I WILL NOT HAVE WRITERS' BLOCK. I WILL NOT HAVE WRITERS' BLOCK. I WILL NOT HAVE WRITERS' BLOCK.

'Nuff said.

Bang.

Close. Much, much too close. Closer than they've been in a long time – close enough to aim, close enough to shoot…close enough to kill.

The realisation sends a fresh jolt of energy into my aching legs as I run as fast as I can through the darkening forest. The trees seem to be closing in around me as I move; closing in just like those wretched guards, those weak, pitiful men who think they can scare me into capture by a few simple bullets from their tubes of thin metal…

Bang.

But that bullet was much too close.

A scratching, ripping tear jolts me to a sudden halt – and I turn to see my cloak tangled in a patch of particularly thorny brambles, slipping and curling round the smooth material. I drop my broomstick and reach behind me to take the beautiful smooth blackness slashed with holes and tears where the prickly spikes have caught it and free it from the tangles.

I tug and pull with all my strength, expecting it to fall loose – but the brambles only cling tighter. I realise with a jolt what this could mean – my fears realised as the bush reaches out a needle-sharp tendril and catches a strand of my already leaf-covered and twig-tangled hair, drawing it in towards it's depths to join the struggle.

I curse, and struggle harder than ever, biting my lip to stop from crying out as each tug seems to yank the hair further from my scalp with a burning pain. The cursed plant twists tighter, hissing as its vine-like arms brush together…

Bang.

"…let me go, you cursed…you evil…!" I growl, pulling harder than ever, but even my dress is caught now, more black mingling with the hair and cloak, the hissing strands reaching up to my face…Oz, if I don't get out of here soon…

Bang.

I'm truly scared now. The bullet that sounded was closer than ever – whizzing past my shoulder with frightening speed, and embedding it's self with a horribly deep firmness in the nearest tree. The tree freezes with unnatural stillness, and then seems to crumple in on itself; the branches drooping, the breeze whooshing through the leaves making them rustle in a pained, convulsing manner, and the trunk groaning. Bark splinters off it around the area where the bullet hit. I feel a rush of sorrow and anger for the poor thing; unlike the brambles seizing my clothing and hair, the tree obviously feels as I do.

"Cursed Oz, let me go…!" I hiss at the prickled bush, but I know, truly, that not all of Oz's nature is, or can be, on my side. The trees don't interfere with business much; proud, most of them, but reserved, unless you directly insult them – not eager to be caught up in the wars of humans and other folk – but brambles, flowers, creepers and vines, ivy especially…you just never know. I never know.

And now I'm in trouble.

Bang.

"Men, comrades, we shouldn't…"

Bang.

"…waste too many bullets!"

I freeze in the act of trying to tear off the brambles curling around my waist with my bare hands.

That voice.

That voice.

I know that voice.

"…need to save them, you know, just in case -!"

Bang.

The bullet that whizzes past my ear wakes me from my daze. I begin my struggles again with renewed determination, blood trickling down my neck as what must be more than one bush drag me further into it's horrible depths, hissing as wickedly as ever, my clothes ripping from the spikes, and my lips clamped together to keep from crying out in pain…

Even I can't make out words or meaning behind the bushes actions; dragging me further back into the heaps of dark, deep brambles will do nothing to help me escape from those fiends, will do nothing to help me, nothing to help me, nothing, nothing…

Except…

"Hold fire – I said hold fire -!"

The voices are much too close. Much, much too close…and if I can't escape…

They have me. Finally, after all these months, they really have me.

Over some stupid…stupid…

…but maybe not so stupid…

…bramble bush…

Gently, experimentally, I reach behind me for my broomstick, and then relax for the first time since the prickles caught hold of me. And gently – unnaturally gently, and carefully, almost like it cares…

The bush draws me towards itself, into its green depths, and though my limbs sting from the scratches...the wall of green spikes that closes behind me is one not even the dimmest of Oz guards would attempt to penetrate.

I smile through my burning pain.

The bush was never trying to harm me, I realise with a self-disapproving jolt. Never trying to even restrain me, a plant on the side of the cursed wizard and his pathetic followers…just trying to protect me.

"There must have been an easier way to protect me other than this, dear bramble-bush…" I murmured to the green tendrils all around me, concealing me completely and utterly behind a dark wall of prickles.

The bush poked a sharp needle reprovingly into the side of my right-shoulder – shut up seeming the obvious message. I smiled slightly, the expression oddly strained as I realised it was the first time in months a feeling of that sort had even made its way half-way onto my face – and kept quiet.

The guards voices became closer and closer…and that voice…that smooth, loud, confident, daring voice I knew so well…so well…far too well…far more well than I should…

"Sir, I really think -"

"I said, hold fire, Bearons."

"But Sir, she could be -!"

"Do you really think Elph-she's as stupid enough to try levitating that broom up threw these thick trees?"

"Well –"

"- no, Bearons. Of course she's not. She'll be making her way on foot – and if we have a hope in hell of catching her we need to stop mooching around and get going! Now hold fire!"

I stay hidden, still as the innocently lifeless brambles around me, blood trickling down my cheek and dripping onto my neck. The voices continue to argue and shout at each other, whilst their hurried footsteps move noisily away into the depths of the woods, and a single gunshot sounds once more in the direction of the west.

Then there is silence. Ringing, dead silence, broken only by the gentle drip, drip of leftover raindrop falling from a few treetop leaves, and the drops of blood dripping down over my neck.

Very slowly and hesitantly, the brambles rustle and move, and part for a gap about the size of my head to peer through into the outside forest. Nothing. No one.

"They're gone," I murmured very softly, but my protector was already way ahead of me, the thin, claw-like branches parting like a curtain and extracting themselves carefully from my hair and dress so as not to damage either any further. I disentangled myself, pushed aside the final prickled leaves, and hoisted my self up from the bush to step out into no mans land again.

No bullets fired. No triumphant voices shouted. No yells of surprise or gasps of shock or even cries of fear or horror. I was, once again, utterly and completely alone.

Never the less, I scanned every bush, twig, and leaf before turning round to see the bramble push folding its many arms together and drawing itself up to it's full – and considerable – height; looking, if a bush could look, rather pleased with itself.

"Couldn't there have been a less painful way to protect me so thoroughly?" I asked dryly of it. The bush raised some of its leafier branches, and dropped them again; an obvious shrug.

"Hm." I said, leaning forward to rest my chin on the handle of my broomstick – but I was smiling, once again, for the first time in what felt like forever.

The bush waited. I laughed softly – if a little strained – and reach out to touch one long vine gentle with my hand that matched it so perfectly in colour.

"Thank you," I murmured fervently. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart, madam."

The bush puffed out its leaves indignantly.

"Oh –" - I understood now - "I'm sorry. Sir, I mean. Thank you, sir."

The bush shrank in on itself, arms twining round itself in an almost bashful gesture. My cackling chuckle rang low and soft for a last time.

"Thank you," I repeated. "Thank you."

That done, I turned from my helpful little friend – from the bramble bush – and set off walking in the opposite direction of the Gale Force.

They would not catch me tonight.

But those bullets had been close. Much…much too close.

Very strange, very random, very cheesy, very pointless…BUT NOW I DO NOT HAVE WRITERS BLOCK! GENIUS!

The Captain of the Gale Force wants you to review…seriously, how can you deny him…?