by Leife Shallcross
Hair? Imbeciles. It is not hair.
No more than there was ever a girl child taken in exchange for some life-giving herb that revived the gravid mother from the point of death. That tale is the hook. It reaches the ear of some youth who fancies himself a hero, and he is caught.
He goes searching in my forest. He hears my song and finds my tower. He sees the impossible tresses of gold hanging from the single window and makes the climb. Then I have him. It is as simple as that.