand and your head,” said the courtesan and so it was done.