Pink Roses by Beltane
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Winx Club. Or flower meanings. Or the idea of two girls going at it. By the way, if you don't approve, don't read. This is a warning.
Author's Note: Flora fascinates me with the Winx Club, with her appearance and her nature. She's not as shy and sweet as many people think, if you consider her somewhat ruthless efficiency in a fight… She spends a lot of time with Mirta and the poor witch really wants affection and it struck me that they really had a close bond as Flora knew how to communicate much better with her than anyone else. Pink roses, besides being naturally associated with Flora (in her pictures), represent grace and gentility (another good association), as well as gratitude. And for those of you not interested in studies of old holidays, Beltane is a festival associated with fire and with the fertility symbol laden May Day and takes place on the first day of summer.
Flora preferred flowers.
They were more interesting than people, more subdued. They did have voices, but voices few bothered to listen. Their chorus was softer in the hubbub of daily life, requiring a subtle ear that most people were not willing to use. They were kinder, they responded well to compassion and care. Words meant little to them but actions meant so much.
So when the others talked about boys, about fashion, about gossip, she only listened. Listening was good. Listening brought a world so much different from talking. Talk was simple; listening took so much more. Even if she made it seem so simple, not speaking unless absolutely necessary, wearing the same small smile upon her face.
The flower was beautiful but silent to the rest of the world.
Mirta found comfort in shadows.
They were soft but still with the light. She could hide in them but still see the light, the light that was soft and warm and comforting. Hiding was good; though hiding left her heart feeling cold, longing for the warmth but unable to have it.
A friend could be found in the height of a solar eclipse, when the world became shadows. A gemstone held in that strange light, both soft and warm but so shadowed, would glow but with a softened, veiled light. Was it friends were in shadows? Was the one who would warm her heart and let her be in that light and out of the shadows be within them?
The shadow watched and listened and hoped, longing to be the flower in the sunlight.
Flora found the Red Fountain boys distasteful. They were very handsome, like young gods, but so loud, so out of tune with the world. They jangled and clashed like chains and swords, bashing so loudly they put out all the beautiful music of life and the world. They stomped about and did not know how to speak softly, did not care about the flowers beneath their feet.
Even the girls at Alfea were not to her taste. They talked about trivial things, no matter that they were only transient in the scope of nature. The flowers bloomed and died or bloomed and lived, as they will, each day a new thing and each trouble to be dealt with as it came. She did not know anyone who knew the virtue of a soft voice, who knew how to listen as well as speak, who valued life for what it was.
Until she met the girl who had that soft voice, who lingered in the outer edges of the world, and was reluctant to come into the light, despite her beauty and her warm heart.
Mirta hated the witches. She was a witch, her power came from the moon and from chaos, from the storms that blazed with the power of lightning and the roar of thunder and the waters that crashed down upon craggy rocks in the coast, but especially from the moon, that beautiful, faceless goddess who turned to and from the world.
The others laughed at her. One time she tried to grow a simple daisy in the school gardens, the day's eye with its golden heart and white petals, in midst of the black poppies and roses and henbane and nightshade of the dark patches here, if even to have that bright color and innocent flower in the darkness of her shadows. It died, crushed beneath a scornful classmate's heel.
The moon brought her nothing, even if it was supposed to be light in the darkness, the pale sister to the bright gold sun of the day, darkened, female, wild, soft, but never evil, never his opponent or inferior, not that it was considered as such, as the true symbol in all glory. She longed for someone who could be her light in face of all the chaos and darkness, someone who could be her counterpart, her equal, and her friend.
Until she met the flower princess, who bloomed in the sunlight, but never had the brashness of it, never the arrogance and overbearing nature of the sun, a blossom that was beautiful and warm and gentle.
Flora let her hand trail over the soft leaves of the pumpkin upon her desk. "Is it all right? Do you have enough water?" She smiled as the pumpkin shivered in a manner that was very much like a nod.
She adjusted the growing light to a little less intensity before resuming her touch. The spell was an intricate one and the main point was difficult to find. It blazed in her magical eyes like a tapestry but one that was almost tangled into place, blazing of magic that was harsh and cold, like broken winter ice, the magic of the white-haired winter witch, the witch who was like the Winter Queen. The threads were malicious, the intent nothing but malice itself, shimmering, dead beauty that had dark light, gleaming like the eyes of so many venomous spiders. Flora probed the tapestry, looking for the knot that held it all together.
The pumpkin sighed beneath her ministrations. She could hear the plant's whispers but could barely detect them. A soft frown creased her lips as she tried to listen. But she could not hear anything, could only feel a gentle warmth from the pumpkin, something tentative but so beautiful in that shyness.
Mirta felt odd being a pumpkin but it felt nice for once being with others who cared about her, who made sincere promises, even if the possibility of returning to human form was very small. The plant fairy especially, who looked after her every need, spent time with her, even if it was not looking to break the spell.
It felt odd being with those who wanted her merely for her company, cared about her not necessarily for what she could give them in social boosting or favors. But it was warm, and she always felt a shiver run through her when the beautiful fairy, Flora, caressed her leaves and skin.
Endlessly, she tried to tell them how much she was grateful, how much this meant to her, but it seemed they could not hear her. Even Flora could not hear how much the witch cared now, what Mirta would now do for her new… friends.
