In the majestic and resplendent Kingdom of Kesselvyn, which thrived during the time of the Second Crusade, where the hills wore crowns of mist and farms birthed the world's most beautiful potatoes, lived a wealthy but lonesome enchantress named Eliza. Eliza bore hair the colour of cinnamon, swept up into a bun so large it might have housed secrets of the ancients, and eyes like a frosty winter lake. Her skin was pale as candlewax, and she wore a gown stitched with silver thread that shimmered like frost under moonlight.
Eliza was no common noble. She was an enchantress of considerable renown—who once turned an entire battalion of invaders into stonestatues simply for interrupting her beauty-bath. She was born in a manor veiled by lavender fog and raised by scholars, alchemists, philosophers, and spellsmiths, mastering the languages of owls and storms by age twelve. Her talents were such that even the royal court consulted her during eclipses and bad harvests, and for a time, the bards sang only of Eliza the Wise, Eliza the Beautiful, Eliza the Ever-Unmatched.
She had no siblings, no parents left alive, and no close friends—only distant allies and spellbound servants. Suitors came and went, seduced by her magic and beauty, her wealth, her hair the colour of cinnamon—but they stayed only as long as they could bear her intensity. Love, for Eliza, remained elusive. And as the years passed, the songs faded. The kingdom’s attention shifted to younger heroines, newer miracles. Eliza, though still radiant and regal, began to feel her name slipping from memory like mist from morning grass.
Still, she built herself a beautiful life. She resided in a grand wooden manor with tall windows that let the moonlight in like milk. Her garden was the finest garden in the land, woodland fairies often danced there at dusk. A mighty silver birch tree grew from the depths of the earth in her yard, said to be older than the kingdom itself. She even owned the kingdom’s largest pond, where she bathed daily with lilies drifting at her side. And in her hands, she held a wand carved from stardust elm—capable of bending nature to her will, of coaxing blossoms from winter soil, of splitting clouds with a sigh.
But despite all this—despite every luxury, charm, and whispered legend—Eliza longed for something no spell could summon, no potion could distill: a child of her own.
Each dawn, she wandered her garden, barefoot in dew, kneeling before her beloved silver birch to utter a silent prayer:
"Kind Lord, hear my plea, my yearning: I wish for a beautiful daughter whose beauty may rival thy angels, daughter. One with hazelnut-brown hair, cheeks red like a ripe mango, and eyes the hue of my pond—heavenly blue. I wish her to have a sharp wit and a merry heart. Please, Lord, grant me this, amen."
And so it went, dawn after dawn, until one morning when the sun poured gold upon the grass, a white dove descended from the branches above. It wore a Tudor hat adorned with three feathers and a magnificent garb that reminded one of the king’s troubadour. It perched on the birch and eyed her like a pearl.
"Listen well, Eliza," the dove intoned in a melodic voice worthy of a bard. "When the blood moon rises tomorrow evening, thy wish shall come true."
And with that, it took flight and was never seen again.
Just as the poetic dove had foretold, Eliza bore a lively girl the following night. The child had hazelnut-brown hair, mango-red cheeks, and eyes of a deep, enchanting blue. Eliza named her the loveliest name she knew: "Annalise."
"Annalise, you are truly the sweetest girl I have ever laid eyes upon in all my lonely years," said Eliza one evening as she fed her daughter from her own breast. "You cannot fathom the depth of my love for you, and truth be told, I doubt you ever will."
Annalise replied with the most delightful infantile giggle.
"My love for you is boundless, my sweet girl," Eliza repeated. "I am blessed beyond words to have you."
Years passed, and Annalise blossomed into a sprightly, graceful young woman, clad in a gown of silk dyed in all the colours of nature, with laughter that could dispel grief and a sense of humour as cunning as a fox. By the age of seventeen, she was famed throughout the realm for being the girl who made even the city’s grumpy executioner grin and once distracted the local priest so thoroughly with her innocent cheer that he forgot he was late to evening mass. Her coppery hair fell in waves, catching the light like honeyed fire, and her cheeks still bore the sun’s kiss.
But it was her eyes—those deep midnight blues—that made the baker’s son Perceval say, "Father, had I been born a lass, I’d want to look just like Annalise."
Though many suitors tried to court her and win her heart with roses, songs, and pies, Annalise remained coolly polite, smiling at poems, thanking them for tarts, then scampering into the woods to frolic with the animals. Word in the village had it that she once spurned a burly duke with the words: "Thy love does not stir me, sir, but thy splendid rear end rather does. Were I in thy boots, I’d be proud to own the grandest bum in the land. With luck, they’ll write of it in history books!"
While the other girls, who attended the same astrology-university as her, dreamt of castles and silver rings, Annalise dreamt of acorns falling in perfect order, frogs harmonising in song, and someday understanding what the wind whispered.
Though Eliza was proud to be mother to the loveliest girl in the kingdom, envy crept in. The people no longer spoke of Eliza’s magic or silver-threaded gowns—they spoke only of Annalise and her laughter, Annalise and her cheeks, Annalise and the time she tamed a feral alley cat with a single stroke.
One evening, under the approaching blood moon, Eliza stood by her birch tree, her pride curdling into sour resentment. She hatched a plan so wicked that even the water spirits would’ve applauded.
"Annalise, my blossom," she cooed, stirring a pot of cornflower soup, "I’ve heard tell of a secret place—deep in the forest—a cave where enchanted flowers bloom but once every hundred years. Shall we visit it tomorrow?"
Annalise’s eyes sparkled. "Flowers that bloom once in a century? I must see them! Please, Mother, take me at once!"
"I thought you’d say so," Eliza smiled, her spoon trembling slightly.
