Title: Yellow Roses in Kabul
Rating: K
Genre: Drama, Spiritual
Characters: Castiel
Setting: Following episode 7.21, "Reading is Fundamental."
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters.
~o0o~
Leyla dabbed the sweat from her brow before bending down to carefully clip the dead rose blossom from the bush, lest it go to seed and stifle other blooms. She really should have done this earlier, before the sun rose high in the sky, but other chores had taken precedence. Though it was only mid-morning, it was already warm, and her hijab felt like an oven.
This did not, however, stop her progress. The yellow roses were one of the joys of her family, having survived the Taliban and the Americans and the insurgents unscathed. So she tended them with great care, certain their beauty was a gift from Allah. She was so consumed by the task that it took her several minutes to notice the strange Westerner sitting on the bench, a strange smile on his face.
She let out a startled gasp and dropped the pruning shears to the ground. The stranger had unkempt brown hair and intensely blue eyes, such a shade she had rarely witnessed before, though she supposed the color was perhaps common among the Westerners. She had rarely been close enough to check eye color, nor the wherewithal. He was wearing a heavy, tan-colored coat over thin, white clothes that seemed to be from a hospital, and there was a band of white paper around one wrist. And, despite the heat, he wasn't showing any sort of discomfort - he didn't even have a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Was he an escaped madman, she wondered in panic?
"Who are you?" she demanded fearfully, forgetting for a moment that there was a high probability that this Westerner couldn't understand her nearly babbled question. Her hands trembled as she slowly bent down to retrieve the fallen secateurs, not taking her eyes off the stranger who was sitting ever so calmly in her yard as if he belonged there.
He finally swiveled his head to look at her, cocking it curiously. She stifled the urge to gasp again as his blue eyes locked on hers, overwhelming in their simple regard for her. "My name is Castiel," he replied in perfect, unaccented Pashto. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. I was enjoying your roses. They're really quite beautiful." His voice was low, gravelly, even, befitting his intense and unblinking stare.
Leyla stared at him, half frightened and half confused. She had no one to call for help; she was alone at the moment. Fortunately, the stranger (Castiel? A very strange name, she mused.) made no move towards her, threatening or otherwise, other than to offer her a wide, if somewhat awkward-looking smile. Leyla swallowed nervously; it wasn't proper for her to speak with a strange man, according to custom, but there was really nothing else she could do, as he was between her and any escape she could hope for. "Yes, they are quite beautiful," she replied finally, trying to hide the quaver in her voice. "I tend them myself."
His eyes shifted towards the garden shears clutched in her hands. It occurred to her that her last statement was rather obvious and silly, since she had been busy tending them when he presumably walked in and sat down. "And you put much love into them," the man, Castiel, said simply, his eyes turning towards the roses once more. "They do credit to both you and our Father."
Leyla blinked. "Allāhu akhbar," she murmured, still unsure of herself and most definitely still unsure of the behavior of the strange man on the bench.
"This variety is called Rosa foetida. It means 'stinky rose'." He gave an odd laugh, as if this were truly very amusing. "Some people find the scent objectionable. I find it quite appealing, however."
She honestly had no idea how to respond to that. The entire situation was so bizarre, so completely out of her experience, that she wondered if she had herself gone mad and this man was a figment of her deluded mind.
"You're not insane," the man said, as if he could read her very thoughts. His words did not reassure her on that count. "Roses truly are things of wonder," he continued, as if he hadn't stopped to reassure her of her sanity at all. "There are over a hundred species of rose, each with its own unique scent, arrangement of petals, and thorns. Though, technically speaking, they're not actually thorns, but prickles. A common misconception. I think our Father must have spent special time when He created the rose."
Though this man made her nervous, by this point Leyla felt relatively sure he wasn't going to hurt her. He seemed more interested in the roses, as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"I know someone who is like a rose. Prickly, dangerous even, but beautiful. I'm waiting for her," the strange man remarked.
"Here?" Leyla asked, unable to contain her confusion and surprise. Why would a man wait for a rendezvous for a woman in her garden, of all places? Not that it was an ugly place (it really was quite beautiful), but this man (and his intended, presumably) were both complete strangers, and who meets in the garden of a stranger?
Castiel smiled in response; the expression lit up his face in a most remarkable manner. "Here is as good a place as any, and better than most. You tend a beautiful garden, Leyla."
She nearly dropped the shears again in shock. "How do you know my name?"
The man continued to stare at the roses. "It is written on your soul," he replied simply. "I can see it as plainly as I can see you. I can see everything now. I can see the path a bee flies as it goes from rose to rose. It's a miracle, Leyla. You're a miracle. These roses, they're each a miracle. This world, it's a miracle."
He was definitely a madman, she decided, but there was a certain poetry to his madness. Gathering her courage, she said asked, "Can I offer you you some tea while you wait?" It would give her the chance to get back into the relative safety of the house and away from him, if nothing else.
Castiel, whoever he was, seemed touched by the hospitality. "It's very kind of you to offer, but not necessary." He glanced towards the sky, his ear cocked slightly. "I have to go now. Thank you for allowing me to share your garden for a time."
Leyla blinked, and in the barest moment in which her eyes were closed, the man vanished, the only sign of his departure a sound that resembled the flapping of wings.