Flora found herself with Mirta more and more. Stella's whims and caprices flew about without abandon; Bloom off in her own little world, whispering about destiny and dreams. Tecna never understood about the material world, just her world of theories and numbers and matrices. Musa… was off trying to soothe others, while deflating the sun princess's ego from time to time.
She shook her head. Why did it all have to go so fast? The world went at its own pace, at the earth's cycle and seasons. Why could not the others understand this?
Mirta listened, offered a willing ear and subtle conversation. Even if Flora could only sense a general feeling instead of statements, it was enough. Mirta was gentle, shy, but with a beautiful heart. The rose may have been the Queen of the garden but she had thorns. The violet was low to the ground but held a heart of beautiful color and was softer than velvet.
Flora found herself having the most marvelous conversations with the pumpkin girl, telling the former witch about life upon a beautiful planet of flowers and forests and glassy lakes and gentle rivers and blue and amber skies, about what plant sages taught and passed down in their earth homes that were never invasive of the good earth, about the new roses trailing up their new brass and mahogany trellises, about the treatment of worms in the garden, about anything at all. It seemed she talked the most in that greenhouse, had the most wonderful talks with a pumpkin that was once a girl who was a witch, and she did not mind at all.
Life was simpler as a pumpkin. Mirta didn't have to worry about clothes or baths or even eating for that matter. All she needed was water and some sunlight and the rest took care of itself. Well… for the most part. The princess of the garden would come to visit her, talk to her, and take care of her. She did her spells to ensure Mirta's wellbeing and to strive to untangle the tapestry of the curse.
But Mirta was willing to stay eternally a pumpkin, as long as it meant being here, in the company of those who cared and a girl who cared about her so much. That was all that mattered, being in warm sunlight and finding she liked it, and now she was determined to stay in it. This was the very goal of the spell that she had so desperately clung to in the stone halls of Cloud Tower, in the darkness…
She shivered under Flora's gentle touches as the fairy spoke of such beautiful things, things that she had never imagined before and longed to see… as long as it was with Flora.
Nighttime, soft, sweet, sleepy. The fairies were in bed, dreaming as they would, of princes and music and equations and ancient stories, peacefully, as the soft beams of a full moon shone through the window. Full moon, when the fairies were weakest and the witches strongest, when the dark and chaotic powers of the night were at once powerful and week as the moon had all the force of the sun.
And that night, through some goddess's intervention, some kind twist of fate, an evil spell lifted.
The witch, as though in a dream of her own, aware yet unaware, stepped off the table within the conservatory, floated with a grace she never knew she could ever have. She knew in her heart that she did not have much time, that this was a single magical moment that perhaps she would never have again, that gave her strength and unimaginable grace. With the velvety steps of a cat, she crept to the fairies' beds, unheard, unseen. She passed each bed holding a sleeping girl, soft and innocent in the moonlight, slumbering princesses, sleeping angels cradled in beds made all the more fantastic and ethereal in the softened darkness.
It was as though it were a tale, ready for the witch to play out. All the pieces were set up for her already, all for her amusement and benefit. But grim Time warned her with stern mechanical ticking from his throne on the mantel place that it would not last forever that she would have to flee before the proverbial midnight that marked the height of unearthly powers and the ending a moment later, even as she padded, outside of the beams of silver lamplight, as though they were marking sentinels, to the silvery-pink cradle that held the flower princess.
In the soft white light, the princess's skin was still dusky but softer, cinnamon dusted just faintly with the snowy traces of powder before the making of some grand confection. Hair of warm, soft brown-gold, the color of rich wood laced with fine, teasing amber was tousled, tossed across the expanse of a rose petal pillow. Her lips were parted, soft and shimmering in the moonlight, eyes veiled softly. The moon caressed her like a lover, running soft pale hands across the expanse of flesh the witch knew was soft and silky, delicate as waxen white lilies but warm as chocolate.
She wondered if it was also just as sweet.
The witch came closer as the princess turned slightly and sighed, snuggling deeper into silken sheets. Those lips parted again, just so, awaiting a lover's kiss, a prince's kiss. But the little witch knew that the fairy princess did not care for warriors, knew that she found them crude and uncouth, out of sync with the beauty around them with their love of destruction and conflict.
"If I profane with my unworthiest hand," she whispered as she came to bed. "This holy shrine, the gentle fine this…" Her hand hovered over the dusky cheek, the soft rose bud lips and touched.
"My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." Before she could hesitate, before she could draw away, before her sudden courage melted away into the night, she bent and kissed the princess.
Those lips were soft, softer than anything in the world, warm, sweet, fragrant, tasting of fresh fruits of summer, the first kiss of the spring after a long winter, the sweet tang of orange in the coldest season. The little witch felt those lips move under hers softly, tenderly and she tore herself away.
The change was coming on her and she fled now, feeling shivering come over her as the clock tolled midnight. But not before she looked back at the princess for one pained moment, and desperately wished that she had never been born. In her heart though, she cried and laughed, at tasting a few drops of heaven before returning to the drought of Hell. She licked her lips in remembrance, hesitating one moment too long, and returned to her cursed form, dropping softly on the carpeted floor.
The next morning the princess awoke to find a pumpkin in her bedroom. As she tenderly picked up the gourd, she found several delicate dewdrops, much like tears, pearling the orange skin and green leaves.