Drabble: The Nature of the Rose (Tanz der Vampire/original, PG)
For alice_montrose, who turned 24 today.
THE NATURE OF THE ROSE
The rose was full-bloomed, its petals twisting on themselves, shading from palest yellow to gentle pink like droplets of blood swirled in a glass of champagne. Herbert's fingers curled around the flower, shaping the air around it.
Below the high garden wall, the street echoed with drunken songs in half a dozen languages. Only in Transylvania, he thought.
He felt the wind shift a moment before the evening mist coalesced into a broad-shouldered figure. He looked up into disapproving green eyes.
"It's a monastery," Draculea spat. "One foot over this wall and I'll have to haul your carcass out of the fire."
"I think the risk is worth it." Herbert raised the rose to his face again. "The smell... oh, it is exquisite."
The curl of Draculea's lip spoke volumes.
"I think white roses are boring, don't you?" Herbert went on. "White for virtue, after all. And red for love, which is far too plain. These are neither for maidens nor lovers."
"Only for foolishness." With a swirl of his cloak, Draculea dissolved into mist again, the dim vapour floating onwards to check on the next sentry.
Herbert laughed softly and caressed the soft petals again. There were so many possibilities. If white and red was for Mary and God, then perhaps yellow and pink for their perversion and nemesis?
But no. There were no thorns to this rose, and if he gave one to Lucifer himself, he would make the dark prince bleed.
On the way to his lodgings, he dropped off the rose on a girl's window sill.
-FINIS=
THE NATURE OF THE ROSE
The rose was full-bloomed, its petals twisting on themselves, shading from palest yellow to gentle pink like droplets of blood swirled in a glass of champagne. Herbert's fingers curled around the flower, shaping the air around it.
Below the high garden wall, the street echoed with drunken songs in half a dozen languages. Only in Transylvania, he thought.
He felt the wind shift a moment before the evening mist coalesced into a broad-shouldered figure. He looked up into disapproving green eyes.
"It's a monastery," Draculea spat. "One foot over this wall and I'll have to haul your carcass out of the fire."
"I think the risk is worth it." Herbert raised the rose to his face again. "The smell... oh, it is exquisite."
The curl of Draculea's lip spoke volumes.
"I think white roses are boring, don't you?" Herbert went on. "White for virtue, after all. And red for love, which is far too plain. These are neither for maidens nor lovers."
"Only for foolishness." With a swirl of his cloak, Draculea dissolved into mist again, the dim vapour floating onwards to check on the next sentry.
Herbert laughed softly and caressed the soft petals again. There were so many possibilities. If white and red was for Mary and God, then perhaps yellow and pink for their perversion and nemesis?
But no. There were no thorns to this rose, and if he gave one to Lucifer himself, he would make the dark prince bleed.
On the way to his lodgings, he dropped off the rose on a girl's window sill.
-FINIS=