Tess watched the huge thorns spring up from the ground, arcing high into the sky. Her flame-colored wings flapped dully behind her. The great, mighty gray thorns showed the doomed that the kingdom of men was sure to endure now that they had incurred the wrath of Maleficent. And on the other side of that barrier—on the receiving end of the moor guardian's fury—was Tess's best friend. A boy by the name of Thomas was on the other side of that thorn barrier, and the young fairy, only twelve years old, was determined to reach him and protect him. She swooped into the tangled mass of thorns with confidence; her wings had never failed her, and she trusted they never would. It seemed for several minutes that she may be able to traverse the impassable thicket, but just as she could catch sight of the open field on the other side, two thorns caught hold of her fiery-feathered wings. She yelped in pain and surprise as they were punctured. When she tried to move them to break them loose, pain shot through her entire back. She dangled there for several long hours before realizing that, if she didn't help herself, no one would help her. She began to cry out for assistance.

Though she called deep into the night, help never arrived. By the following morning, she was nearly too exhausted to cry out any longer. Then the ironsmiths came. They were coming, just about five men, to see if the barrier could be burned away with iron. But Tess, having never been threatened and only knowing kindness, called out to them. After all, no being would ever intentionally harm another being, would they? "Help!" she called weakly. "Help, please! I'm stuck!"

The men approached. The tallest one, clearly the leader, tilted his head with a smirk adorning his features. "Well, lookee what we got here, fellas." He stepped toward her and extended his hand toward her face. The ring on his finger turned a smart orange. He grabbed her face with a cackle, ignoring her shrieks. She thrashed against her wings—once her source of freedom, they now held her hostage before these men. "Bring the chains, men! We'll burn away her bounds!" And with the clink of metal, the iron chains were wrapped about her left wing.

Hot agony, raw and real, burst through her, so that there was nothing for her to do but scream and scream and scream, scream for help and for him to stop until the first wing was severed from her body. Two men tugged it off of the thorn and walked away with it, but she scarcely saw. She didn't differentiate one pain from another as her other wing was torn away and she fell to the ground.

There was no blood. The wounds were instantly cauterized by the intense heat of the iron. All that was left of her wings were two, pathetic, raw, aching, painful, pathetic stumps that quivered with pain.

She cried. She cried and cried while the men pinned her on her back and ripped off her clothes and pressed different tools to her bare skin. She cried while three of them tore off their own clothes and trespassed on her body with theirs. She was numb and she cried, she cried, she cried until one raised a sharp iron stake above her chest. He was preparing to thrust it in. He was preparing to kill her. And all at once, her numbness was gone. Energy in the form of blue fire burst from her, blowing the men a good thirty yards away and alighting most of their possessions. Including their cart. Their cart where her wings had been placed was aflame. She stumbled to her feet, hardly aware of her own nudity. She collapsed close to where they had disposed of her precious wings. The two beings were on fire. Not just the usual, where they looked like flames but were cool to the touch. No, her wings were legitimately burning with the energy she'd released. They were reduced to ashes before her eyes. She blacked out.

When she awoke, a man (a boy? Perhaps, she couldn't be sure) was looming over her. His nimble, pale fingers were unbuttoning his shirt. She shakily lifted her hand. "No…more…" she moaned.

He slid his shirt off and covered her with it. "Hush. I won't hurt you." It came down to her mid-thigh. "Here. Hold on to me. I'm going to help you." He lifted her into his arms. She rested her head against his bare chest and let a low whine. "I'm sorry. I know they hurt you." His rocking gait was uncomfortable to her. Why walk when she could fly? Except that she couldn't fly. "I'm going to take care of you, okay? We'll be back at my home soon."

Once in the light of the cabin, she could clearly see he was no man. He was a boy, perhaps three or four years older than she. He lay her on a soft couch and opened her shirt—his shirt—to apply a cool cream to her burns. "It might sting. I'm sorry." He apologized a lot. He was right; it did sting. But it was nothing compared to the pain she had just undergone. After he treated his wounds to the best of her ability and gave her some water, he began to question her. Not intrusive questions, really, but questions that would need answering if she wished to stay in his home. The first was obvious: "What is your name?"

"Contessa. Tess."

He offered her a small smile. "I'm Gage. I'm sorry about…what they did." There it was; another apology. He shifted and she went rigid at his movement. It did not escape his notice. "I won't hurt you," he assured her. "And you can stay here as long as you need."

She stared at her dirty feed. "Home," she replied hoarsely.

His eyes were also on the ground. "I'm sorry. I can't take you home. The barrier is impassable."

"Home…" she repeated. She collapsed into a bundle of inconsolable tears for everything she had lost and had yet to lose.