Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the
World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
William Butler
Yeats
O&O&O&
There is a subtle poetry in the late hours of night, hours where illuminated vision does not require candles. She has found this in every waning star, every ink-blotted object transformed into shadow, every square of smooth windows' darkness, every creaking floorboard she has learned to avoid.
Insomnia is not the right word for it. Perhaps vigil is more appropriate.
She will wait every night, looking for the rose of dawn to blot out starry possibilities.
O&O&O&
It is perhaps best for all concerned that he not come back. For what is there to do with him, second son, dreamer, no fighter? A true denizen of the old world cannot belong in the new. There could be no riding for glory on la Coeur de Lion's noble white stead, no chivalrous acts for his Lady Rosamond, in these swinging times.
How wonderfully logical nature can be.
O&O&O&
Sometimes, she thinks, he will still come walking down the path here. Surely our memories can give us a true beacon to which moths come. All spirits must not rest entirely when they are still remembered.
He will come, and she will make him laugh quietly as no one else can, and all will be right with this hopelessly wrong world.
O&O&O&
"Una?" A different he. One she has forgotten, and seems to be always forgotten.
"Yes?" Tonight she is agitated.
"Why do you sit here every night?"
"This is the only stone without moss in Rainbow Valley. I don't want to get my dresses wet." Thank whatever god there be, she can lie through practicalities.
"Is that all you think about sitting here?" He will get his pants wet on that stone, she knows, as he sits.
"I suppose the view is lovely. I've stopped noticing it." Another lie.
"They say too much beauty will make a person stop seeing it." (Whatever does he mean by that, she wonders?)
"Or not enough will make a person not able to identify beauty. I suppose I don't consider it beautiful any longer because what beauty can there be in a death?"
"Now you've lost me."
"The sun comes down every night, like it was battling with the moon. And it's hopeless because the moon always wins." At least, that's what He used to say.
"But the sun is going to rise again in the morning. That has to count for something."
"But not at night."
"Is that why you come here after dark, then? A time devoted to death, eh?"
"A time for remembrance." She stares him full on.
"Do you remember other things then, Una? Other people? Walter?"
"Shirley, I didn't think…" He cuts her off.
"Rilla's not the only perceptive one, Una."
With that ringing in her ears, he stands up (sure enough, the bottom of his pants are wet), and walks away from the death battle.
O&O&O&
That night she dreams.
She is in a bower, one laden with age and charm. There are roses upon roses here. All is pink and red, cream and yellow, orange and wild here.
"Una?" She looks to her left, down the path, and there He is standing.
"Walter…"
"Come, I've got something to show you."
"Alright." She laces her arm in his.
"Don't you think this place is lovely? All light and joyous?" His grey eyes shine jeweledly.
"It's wonderful."
He leads her down a path, all the roses seem to be smiling for her.
"It's almost as if I dreamed this place up. Roses have always been my favorite flower, and I've never known why."
"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?"
"No," he pauses. "No, I think it's because they always reminded me of you."
"Really?" Quietly, she asks, disbelievingly.
"Right now your cheeks look like their petals, and you're slim like their stems, and you've got the same limpid grace of them. And the same beauty."
"Why are you saying these things to me?"
"Because they're true."
She continues. "Why not to Faith?"
"Because she's not you."
All there is now is a vortex of soundless shock in her eyes and ears.
"Ah, here we are." He gestures her closer to a rose right off the path. "Look." He commands softly.
There, in the midst of grand hot-house roses, is a tea rose. Small, creamy, innocent, wild, and utterly lovely.
"That's you. All the rest of the world, including Faith, is bright and flashy and entirely overdone in comparison with your sweetness and natural strength. I don't think you realize what a rare thing you are Una, what a darling. I don't even know if I do."
Tears stream down her cheeks in gratitude.
"Oh, don't cry." His thumbs wipe her cheeks dry. "There, now. I only wanted to try and tell you how utterly wonderful you are, and how much I would like to treasure you."
She stares at him in open wonder of how this one man could show so much tenderness.
"Why me?"
"I wondered that myself for a long time. But then I realized it was because you're the only one who's understood me as a person, not as dreamy little Walter. I have more a right to ask you why someone so wonderful as you would even spend time with me."
"Because you are the only man who would ever think of me as something besides little shy Una who always needs protection. You're the only one who's ever understood that I need to protect as well as be protected."
With that, he put his arms around her and his cheek (damp with his own tears) on her hair.
O&O&O&
When she wakes up there are tears on her cheeks. She looks out her window, noting that the sun has won its battle for daylight, and is rising in the east. Just as Shirley said.
As she gets out of her bed she notices a small, pink tea rose on her nightstand.
And she smiles, knowing she has "kept faith".
O&O&O&
AN: Well, I had to do something with Walter and Una. And throw a little (sort of) Una/Shirley in there. This is what comes out of me at two in the morning. Hope you enjoyed, and hope you review.
Merci! Je vous aime!