Roses

She strode quickly, hastily even, down the path, the roses on either side of her reaching out to grab the dark cloak that was draped over her frail, trembling shoulders. Choked sobs climbed further in her throat, threatening to spill out and make her known to the Watchers that were so near. She squinted her oval eyes in the darkness, needing to see where her feet would fall. She couldn't, didn't . . . inky blackness was all they met. In a way, she was thankful for that, in others, horribly mad. They couldn't see her, but she couldn't see them. The roses' sweet sent intoxicated her, making her swoon in their presence, the sickeningly lovely tendrils of aromas teasing her senses . . .

The regular smirk was gone, now replaced with a face clouded with despair and sadness. Oh, sweet Goddess, she missed his touch. His smile that she knew he wore only for her . . . how he held out his arms to welcome her. Where was he, now? He’d said nothing . . . he was just gone, and in his wake was this feeling of longing. "Why?" She whispered aloud. Nothing answered, save for a bird almost as lonely as herself. It wasn’t possible, she knew. Nothing could quench or rid her of this feeling . . . only him. "Why?" she wondered, again, this time only a whisper in the wind . . .

A tumbleweed spun down the road, a lonely traveler along the dusty, bare terrain. The sun beat down harshly, making even the most heat-loving animal retreat to a cooler resort. Only one or two large boulders resided in the desert, providing this shade. I reached out and gave the dragon next to me a friendly pat on its neck, hoping we’d be able to cross without much trouble. Oh, sure, there was water, but only a sparse ration to cover myself and the scaly reptilian beast that was perched next to me, his swirling gaze only holding a serene interest. I began to walk, planning on waiting until later that day before mounting and tearing across the area. He let out a soft rumble of agreement and scratched along behind me, claws spitting up dirt.

The tumbleweed rolled by again, being my only other companion in the journey.

She gazed up into her reflection, the mirror making her look ghastly distorted. She frowned at her appearance and fingered a silvery crystal that was imbedded into the cherry bark dress she was perched on. The mirror changed, her reflection now looking normal, though there were spiraling designs zooming across the edges, whizzing through each color of the spectrum. As she watched, her eyes began to change. They glowed an unearthly blue, then faded away, leaving two, hollow sockets in her face. The darkness in these sockets was immense . . . almost as if she wore a black hole beneath her brows.

At this,

she smiled.

The night was upon him.

He rejoiced in this fact, could almost feel the sooty blackness devour his skin, making him disappear from mortal’s eyes.

He could go there, now.

He’d be safe.

When he reached the cliff, he wasn’t in the least scared to peer over the edge of the mountain, into the steep ravine below. The rocks jutted out like fangs, eager to tear the flesh off of whoever dared to venture down. Or, fall. Either way, they’d be satisfied.

Amongst all these thoughts of death sprang a clear light. He turned and saw her standing a few paces behind him. She was looking at him, yet through . . . as if he wasn’t there.

She walked forward and brushed past him, and at that moment his heart sprang into his throat.

"Ember . . . no . . ." It was a plea, not a shout. He felt as though he was on his knees, crawling to her with palms up. She didn’t seem to hear him, and the expression on her face when she stepped off the edge was the same as the one she wore the pace before.

I watched the way his lips moved as he spoke. God, he was boring. The words formed a net around my head; maybe they wanted me to listen to them? His lips had a funny way of curving up at the end of each syllable, almost like they signified it. It was annoying, that.

And he blinked SO slowly, almost as if it was an event to do so. The lids rose, then sank, and then repeated, with shocking intensity.

Could I stand this much longer?

No, probably not. The blinds creaked in protest of the heat we were experiencing, which was blisteringly hot. I pushed forming beads of sweat from my forehead, grateful for the red tank top I’d changed into.

Was he still talking?

Yes, sadly.

The blinking and quirking of his lips was growing more . . . perturbing, was it?

She wondered if she could express the way she was feeling about him in a song. In simple words? No, she’d never be able to do something like that. The wistful crescendo of a flute . . . was the way her heart seemed lodged in her throat. No, not lodged, it was the funny feeling you had to swallow hard to get rid of, but still it was there. The way her breath seemed almost irregular when their eyes met. She couldn’t stand to meet that gaze for too long . . . so often she found herself looking away. She knew how easy it would bee to keep that eye contact, to let herself show him how she felt . . . she pictured herself leaning across the space that separated him from her . . . pressing her lips onto his own, honey smooth ones. The music that always played in her would reach a spiritual high; a happiness that couldn’t be explained anywhere else.

