Disclaimer : I don't own Yami no Matsuei or Oriya or Muraki-Yoko Matsushita does. This is merely an act of completely unabashed fandom. And some weird sense of personal fulfillment.

Note: This is Oriya POV, and contains odd flower metaphors. Metaphors are fun.

------Kyoto Earth------

'The flower that blooms in adversity' - that is an old Western proverb my aunt used to cite. Her husband was American, and she always quoted odd phrases like that to me.

Now it comes back to me in a different way.

If the world is a garden, then people are both its flowers and its weeds.

If Japan is a garden, then Kyoto is the rich and shaded corner whose soil is ancient and dark. It holds history and life and death in its body, giving all of that back up to the surface periodically.

My garden is in the soil of Kyoto and its flowers are in full flush of bloom right now.

The red rose lords it over the rest of the garden, its vibrant petals pushing in all directions, thirsty with vibrancy. It is a peacock of flowers, always in competition with the gentler blooms.

The violets, for example, turn their smiling painted faces to the sun and wave at it merrily, not minding the company of the others. The roses slinking roots and thorns seek to turn the violet away, or to overshadow its delicate beauty with its own lush presence.

As I pass by in the early morning, I stop to watch it for a moment. It needs to be pruned, or it will become straggly in its reach for attention.

It is the gardener's day off, but I prefer to do most of the work myself anyway. It may seem silly for a wealthy young man to get down in the dirt and garden, but nature has always had a calming effect on me, and on this day in particular I need some calming.

So I fetch some pruning shears from an amused looking maid - she has been with me for a long time, and knows my habits.

I trim back the green leaves of the rose bush, moving slowly and carefully. But despite the caution, as I finish my finger catches on a thorn and I pull it back with a small hiss of pain, irritated.

But the finger is caught again, the hand lifted away before I can push this annoyance down enough to stop it. He smiles at me as he licks away the drop of blood at the tip, one gleaming eye filled with twisted satisfaction and no small amount of insanity. It's a wonder he can even pass through normal society anymore.

But I pull my hand away smoothly, glaring at him as I rise and wrap the small cut with the tie from my hair, ignoring him. He does not appreciate this, but he tolerates it. As I am the only person he does not walk over completely, I am the only person who knew him as he was before.

The rose behind us is angry as well, angry at being forgotten and that its brief prize has been stolen away by one more red than itself.

The red rose is the most alluring flower in the garden, but it is a dangerous allure.

It is the red of passion and love and life - but it is also the red of blood. It embodies possession and dangerous beauty.

Attracting and attacking at the same time, it is a flower molded by adversity, and is not the easiest flower to have in ones garden.

Yet I cannot bring myself to take it from its only chance of light.