The Tale of the Duke of Thorns

Once there was that, in the far-away lands of Tautila, lorded a peculiar duke, holding a rank just before the monarch.

This duke, however, was cruel and twisted, though also read and educated, treating his peasants as weaklings, trash, wanton torture, brutal suppression and swift retaliation to any opposing his "absolute justice" dictating his reign, him subscribing to the philosophy that only the strong may prevail.

However, it had not just been the peasanty that suffered. Indeed, there had been a lowly noble, his family disgraced, the fortune gone to waste. All that the noble yet possessed had been an iron-wrought crown of thorns, only of sentimental value, last item to remind of fortunate times and glory lost.

The duke, once again seeing his philosophy of strength rendered truth, forced the noble into service as his jester, debasing him before his court, at last taking from him the iron crown and with it the last sign of rank, the noble soon enough committing suicide.

So abhorrent was the duke's rule that soon, though not much for the surprise of the duke himself, the peasantry rose against him, loud and hungry bellows demanding for justice of their own.

Grinning, the duke merely turned to his soldiers, knights, ministers and statesmen, those who he could always trust to think like himself, those who he had always let reap some profit from the suffering of those below them.

But on this day, all that his grin met were hard, judging gazes and for the duke only now was a surprise visible: Those who he had thought powerful and worthy within his rule sympathized with the plight of the peasants, putting down their arms and moved not a single finger as their lord was gripped, the duke alone and forsaken in his moment of greatest need.

Thus, the duke faced judgement, "reward" for the rule he had thought righteously based upon strength; death, though not a quick and clean one. Indeed, it could have been called one of the macabre sort, the executioners nailing the deceased jester's iron crown onto the duke's skull, him screaming all the while, spitting his insults, his fury at being so betrayed unwavering. Enclosing their lord within a coffin of wood, they buried him alive, leaving the grave unmarked, never to be found again, the duke forgotten and forlorn forever.

The duke no longer saw the light of the day, nor the moon of the night, buried within his cage of wooden mail and coffin-nail.

Thus, with his screams to the above unheard, his eyes no longer seeing, the duke grew silent, still seething oh yes, but what would that help now, buried as he was, like that dead man he would be?

However, the duke, without a sense of time, devoid of light, just did not seem to die. No matter how long he waited, he did not run out of air, nor did he starve. For some time, he thought his yet-so-very-apparent rage sustained him, though even that soon abated with time, for what sense was there in being angry while staring unmovingly at a ceiling of wood? Thus, what was it that kept him, the duke wondered, though of course he received no answer in the silence of his grave, with only himself to give him company.

He waited and waited, and in time his skin fell off, exposing the bones of the hollow skeleton. Yet, he still did not die, did not even sleep. He was alone in this prison of wood and darkness.

As much as he wanted to know why he could not die, the answer becoming more and more relative, time soon had him think of other things. The duke soon began to contemplate what had first brought him to this place.

More and more time of endless waiting passed, silence was lifted only by himself, now he moaned and wailed at his fate, for while he truly had been cruel in his life, was what he suffered now, while certainly appropriate in the eyes of many, truly just? To be buried beneath the earth, never sleeping, never truly resting, only with the darkness and silence and himself to grant false companionship?

Again, rage gripped him, only for years to pass and it dissipating uselessly anew. Thus the duke had the time to review the actions that brought him here. He thought about them all, all those people he had wronged, every single face, he remembered them. They pained him even now, just not physically.

And for the first time, the duke's heart, before thought to be black as the night, akin to hard obsidian, ached for not just himself.

With sadness in his hollow eyes he remembered how he made them suffer solely to make himself feel powerful, was more powerful than them. Feeling himself right in his cause, for the strong to rule over the weak, the fulfillment of the act granting him sick delight at that time.

Yet now, caught within silence and darkness, the duke began to regret.

And a new fury caught him.

The more he remembered, the more the duke began to hate himself, the more he saw within his mind's eye, the more he wanted to see this person he beheld in his memories punished.

Of course, that had already taken place. As such, why did he still feel so? Had justice not been rendered? Had evil not been struck down?

In his timeless grave, the duke soon found the answer to this question: He felt no fury for himself, he felt no anger for his actions, all those were entirely moot by now, without value nor cause. The truth was simple, so very simple: He was angered that all those victims, all he had done, all those lives he took, all the pain he caused, could no longer be redeemed. The criminal had been punished, oh yes, but could that simply dry all the spilled tears, could that bring life anew, could that cure the crippled?

And for the first time in his existence, the duke wished to repent.

Not to be saved, oh no, he quite accepted his punishment. He simply wished to right what wrongs he had committed. But for that he needed to be free.

And thus the duke began his work, skeletal hands rising, scratching, digging, burying at the coffin-ceiling, the burning fury resting within his rotten heart turning to cold determination, the crown nailed upon his bare skull giving off an icy light, allowing the duke to see where the coffin's material was lightest. It would take him months, perhaps years, but the duke began to bury his way out of his coffin.

However, the duke's first act of redemption would not be done after he had achieved his freedom.

The seed of a flower of some kind had some time ago been caught in the earth, just before the winter-season, which would mark the death for all that was plant.

It was this seed that, along with earth, landed in the duke's hollowed ribcage.

With an unearthly sense, the duke noticed this stray seed, he knew that without sustenance as it was now, it would not survive. None of that he could grant, so how could he save this seed, that could grow into a healthy plant? Of what use was all his struggling, his wish to repent, to make things right, if he could not even save a single flower?

Though now the crown of thorns, which answered only the wishes of those which were for others, granted the duke a boon.

The duke, dead as his form was, gave all the hope that filled him, all the will for repentance that sustained him, into that seed.

And it grew into a rose within his hollow ribcage. Had the duke still possessed skin, perhaps he would have shed a tear, for is it not from death that life must always rise?

And thus, fulfilled within his resolve, the duke commenced his way upwards.

Through the cold, hard earth of the winter-season, a skeletal hand burst forth, devoid of flesh, the petals of red rose adorning every finger. The duke emerged from the cold silence of his grave and once anew since so very long ago beheld the world around him, the snow glittering in the shine of the morning-sun, within his ribcage a bush of roses, all petals red, except for a single blossom of white resting where once the duke's heart had been.

The duke looked upon the horizon, and with a safe step, hope for life dictating his course, as he set out into the world, him calling out into the plains of white: "I am the duke! I am the duke of thorns! I am the winter that shall herald the coming of the spring!"