She snapped back into reality, and caught herself starting at him. He was the one, this time, which slipped his gaze away, almost embarrassed. Oh, she longed for him to be thinking the same thing . . . but knew that was just wishful thinking.

Maybe . . . she though, and pulled the silver flute from her pack. Her fingers tingled under the cold touch of the metal – yet it had inner warmth, almost human. This sent chills racing up and down her spine. There was no way she could feel like this around anyone . . . was it love?

Or a blind lust?

She dared to look at him; fingers still in their positions around the flute. He caught her eyes – and held them – this time. Oh, sweet Goddess, his eyes were beautiful. A creamy silver color, the purest, cleanest silver she’d ever seen. A burgundy raced through them in tiny rivulets, these she could see quite clearly and felt herself yarn to be nearer to them. She would’ve moved, but was strong enough, and held back. She gasped as her long, frail finger leapt into life, wrapping around the flute in the long-practiced positions. She watched, mesmerized, memorizing the positions, jotting them down mentally. He was looking quizzically down at the flute, too, and the intrigue saw in his gaze made her moan inwardly.

( this had to be lust )

When her digits ceased their movements, she hesitantly raised the fragile instrument to her lips.

"Go on," he ushered her, the crimson standing out even more. Her heart was in her throat again, and it took a good deal of concentration to get it out. The two, seemingly words that meant nothing, had wrapped themselves around her thoughts, his voice making her drop into a dream-like state. She nodded a few times more then needed, then blew gently into the mouthpiece. That was all that was needed, however. Colors exploded into her view, ones she couldn’t believe even existed. The surroundings of the tavern faded – the woman who had commented on her poem earlier disappeared, the window seat she was sitting on, faded.

She saw – him.

She felt – the longing.

( this had to be love )

She heard – her own music, playing around her, sad, filled with need. She wanted to stop, he wasn’t supposed to be hearing this song, the one that had haunted her dreams even before she’d laid eyes on him. It expressed every feeling, even the deepest ones she didn’t want to admit she felt. Yet, there they were, flowing out of her fingers like a ten-course dinner – each prepared to satisfy the guest.

It ended as abruptly and mysteriously as it had begun.

She returned to the tavern. He opened his mouth to day something, then close it. She wanted to say those, ‘three little words’, oh, did she ever! Instead, she gathered her things and strode out, tears welling in her eyes.

The winds crashed outside, not ceasing the relentless flow of rain. She stood in the middle of this rain; not hearing as the heavy droplets formed depthless eternities of puddles about her boot clad feet. She stood very still, eyes fixated on one thing : the silvery white sheen of a horse that stood but twenty yards away. It’s magnificent horn jutted out from its forehead, catching the light from the thin, crescent moon. She coughed on a hefty splat of water that’d found its way into her throat, but ignored the thick locks of drenched hair that hung in her face. She took another step forward, the mud underneath her feet making a squelching noise as she stepped into it, barely missing a large puddle. A gasp flew in to her lips, making her cough even harder… though the only thing that moved right now – was the unicorn.

The wind chimes clanged noisily, a wistful remembrance of times long lost. He gazed upon these instruments of the wind, narrowing his velvety cream colored eyes at the chirping that arose from them. They sounded far too friendly – all he wanted to do was close his eyes and think about . . . her.

Her.

The one who got him into all this. He didn’t really want to direct any of his living thoughts in her direction; maybe a fist or two, but that was out of the question.

She was sitting a few rows down, in the park full of benches, choosing one that had a street lamp positioned over it – illuminating the copper locks she wore so gracefully. He sneered at the thought, the thought that he has loved her. Cherished her.

She was the most hated in his life, now. Her leafy green gaze, searching his own . . . a lovely specimen, she’d told him.

Bitch, he wanted to tell her.

The wind chime’s banging wasn’t pretty anymore. It was annoying.

Go away . . .

