Cities of Cain
"We are a most solitary people, and we live, repelled by one another, in the gray, outcast cities of Cain."
Edward Dahlberg
Prologue: Rue
" There's rue for you; and here's some for me:
we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays:
O you must wear your rue with a difference."
Hamlet Act IV, Scene V
He clutched at the stems, heedless of any thorns that might be there. He tried to force himself to concentrate, to think, to analyse. Pink catchfly, white bindweed and tuberose, and blue hyacinth, all surrounded by thorn apple leaves. They were thrown together almost haphazardly, their stems knotted together with a long grey ribbon, woven of hemp. It seemed a young girls bouquet of random wildflowers, picked during a walk through a meadow and tied with her hair ribbon.
He knew better.
Despite the partially crushed petals and chaotic arrangement, this was no random gathering of daisies and dandelions. This was deliberate. It was simply a bouquet, but he found himself more terrified than he had ever felt facing Voldemort.
He had crept out of his dormroom, leaving behind his slumbering classmates, and entered the Chamber of Secrets. For four years he had snuck down here a few nights each month, for safety. No one had noticed, or, if they had, they had not said anything. But he knew.
He had spotted the bouquet immediately, the bright colours contrasting sharply with the dark stone in the dimly lit room. It would have been near impossible to miss, actually. Flowers simply did not grow out of the mouth of a decaying skeleton of a centuries old basilisk. But there they were nonetheless, a vibrant blight in the previously semi-sacred hideaway.
Somehow,he knew his habits, and, worse, he had found a way to enter his sanctuary.
But what disturbed him most were the hidden meanings.
Catchfly. Snare.
Bindweed. Bonds.
Tuberose. Dangerous pleasure.
Hyacinth. Game, sport.
Thorn apple. Deceitful charms.
Put together, it formed a clear message. He was playing a game, one that he intended to win. He would be seduced, drawn in like the bees that pollinated these flowers until the noose drew tight. Oh, but he would enjoy it so, reveling in the power he held, in the control that he would lose. And lose he would. Everything was bound up in hemp, in fate, in inescapable destiny.
He flung the flowers to the floor, watching as they splashed in the ever present stagnant puddles. A few petals swirled lazily on the slimy surface of the water, mocking him.
He howled his misfortune, already planning his answer of basil, bay leaf, and burdock.
Rue: Disdain
Catchfly: Snare
Bindweed: Bonds
Tuberose: Dangerous pleasure
Hyacinth: Game, Sport
Thorn Apple: Deceitful charms
Basil: Hatred
Bayleaf: I change but in death.
Burdock: Touch me not