The next morning, Annalise skipped along a twisting path she’d never seen. Birds fell silent, trees leaned away. At the mouth of the cave—a gaping maw in the earth—Eliza halted.
"You must go in alone," she said. "The flowers reveal themselves only to hearts young, pure, and kind to nature’s kingdom."
Annalise nodded. "You’re so kind to me, Mother. I’ll bring you back some blossoms."
With that, she entered, her natural-hued gown fluttering like a butterfly.
Eliza remained outside, drew her wand, spoke an ancient incantation known only to stone and witch, and pointed. With a thunderous crash, a boulder rolled down, sealing the entrance.
"May my conceited frog of a daughter starve in there," she hissed. "Then I shall once again be the fairest of them all."
And she walked away.
Inside, the cave was damp and hushed, scented of moss and melancholy. When Annalise turned, the entrance was gone. A wall of stone had risen.
"Mother?" she called, then louder. "Mother? This isn't funny!"
No reply—just drips in the dark.
She beat at the stone until her hands were raw. Then she slid to her knees and whispered: "Why, Mother? Why?"
Her sobs were the kind born not of pain, but of betrayal.
And just then, she heard it—a rustle like dry leaves on rock. Three figures emerged, silent as dusk.
The first was an old woman, cloaked in thistle and feathers. Her eyes were shut, but her voice cut through the dark like wind over heather.
"You are not lost, child," she said in an Irish lilt. "I see not with eyes, but with what has yet to come."
The second, a tall man, mute and gentle-eyed, held a bone flute. His presence stilled the air.
"He speaks not," said the woman. "But he hears the ants breathe and the trees' heartbeats. Truth can’t hide from him."
The third, a limping boy with a lopsided grin and a crown of lichen, smelled like a sunlit forest.
"And I," said he, "talk with badgers, pine trees, and the rain—when it's chatty."
"Who are you?" Annalise asked.
"Hermits," replied the woman. "Cast out by folk who feared our gifts. Like you."
The boy helped her to her feet.
"Thanks, lad," said Annalise. "What’s thy name, then?"
"Finiatus," he beamed.
Annalise laughed. "Is thy name Tinnitus and thy mum’s Spagatius?"
Finiatus chuckled.
"And thy brother? belchiatus or perhaps Fartiatus? Mind if I call you young Master Tinnitus?"
"I like a girl with humour," said Finiatus.
"Humour is my name and nature," said Annalise. "You may call me Miss Annalise-Fart if you please."
She lifted her skirt and let loose a mighty wind.
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That night, while eating roots and mushrooms, they held a competition to see who could produce the loudest and most tuneful fart. Annalise won, much to everyone's delight, with a toot that echoed off the cave walls like a musical trumpet.
"Bravo, Miss Annalise-Fart!" cried Finiatus. "Ye've got the spirit of a storm in ye!"
Even the silent man clapped his hands in mirth.
"Come now," said the old woman. "We’ll make space for you. It’s cold here, but honest. No one pretends to love you and seals the door behind."
And they led her deeper into the cavern.
In the following days, Annalise grew close to each of the hermits. They shared not only stories and roots, but memories etched in moss and whispers.
The old woman, whom Annalise began to call Grandma Mossy, taught her how to interpret the dreams of mushrooms and how to speak to spiders in riddles.
"Ye mustn’t lie to a spider, love," she warned. "They remember everything ye say with all eight legs."
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Finiatus showed her how to brew tea from glowfungus and led her into the underground hot springs, where they took long soaks and sculpted lichen creatures along the walls.
One evening, as they bathed in a pool warmed by the breath of the earth, Annalise sighed.
"Y’know, this is the first time I’ve felt truly clean in weeks—and I only had to dodge three blind salamanders to get here."
"Aye," said Finiatus, "and now the salamanders have clean bums too. Bless ‘em."
Annalise didn’t wait to be rescued. She joked, scrubbed, cooked on lava stones, and painted faces on rocks—calling them portraits of the world’s quietest dinner party. The hermits adored her.
"This cheeky lass has made our hollow a home," said the old woman.
"It’s time," said Finiatus. "She deserves the sun."
They gathered by the stone. The old woman whispered, Finiatus played a tune for the rocks, and the silent man pressed his palm to the cave and listened. Slowly, the stone rolled aside, apologetically.
Annalise stepped into the light.
"Thank you, you wondrous old miracles."
"Old?" blinked Finiatus.
"Young of knee, ancient of wit," she grinned.
And off she went.
Eventually, she found a glade with a greenhouse made not of glass, but lavender and ivy. A young man with thyme-scented laughter greeted her.
"I am Prince Benedictus. Here, we speak to herbs before harvesting and flowers vote on kings."
"I’m a cave girl who won a fart contest against a young lad," she replied.
"Perfect," he said. "You’re just what we need."
They planted a tree that grew faster when they held hands.
One day, under a blooming linden tree, he knelt:
"Annalise, you are like chamomile in a storm—gentle, yet fierce. Will you be my Herb Princess?"
"Only if I may call you ‘Sir Basil Bush’ each morning."
They wed beneath a floral arch. The hermits were honoured guests: the woman threw lavender, the silent man played flute, and Finiatus gave a speech that had birds crying with laughter.
Annalise received a pair of white dust-bloomers as a gift.
"Best not tear these with a toot," she declared, and everyone roared. “
She wore a gown of rosemary twine, a crown of wild rose, and when Benedictus kissed her, the heavens smelled of mint.
They lived happily ever after in a home of laughter, herbs, and the occasional cheeky fart, so none would forget how Annalise once won the very first Cave Championship of farts.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ95j99Hjrom
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And they all lived happily ever after!
and then Add to home screen.