I didn’t, of course.

There! The tinier ones, glass bells strung in a line, sounded. The large ones were getting to her. A flat note in an opera.

Was it really that bad?

Ponder . . .

Yes, it was.

Stars light his eyes as I watch, though he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking over the water, humming softly to himself. His gaze was almost narrowed at the horizon, brooding over the distance, maybe. I attempted to figure out what song the notes made up, but it was just a made-up melody. The trees around the area whispered to each other, secrets passing cautiously. I listened to these but couldn’t make out words, yet some hinted at what the topic of conversation was. I looked down at his hands; the slim – like mine – fingers callused from his job. They were twined together, ropes forming into braids they knew so well. He didn’t catch my gaze down at them, didn’t catch my feelings that I was making so obvious.

The fire crackled at my feet, hissing against the rocks that confined it.

She knew she could rest easy that night. All day she has been crouched over the ancient text, deciphering, re-wording, and sorting. Oh, she loved doing it, but the job had kept her up from sun up to sun up with but a few hours in between, for the last week or so. A smile was brought to her lips when she remembered all the work she’d done . . . but then a frown, when she remembered how much more she still needed to do. She sighed, then pulled the slightly chilled coverlet from her bed, revealing milky white sheets and three large pillows. She immediately sank down onto these, slipping into her dreams.

He watched as she wrote, most feverently scribbling down lines of text. Her hand few over the page in crooked lines, not seeming as if it belonged to her, but as if it had a life of its own, and it was a crazy one. Her delicate fingers scrambled for a better old onto the pencil, sliding down the writing implement hastily. It would have been amusing, if not for the scared, not-all-there look Syrai wore in her features. He was tempted to reach out and slow the insane hand, but had some sort of gut instinct that he shouldn’t. He whispered her name, waiting to see if she could draw a response from her. She slipped her gaze to him and mouthed some strange word, before turning back to the paper, eyeing what words were spewing from her hand. Its movements seemed painful now, not as fluid as they were before. She let out a gasp – whether it was in pain or in good measure he couldn’t tell – but the writing never even slowed.

"T’rion . . ." she forced from her mouth. His eyes widened as she said the name of her family’s ancient guild. He knew she couldn’t possibly known that, for only he and a few others were given that information.

She fell back against the chair, rubbing her hands scornfully. "Ow . . ." she muttered, scowling at the piece of paper, lips turned down in a tight frown.

"Do you know what you just said?" He asked her, incredulously.

"I didn’t say anything," she shot back, apparently in a rather perturbed mood.

He fought with himself – whether to tell her what it was she told him, risk being thrown in the Pit ( what a thought . . . ) or keeping the information from her, and risk some sound yelling?

He did neither, instead paralleling her gaze to the paper.

It was full of ancient, strange symbols, none that made even the slightest amount of sense, but of course one word stuck out.

T’rion.

Her eyes fell upon it, the Z with a line going vertically through it, brows raising.

"D’meer? What’s that mean?"

He attempted to swallow the lump in his throat, but the feeling of dread was unavoidable.

She stepped through the dark cave, the distant sound of water dripping resounding through the narrow walkway she was now passing through. Her brown hair was matted against her forehead, sticky sweat dripping down the sides. She brushed absently at these, shoving them away disdainfully. No one was there to care about her appearance, but when she traveled through the ancient, man-made caverns, she felt she had to look presentable or something along those lines.

Carvings just as ancient as the tunnel itself were scripted along the walls, huge symbols that each had a deep meaning. She trailed her fingers against these, pausing to trace the outlines before continuing.

Her destination was a library that only she and a few others knew about, one that was around since the dawn of time, it seemed. From floor to ceiling were catalogued every book you could imagine, and most you couldn’t. She felt her lips pull into a smile at this thought, a most arcane book is what she needed, and she knew that the T’rion’s would have it.

She crouched behind the tree, her breath catching in her throat with the effort to stay hidden. A lonely cat stalked by, sniffing disdainfully in her direction. She ignored it, listening instead for the telltale footsteps that marked his coming.

Great. Now she was thinking of him. There’d be no way to pry her mind away from the thoughts about him . . . not that she wanted to.

