There was always a time of year that was known, purposely, to chill the skin. A romanticised form of ice and rain, the snow blanketed guilt in a clean slate; feigning innocence in it purest form, the snow cloaked Meridian.
What was she to do but admire, that in fact once every year she would not be missing Heatherfield for it's beauty in weather, yet Elyon ignored the faintest numbing sensation on her fingers this year as she had done since her first snowfall on the Metaworld; her fingers dug into the white sensation, which foully blistered cold where had been promised a false sense of security. The very first time, that she had seen Meridian snow she had missed it; the smell, that was clean and cold. It smelt nothing of him, then.
Perhaps why she had found a love of the snow. Perhaps why she hated it. The flowers of Earth would die tragically; bowing to the call of Christmas time and the inappropriateness of their presence. But here a hundred thousand black roses climbed the walls of her castle, for fear that he might be back and curse that she'd purged his works. And they were beautiful too, just like him then. Perhaps why she had found a hatred of the black roses. Perhaps why she loved them.
No one would ever understand, and her eyes might've glistened slightly from the bitterness, but tears were certainly not forming. Though she'd have lied if they were. Every year, Queen Elyon found herself admiring the same roses; the living dead, because she'd found his secret before Will had tried to save them. The black roses were dead anyway, and Prince Phobos had only lied to his gardener. And then Elyon had lied to the very same man and a hundred others, and Will. Telling them that they would remain roses in their remembrance; they would be their own honorary memorial because surely it was a better fate than bringing back corpses of months and years. She wasn't wrong.. But that didn't mean she wasn't lying.
A thousand black roses.
Prince Phobos would not be forgotten.
Elyon breathed in the icy breeze, ignoring how it sliced her throat and ignoring the thought of Caleb or Aldarn having the audacity to follow her here, to her balcony, without knocking on her door to the boudoir. A red rose lying on pristine lilac sheets of velvet that she was apparently too important to put on her own bed, though there was a smear of red that would undoubtedly be noticeable, though she hadn't looked. Elyon had only seen the thorn and the pinprick on her finger, and had found herself at the balcony where now clouded only thoughts of what might ever have been. She thought of the prison, and Elyon thought of an empty cell. And the fear that had been stirred.
A tear that refused to by cried, had rolled down her finger in violent red. Her whisper caressing the air. Would he be close enough to hear her?
"Merry Christmas, Phobos."