Ib moaned as she picked herself up off of the floor. Wherever she was, it was dark. She squinted as her eyes adjusted. Yet another corridor came into view. She frowned, looking behind her suspiciously. Wherever this place was, she wasn't alone.
She took a step forward, then realized with a jolt that something was missing.
"Looking for this?" a man's voice called from down the corridor. In the dim light, she could barely make out the piercing red of her rose. Her heart leapt into her mouth.
"Give that back," she demanded, moving down the hallway toward the source of the voice. To her dismay, he merely chuckled.
"Give it back?" he asked incredulously as Ib broke into a run. The rose appeared to get farther away with each step she took, fading into the blackness to where she could barely make it out.
"Why would I give you something which is mine?" the man asked, sounding thoroughly amused. Ib's breathing was labored now as she frantically tried to catch up to her rose. Just when she thought for certain her legs would give out on her, a figure emerged from the shadows.
A tall man stepped forward, twirling her rose between his slender fingers. He looked about middle-aged, with unruly dark hair and disturbingly piercing blue eyes. Ib stopped dead as the man began to walk toward her, a smirk creeping over his face.
"This is my world, after all," he mused as he came ever closer, "And what I say goes,"
"Who are you?" Ib demanded, mustering her courage and clenching her fists to keep them from shaking so much.
The man appeared floored, stopping in his tracks and surveying her with disdain.
"Who am I?" he hissed quietly. Something dangerous lurked beneath his smooth tone. "Who am I?!" he cried, plucking a petal off of Ib's rose. Ib cried out in pain and clutched a hand to her chest; it was as if she'd been stabbed.
"I created this place!" the man shouted furiously, "I have created a UNIVERSE!" he continued, his voice echoing off of the walls of the narrow corridor.
"That's…impossible," Ib blurted between shallow breaths. The satisfied smirk returned to the man's face as he resumed his stroll down the hallway toward her.
"Nothing is impossible for a genius, my dear," he said, "As you should know. You've seen my work before, on a more…in-depth level, shall we say?"
Ib just glared at him as the man stopped roughly six feet in front of her. He cocked his head, looking down at her and grinning.
"You must have been thoroughly impressed, to come back here like you did," he mused.
Ib opened her mouth, but the man cut her off.
"Let me guess: you're wondering how your companions from before are still…alive?" he asked curtly, smiling. Ib closed her jaw with a soft click. The man chuckled, pocketing her rose in his suit jacket and looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully.
"I know you went to great lengths to destroy what you thought was my final piece," he said with an air of amusement, "It took me a long time to paint Mary, you know," he added flatly, throwing a glare her way. Ib glared back defiantly.
"At any rate, I couldn't just let such a piece of…art!...fall into ruin. I re-created her, to the best of my ability in this place, and continued with my work," he explained.
"…continued?" Ib blurted, glancing down at the rose in his pocket longingly. He caught the gesture and grinned at her wickedly.
"Why of course, my dear," he said smoothly, "A great artist such as Weiss Guertena cannot simply rest in peace. My work was my life, you see," he continued, waving a hand at her nonchalantly. "One cannot simply 'stop' art. Not when one pours his own soul into his work to ensure that he lives on,"
He paused, waiting for Ib to respond.
"You…painted yourself?" Ib speculated, and Guertena clapped his hands together in delight.
"Precisely, my dear, precisely!" he praised, "A true connoisseur of my work, you are. You're going to love my latest piece," he added maliciously. Ib's stomach jolted unpleasantly.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded coldly, trying her damndest not to let her voice crack out of fear.
Guertena nodded at her, then pivoted on his heel and took off down the hallway at a good clip.
"Come with me, my dear, and you'll see," he called, waving at her. Ib took off after him, keeping an eye on the rose in his pocket.
She felt her jaw fall open as Guertena led her into a candlelit room. The walls were a deep blue, and the room was lined in roses.
Blue and red ones.
Something was lying on a pedestal at the other end of the small space, motionless.
"Garry!" she cried, dashing past Guertena and falling to her knees beside the unconscious young man. He was just as she remembered; tall, pale, with untidy lavender-colored hair. She cradled his head in her hands, noting with a jolt how cold he felt.
She turned toward Guertena as he laughed.
"Ah, I'm glad to see your enthusiasm for my newest piece," he said with a crooked grin. When Ib just glared at him in response, he sighed. "He's still alive, don't you worry," he added, though he sounded less than amused with her reaction. To Ib's horror, Guertena reached into his pants pocket, obscured by his suit jacket, and produced a withered blue rose. It had only a single petal.