His exquisite demeanor. Chiding smile. Assured pace. High laced boots passed in front of her eyes, and she snapped back into reality.

Him.

The tall, strange trees swayed in the breeze, welcoming the travelers from other distant realms. A queer, flowery scented wind drifted through the lush myriad of leaves, carefully choosing which to touch and which not. The sun over head cast absent rays of light to the canopy below, lighting the old path for whoever dared tread upon it.

Trylira dared, of course.

The fork in the path had let her think for many a-night, unable to understand how the choice wasn’t easily, simply made. Oh, no, it had to go and be complicated.

There was no way she was turning back now, though. Her adventurous curiosity led her to stake camp in the center of the two roads, not daring venture even a few steps down each for fear of being intrigued to go further.

What was she waiting for?

This question was answered by the same wind that sifted so nonchalantly through the surrounding forest’s trees, gracing her with their presence but a few times during the day.

She stood now, gazing down the dusty path she’d arrived on, waiting to see if any might journey further. Not a soul passed, and she wouldn’t have laughed if a tumbleweed came to meet her.

Many days of waiting followed, touched only by passing animals, birds. She still didn’t know why she waited, for it was certain she wasn’t serving a purpose camping between un-used roads.

That eve, when positioned in front of the fire, crème colored eyes scintillating in the licking embers, reflecting the lazily dancing flames, a man passed by her.

He was weather beaten, his silky dark hair flung about him in an ebon disarray. Emerald colored eyes of a striking color were set below finely defined brows, chiseled elegant features gazing down upon her. She met his gaze, finding her own drawing away under the intensity of it, though her stubborn strong willed nature brought it back up to hi. He asked before she could speak, "Do you have room for a wanderer by your fire, miss?"
"Depends on who the wanderer is," she retorted.

He leaned forward, fiery green eyes locking onto her own. "A very handsome traveler, if I do say so myself."

She smirked up at him and edged away.

"Yes, you do say, don’t you?"

He returned her sneer and took a seat at the log across from her, tilting his slightly stubbled but otherwise well groomed face toward her.

"Should I not say, my lady, and leave such observations to you?"
Her beige eyes flashed, taking the challenge he offered.

"To me, of course. But, aye, how could I even question that, in the presence of one such as you?"

He put a hand to his heart and mock-gasped. "You questioned? Good thin I didn’t catch it, lady . . ."

She shifted her weight, raising a brow.

"Oh, really now? Why’s that?"

He stood up with much ado, sweeping into a low bow. Silken strands caressed his forehead, falling into his jade-gold eyes.

"Jerin R’dair, wanderer and seducer extraordinaire," he introduced, lips still laced with the smirk.

An old man sat at the beginning of the mists, a simple chair and cane being his only companions. He looked content sitting there, and nodded warmly when I came into sight. You couldn’t see a thing in either direction, or hear a sound besides your own breathing.

"Welcome," the old man said, "to the Mists of Avalon."

I looked at him strangely, having never heard of this place before. I spoke my queries out loud, and he laughed.
"Oh, child! Not a-one know these lands. You won’t, either," he added. Of course, his cryptic words flew right over my head, and I pursued further. To my questions of what towns surrounded the area, he answered, "Again, young one, no soul lives out here. We’re at the End of Time, you see."

I didn’t see, and understood even less. I asked him if I could venture down the path and return safely, next.

"Child," he said, "only you can determine if you return safely. Only you can determine anything, in this life."

In a smoky haze, his words lingering in the air,

He

Disappeared.

She closed her eyes tightly when her watch’s alarm went off, the beeping noise piercing through the thick cloud of sleep. She wished feverently, murmuring to herself until the high pitched noise automatically shut off. She glanced to the digital timer – 12.13.AM. Still early. She stood from her bed and stretched, squeaking noises swirling from her lips as was customary. She tiredly rubbed at her eyes, amazed that she’d fallen asleep in the middle of the project. She tossed a distasteful glare at the mounds of papers, edges curled by the whirring of the overhead fan, constant gushes carefully folding the pages. She walked into the kitchen, where the only thing that accompanied her was the monotone drip drip and the comfortable whirring of the refrigerator.

These both stopped.

Her heart climbed higher in her throat.

The screen door banged open.