"A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom."
- Chinese Proverb
I never hated her. Not that I didn't want to… but she was like a small animal, one of those soft fluffy creatures with huge innocent eyes that you just can't hate - it's impossible. Like all such creatures, she inspired protectiveness…and I was, for a while. Very protective. I told myself it was for her, she could not be damaged by the world… she didn't know it, not yet. A cruel world, inside and out. And she was so innocent. I couldn't stand her innocence. She grew as a kitten that has been fluffed, brushed, petted, and shown nothing but good will, sweet and soft and accustomed to the good life, as such creatures are apt to do. Why wouldn't she, being raised in a nest of roses.
She grew and played and sang. Her hair flowed long and her eyes gazed large and her cheeks glowed a delicate blush.
I grew old and worked and dealt with the kingdom's less savory parts. My hands were rough and my arms were scarred and my eyes were narrow and cold.
She said she loved me, called me sister, gave me the sincere shallow kisses that pressed her affection into my skin. I would look at her and see the life in her eyes and send her out into the garden, away from these dark halls.
Sometimes I would watch her. It was the closest I got to the sun.
She was in the garden more and more, her youth began to intertwine with the greens, her face would glow so full of the sunlight that there was no room for more, and she would come in from rapture, complaining softly of nothing to do. She didn't like to work at the garden. I gave her small tasks, things to do around the garden, the grounds, things to take weight off the servants' resentful shoulders. There was unrest in the kingdom, it was only a time before it erupted.
They planned their revolt, and I came to depend more and more on her. She would see to the caring of the place while I saw to what I had to do, while I stalked duty's halls and grew shadowy among dust and scrolls.
It was only right that she would do this. She never showed interest in my scrolls, in my histories or matters of rule. She liked books, all children do… she loved the faerie stories, rose and azure pictures of sky and sea lights. She never could love the ground. To dig into existence, to bury empty fists in dirt and see the brown-grey beneath yellow nails… that was too close to death for her. She flew.
I always imagined she would fly to the clouds someday, maybe lighted in a rainbow, soaring to another life. She did not seem to belong to this world.
I wanted her to fly away, especially when Gerel came. He was young and honest, unlike so many in my work. He came to the castle in a stride of wanting, wanting good and truth and rightness and ego and love. He searched with me for the first few… he found the last with her. They would stand in the garden, her eyes lit up and reflecting blue, full of happiness, his eyes eager and desiring. He raced through work in those days, dying for the moment when he could shove aside the last reality-encrusted paper and escape to the garden and her.
I loved him for his ideals, she loved him for his love and what he saw as his soul.
It isn't hard to guess which would win.
A/N: I'm very excited about this piece, hoping to continue... I have several quotes I plan to head each chapter with.
Review if you think I should continue. Thank you for reading!
-Mizamour