What is life without the one you care for the most? How does one know who in life they care for so much…so, so much that one would do anything, anything for that person? See how she stands there, decrepit sword in hand, a thin trail of blood dripping onto the muddy ground, the torn landscape she knows as home. No, the very earth itself, that not even the heavens can take from her, is all hers because she governs it. This little girl watches the world change before her eyes though this land she knows is hers…Because he, the young one's love and savior, has given the world to her, and therefore she is his queen. So he the savior will do anything for her, his queen.
But why does she weep? Why does that little queen stand there in the wreath of torn marble pillars, underneath the cascade of tears that none know who shed? Why does she refuse to save her savior but allow those dreaded, crystalline drops to stain her porcelain face instead? She knows not why, and no one dares to be curious, to be caring enough. No, no, she knows yet her petite body she cannot sway. She feels as though she the poor, little helpless queen will rust, and forever be still. And when lightning tears the sky open and the downpour becomes much fierce, when thunder roars and howls, the young one does not budge at all, as though her heart, throbbing and rupturing, seeks to end her life. Her savior, the man in the rich, creased cloak, whose eyes glow with fiery passion and domination, has gone, and perhaps she too will leave.
She contemplates leaving for him, to save him.
Yet she cannot move.
So she sits and thinks and looks up at the churning, black sky. Here she remains, the poor little girl, her delicious red curls wet and dangling over her face. She coughs violently and shivers, her pale, fragile skin ever so icy cold. How she dreams of the sun embracing her, kissing her skin, her face, soothing her and lulling her. The very light mankind thrives in now burns her and her savior. But can one truly believe this? Can a mortal say this, that she the young little queen dies in the sun? No other soul intrudes upon her life for she never allows it. The rose she is, the young bud, he protects and she nurtures. She is pure, and he the savior, her father, intends to keep it so. And that girl has grown to know only this, so she, too, wants to remain a pure, innocent rose bud.
She has decided.
The queen, the young and desolate queen has decided that she will remain here, her one and only home, the grand Romanian castle, and she the queen will wait. She will wait for the day she blossoms, the day her savior returns to her and stays with her always. That he may never leave her, that she becomes his savior and forever keep him all to herself.
Alas, that day shall never rise, for when the bright orb awakened and shone across the firmaments that little queen was never more.
Their love, their union…their world was never to be.