"You see?" he insisted, placing the rose back in his pocket and patting his coat, "He lives. I wouldn't be able to work with a subject that had no soul," he said matter-of-factly, "And that, my dear, is where you come in," he added darkly.
Ib's mouth went dry and she clutched onto Garry more tightly.
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"Well, I can't finish this piece without its counterpart," he said mysteriously, pacing around the room and twirling her rose in his fingertips.
Ib didn't answer, which made Guertena sigh huffily.
"Honestly, I'd hoped you of all people would understand," he said with a frown, "Surely you're familiar with the language of flowers,"
"No," Ib answered after a brief pause. Guertena shook his head, then went back to pacing and twirling her rose.
"With flowers, all colors hold a different meaning," he explained, looking at her expectantly. Ib just glared at him. Guertena sighed, then continued with his explanation, "The blue rose, for example, symbolizes 'love at first sight' and 'gaining the unattainable.' Isn't that a stunning subject for a portrait?"
Ib didn't respond.
"Well I think it is," Guertena snapped, throwing her a glare, "And your red rose, my dear, represents 'true love' and 'courage,'"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Ib blurted furiously; Guertena looked at her as if she had two heads.
"Because it's the other half of the piece, don't you see?" he insisted, throwing his hands up in frustration, "True love IS something unattainable by most-impossible! But with courage, one can attain that impossibility!" he explained as if he were addressing a small child, "It's genius, I tell you—pure genius!"
Ib kept an eye on him as he kept talking, making sure to watch his where his eyes were looking. She methodically checked Garry's coat pockets, looking for the lighter. It had to be there. It had to be.
"And so you see, my dear, you are the last component of my greatest work yet," Guertena explained. Ib fought to keep her expression stone-faced as her hand grasped something cool and metallic. She kept her hand on it, waiting for the right moment to place it in her pocket.
"What are you saying?" she spat. Guertena looked at her, his shoulders falling slightly.
"And here I had hoped you could appreciate true art," he said forlornly, putting his face in his right hand. Ib seized the opportunity and swiftly pocketed the lighter.
"Maybe…maybe you're right," she lied, trying to sound convincing. The man had her rose.
He looked up at her, surprised. Ib sighed, trying to keep herself calm.
He had her rose.
"Maybe if I had a chance to look through your art, I'd understand and appreciate it more," she continued, not daring to think too much about what she was saying. Guertena eyed her warily, a small frown forming on his face.
"Go on," he said, gesturing with his hand for her to keep speaking.
"I…I would just like the opportunity to truly appreciate your work, Sir," she lied again, managing a false smile, "I mean, this whole 'language of flowers' thing really got me thinking. I realize how little I know, now...I would be a much better subject if I truly understood your work, wouldn't I?"
Ib waited anxiously in silence as the man contemplated what she had told him. For a few terrifying moments, she was certain he saw through the lie and was going to swiftly behead her rose.
To the contrary, he smiled at her.
"It has been far too long since someone has truly embraced and studied my work," he said finally, making a sweeping gesture toward the door, "Very well! Come, my dear, and I will show you my gallery-!"
"Actually, I was hoping I could go alone," Ib interrupted, prompting a suspicious glare from Guertena, "And you can hold onto my rose, if that makes you feel better," she heard herself say, though her mind was screaming otherwise, "That way I'll have to come back after I'm through looking,"
Guertena paused thoughtfully, looking down at the rose in his hand.
"You may never come back, by that philosophy," he pointed out. Ib frowned; he was absolutely right. She may very well not return. She could just leap out of that "Fabricated World" painting and get the hell out of there. But she wouldn't.
"Not without Garry," she finished for herself.
"I'll come back," she reassured him, but Guertena wasn't buying it.
"Why should I believe you?" he snapped.
"Because I'll be on a time limit," she added quietly; her chest tightened with anxiety. "Give me six hours," she added, pointing at her wristwatch. It was still stuck at 3:56 pm.
"That won't work here," Guertena pointed out.
"Not unless you make it work," Ib stated, "It's your universe, after all," she added.
"And…if you don't return after the allotted time?" Guertena inquired, arching an eyebrow.
"You know what to do," Ib said quietly, gesturing toward the rose in his hand. She felt like throwing up; if he even suspected for an instant that she wouldn't return…
Guertena smiled at her, nodding. Ib internally sighed with relief; she had won.
"Very well, my dear," he said, "See you in six hours,"