Fairy tales for young and old ~ English version

Winter Roses

Once upon a time, in the mystical kingdom of Melte, where roses defied nature by blooming amidst the snow, there lived a prince named Avalan. He was no ordinary prince, for his heart was not of flesh but of ice, a curse laid upon him by a forgotten sorcery. His kingdom, a paradox of frozen flora, was a reflection of his own plight—beautiful yet devoid of warmth.

In the grand halls of Melte's castle, where the chandeliers hung like frozen teardrops, the air was often pierced by the sound of forced merriment. The laughter that filled the room was devoid of joy, a mere performance put on by the parade of suitors who coveted the prince's crown more than his heart. They came from kingdoms both near and distant, each with the same gleam of ambition in their eyes.

Their gifts were as lavish as they were lifeless. Gilded carriages drawn by horses with manes like spun silver, chests overflowing with jewels that shimmered like the very stars they sought to emulate, and gowns woven from the silk of enchanted moths. Yet, for all their splendor, these offerings left the prince cold, for they were tokens of greed, not of affection.

Avalan would watch from his throne, his expression unchanging as the suitors presented their treasures. The clinking of gold and the rustle of silk were the soundtrack to his existence, a constant reminder of the curse that had turned his heart to ice. He knew their smiles were as false as the warmth they pretended to offer, and he remained untouched by their charades.

The suitors, blind to the futility of their efforts, continued their dance of deceit, each believing they could succeed where others had failed. But the prince's heart, encased in frost, was impervious to their hollow advances.

But Avalan's mother, once a figure of radiant health and vitality, had succumbed to a mysterious malady that left her bedridden. Her once bright eyes had dulled, and her laughter, which used to echo through the corridors, had faded into silence. The royal physicians were baffled, their potions and salves proving futile against the queen's affliction. As her condition worsened, whispers of despair began to weave through the kingdom.

It was during these dark times that rumors of a young healer reached the castle walls. They spoke of Silvaria, a maiden who dwelled alone in the heart of the forest, surrounded by a tapestry of greenery and life. Her abode was said to be a sanctuary where the sick and suffering found solace, and her knowledge of healing was unparalleled. Tales of her abilities spread like wildfire, igniting a flicker of hope in the hearts of the royal family.

Desperate for a cure, emissaries were dispatched to seek out the fabled healer. They journeyed deep into the woods, where the trees stood tall like ancient guardians, and the air hummed with the magic of untamed nature. After days of searching, they found Silvaria in a clearing, her hands coated with earth as she tended to her garden of medicinal herbs.

The emissaries beseeched her to come to the castle, their voices laden with urgency. Moved by their plea, Silvaria agreed, her spirit compelled by the chance to ease the suffering of another. She gathered her remedies, each plant carefully chosen for its healing properties, and followed the emissaries back to the capital of Melte.

When Silvaria first crossed the threshold of the queen's chamber, the air was thick with the weight of despair. The scent of sickness hung like a shroud over the room, a tangible reminder of the queen's dire condition. Silvaria's arrival was like a gentle breeze, dispersing the heaviness that had settled in the hearts of all who entered.

The queen lay frail upon her bed, her illness a shadow that had crept into the very marrow of her bones. The royal physicians, with their lofty titles and years of study, had only managed to deepen her malaise with their well-intentioned but misguided treatments. Silvaria, with her innate connection to the healing powers of nature, offered a different kind of hope.