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A prince is supposed to ride up to the castle on a white horse and part the thorns to either side of a great path with his sword; the princess is supposed to be peacefully sleeping with a gentle smile on her rosy lips; he is supposed to kiss the sleep from her mouth and she is supposed to rise gracefully from it as from shallow water.
Gwen carves a narrow tunnel through the thorns with pruning shears, because swords aren’t meant for gardening; when she reaches the royal bedchamber she finds Princess Morgana shaking in the jaws of nightmares, face twisted and tear-streaked and body moving restlessly in a futile attempt to escape whatever poisoned enchanted place she’s found herself in.
It’s nothing like the tales, and for just a moment Gwen is lost—and then common sense returns, and she sits down on the side of the bed and smooths Morgana’s hair back from her face and whispers, “It’s all right now, it’s all right, I’m here,” and magic flares golden all around them and Morgana wakes with a gasp.