A post valentine offering.
Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis. The Plotline, words and scenes are taken from Oscar Wilde's the NIghtingale and the Rose.
I recommend Oscar Wilde. His stories are ncie
---
"He said he would be mine if i brought him a red rose," cried the Prince, Atobe Keigo, "but in all my gardens there is no red rose."
From the opposite room a slave, Akutagawa Jiroh, heard him, and he looked out through the window, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my gardens!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I am richer than any man, i can outshine any other person, yet, for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."
"My love's heart is in pain" said Jiroh "Night after night i have sung of him, though he knows not. Night after night have i told our stories to the stars, though of my existence he knows not. Day after day I watched him and now i see. His hair is as dark as the hyacinth-blososm and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but grief has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The King gives a ball tmorrownight," murmured Atobe "And my love will be of company. If i bring him a red rose he will dance with me till dawn. If I bring him a red rose, i will hold him in my arms and he willl lean his head upon my shoulder, and his hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden so i shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is my love," said Jiroh "I cannot watch him suffer. What is joy to me when he is in pain?! Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emerals and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomergranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of merchants, nor can it be wieghed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Prince, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of he harp and the violin. He will dance so lightly that his feet will not touch the foor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng around him. But with me he will not dance, for i have no red rose to give her"; and he flung hiself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked Gakuto while holding a green lizard as he walked in.
"Why indeed?" whispered Yuushi to his neighbor, in a soft, low voice.
"he is weeping for a red rose," said the Slave Jiroh.
"For a red rose?" they cried, "How very ridiculous!" and Gakuto, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But Jiroh, even if he was just a slave, understood the Prince's sorrow, and he sat silent in the Oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly he stretched his legs and stood up and ran. He passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow he saled across the garden.
In the center of the grass plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when he saw it he walked over to it and lit upona spray.
"Give me a red rose," he cried, "and i will sing to yo my sweetest song"
But the gardener, Yukimura Seiichi shook his head.
"My roses are white," he answered, "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my friend wh gardens upon the old sun-dial, and perhaps he would give you what you want"
So Jiroh walked to the garden upon the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," he cried, "And i will sing to you my sweetest song."
But Syuuichiro Oishi shook his head.
"My roses are yellow," he answered, "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower ta the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother whose flowers grow beneaath the Prince's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want"
So the slave walked over to the garden beneath the Prince's window.
"Give me a red rose," he cried, "and i will sing to you my sweetest song."
But Fuji Syuusuke shook his head.
"My roses are red," he answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean cavern. But winter has chilled my flower's veins and the frost has nipped is buds, and the storm has broken its branches, and i shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all i want," cried Jiroh, "Only one red rose! is there no way by which i can get it?"
"There is a way," Fuji Syuusuke answered, "but it is so terrible that i dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," Jiroh pleaded, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said Fuji Syuusuke, "Youmust build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thron must peirce your heart, and your life-blood must flow ito the rose and become mine."
"Death is a great prince to pay for a red rose," cried Jiroh, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a slave like me compared to rhe heart of the Prince which i love dearly?"
So he stretched his legs and stood up. He passed through the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow he sailed through the grove.
The Prince was still lying on the grass where he had left him, and the tears were not yet dry on his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," sang Jiroh softly, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All i ask of you in return is that you will be a tru lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is whise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flames is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Prince looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand whatJiroh was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the gardeners understood, and felt very sad, for they were very fond of the little Slave who often dropped by to talk.
"Sing us one last song," they whispered; "we shall feel very lonely when you are gone."
So the little Slave sang to the gardeners, and his voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
When he finished his song the Prince got up, and pulled a notebook and a lead pencil out of his pocket.
"He has form," he said to himself, as he walked through the grove-"That cannot be denied to him,but has he got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, he is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. He would not sacrifice himself for others. He thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that he has some beautiful notes in his voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything or do any practical good." and Atobe went into his room and lay down on his huge four poster bed, and began to think of Shishido, and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the little slave Akutagawa Jiroh walked to Fuji Syuusuke, and set his chest against the thorn, and the cold crystal Mooon leaned down and listened. All night long he sang, and the thirn went deeper amd deeper into his chest, and hi life-blood ebbed away from him.
He sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy. And on the top-most spray of the rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it at first, as the mist that hangs over a river-pale as the feet of the morning and silver as the wings of dawn. AS the shadow of a rose in the mirror of silver, as a shadow of rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the top-most spray of the tree.
But Fuji Syuusuke cried to Jiroh to press a little closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Jiroh," cried Fuji, "Or the day will come before the rose is finished."
So JIroh pressed closer against the thorn, ad louder and louder grew his song, for he sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a Prince and of his love.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached his heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a true love's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And Fuji Syuusuke cried to Jiroh to press closer against the thron. "Press closer Jiroh," cried Fuji, "or the day will come before the rose is finished."
So little Jiroh pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched his heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through him, BItter, bitter as the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But Jiroh's voice grew fainter, and his legs began to shake, and a film came over his eyes. Fainter and fainter grew his song, and he felt something choking in his throat.
Then he gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstacy, and opened its petal to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
For she sang of Love true and lasting, and Love which sacrifices itself for Love.
"Look, look" cried Fuji Syuusuke, "the rose is finished now"; but JIroh made no answer, for he was lying dead on the long grass, with a thorn in his heart.
And at noon, the Prince opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "Here is a red rose! i have never seen any rose like it in all my life. it is so beautiful that i am sure that it has a long latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.
TBC...
A/N:
this is the base, groudwork etc. I'm gonna follow-up with the real ending and then a made up happy ending.
signed,
.:TristainMontmorency:.
PS. Comments. review and constuctive criticisms are loved