Among Thorned Roses

I.

"One word. My heart, my soul, my mind; the marrow in my enervated bones; the veins that flood beneath my burning skin; the unlovely breath which fills my aching lungs; with every pace, every reach, every gasp, I am whole in my undoing. This vessel of flesh and severed aspirations bears the unendurable weight of a thousand lives, a thousand souls, and one thousand loves. I am, completely and entirely, what I fulfill; simply, I am what I have accomplished, a mere shadow of human existence; and you, my love, are my everything else. In death, I fall bearing teeth and claws; feral to the end, and even as darkness takes me, we shall never part. My love, my love, my love; truly I shall always be by your side, here, quietly among the roses."

— Laurian, 1400, Of the Ashen Age

It was there, mingling among the blood red blooms and tangles of broad, sturdy vines of dark green, they, gathered and arranged by the benign hand of the earth, were shaped like a stole for the cobbled pavilion. There, two forms lay abreast, bathing in a pool of golden sunlight. One was adorned in silvery, glinting armor, secured tightly across his slowly rising chest, gleaming helm enclosing his fair features; he, of blood and steel; and the other clad in a pale, regal frock, draped with a sable cloak, clasped with gold at the throat, that fell in a billowing cascade upon the stone; she, of rose and star. A wistful quiet had befallen them, captivated into utter silence by the others’ enchanting presence. Though, neither spoke, for fear of bringing forth the reality of their swiftly nearing parting to existence, as if it were, that if they remained motionless, the stillness would simply remain, and time and space would simply cease completely, here in this bewitching place.

Lethargic beams crept leisurely across the broken stone, filtered through brightly colored stained glass in a prismatic luster of red and gold. Solemn effigies, whose faces were jutted and haggard from the cradling hand of countless centuries, rested upon arranged pedestals on grey slippered feet, arms graciously outstretched and discolored fingers curled, covered in a layer of mossy lichen. Their empty eyes were upturned to the arched glass roof above, as if searching faintly for the answer to the questions that fastened their cold, hardened lips to an eternal silence.

Viridescent fronds and dark blade densely ascended the cracked pillars, wrapping around in a tight, crisp embrace, lovely, green faces extending for the heavens, illuminating splendidly in the mid-afternoon light. Arches, broad and high, rose from the ground, humbly lining the fractured steps, which, entwining down, led out of the garden grounds to the gloomy towers of the Palace of Neádaín, and further on, the cragged slopes of Adroxí.

From the roiling clouds that loomed over the sharp cliffs, which protruded like the serrated fangs of a hideous beast, black ash and cinder drifted in a filmy haze in the sweet-smelling breeze. The only unlovely thing in this scene of tender tranquility, and a sinister sign of what was to transpire.

Coal-colored flecks fell upon pale cheek and curls of flaxen hair, a feeble attempt to soil the unveiled beauty of the trembling lady. A gauntlet covered hand reached over, seeking to gently brush the ash from her lip and brow, but was grasped desperately by her own quivering hand, and held to her slender bosom.

The maiden stirred, ‘My dearest,’ the words were uttered breathlessly, slipping past paled lips, tightly twisted, agitation dancing behind undertones of the melodical voice, ‘I cannot—and I fear—shall not, constrain my dread no longer, for my throbbing heart may shatter and bleed upon these very stones, in all my dismay. Swear to me, swear unto the honor for which you hold so dear, unto the faithful blade you carry by your side, whose shining steel hath slain a thousand foes, and swear unto the armor upon your back—Highest forbid any sword pierce its chain!—that truly, truly, you shall return to me, in the end, my love.’

So earnestly were these words expressed, that the knight was compelled to wretchedly gaze into the widened eyes of his beloved, stroking her fair head with a gloved hand. He held his helmeted head to her own, cradling her willowy form against his, and wishing away the battle he was bound, by his own word, to fight in.

‘I can be valiant,’ she mumbled, ‘Oh heavens, knows I can. Through fire and flame, and through darkness and disease, I have held steadfast, fixated before the armies of Neádaín, as a pillar of peace and hope for the sake of our kingdom, if only to see the conquest of all our terrible foes come to pass. In spite of the adversity that seeks to smother everything which is good and pure and beautiful, I shall stay true as long as there is breath in my lungs and blood coursing through my veins. I do not fear death, nor does my own grim demise frighten me, whatever that may be; but, my dearest, there is only one thing for which I dread,’ her eyes darkened, and a shadow passed over her features, ‘your death, oh, that is my greatest fear. Surely, if you are slain upon the battle field, slaughtered in a way too gruesome to imagine, I shall fall to pieces, crumbled to thousands of sharp fragments; and as they prepare to bury us in the weeping, bloom covered knolls of Lerúinn, they shall not recognize my body, and say unto themselves, “Surely this is not the Princess Línnesma, whose figure is so impaired beyond recognition!”’

Letting out a woeful sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut, in a passion, unforbidden tears leaking past her lids, dampening her long lashes. She dried them quickly with the back of her hand, shaking her billowing curls in a bright halo about her cheeks.

The knight caressed her face, admiring her grace even in grief, ‘For sincere love such as ours,’ he said, finally, ‘I do not believe it would end in a hideous death, for even beyond the grave, our souls would at last, find their way back into each other’s arms, long after we are put to rest in a final sleep. No, my lovely, we must take heart, for we would not remain separated ever it may be. While I may yet be destroyed upon the fields of ruin, bound to return to the lands of our ancestors, I would bare my teeth, a gnashing, ugly beast, refusing to be whisked away from this world, and return shortly to your side, ever the haunt, until you, claimed by aging years, shed your vessel of flesh and mortality, ready to come back to me.’

‘You speak as though you do not believe you shall return home alive and well,’ said she, ‘as if your fate has already been decided, and revealed to you, and you wish to console and comfort me before your utter demise!’

‘Nay, my love, the course of my destiny is still yet unknown to me, and I must trust that there is still hope yet, hope for a victory and triumph against the wicked of the world. If it is in my power, I shall sever the head of the beast who has long tormented our lands, allowing s serenity to return to our cobbled walls and forests of towering oaks. Here, I shall swear, upon my honor, upon my sword, and upon the armor on my back—I, Laurian of the Knights of Neádaín, swear to return to you, my heart, my soul, my mind, to you here, among the thorned roses.’

A bugle blared in the distance, calling forth the swift assembly of the soldiers of the Palace of Neádaín, manifesting every ounce of courage and strength it could muster in a lone note. In a single moment, the stillness was broken, shattered like splintered glass, ending the final moments held between two souls so desperately in love. The lady began to weep bitterly into the folds of her cloak, burying her cheeks into the dark fabric.

The knight stood, wrapping his maiden in a tight embrace, smothering her closely to his breast, breathing in the smell of the sweet blooms that lingered on her skin, ‘If I could but remain here, cradling you for all eternity, Línnesma, I could die happily, knowing you were beside me.’

‘Oh, my dearest Laurian,’ she choked, resting her head upon his shoulder, ‘so would I. So would I.’

Another trumpet sounded, graver than the last. The knight reluctantly pulled away, head lowered in distressed agony. He straightened, then, and bowed low, bidding her an ardent final farewell. The lady held a trembling hand to her face, pressed tightly to her lips, curtseying deeply, flourishing her shimmering gown as bright red blossoms rained down from the ruffles.

‘My love, my love, my love,’ he whispered, voice strained, before swiftly turning, and descended down the cracked cobbled steps, as broken as the heart throbbing in his aching chest, leaving the only woman who held his heart captive standing lifeless, alone, among the thorned roses.