Thanks so much to all of my reviewers. I haven't updated in a while because I had lost my original fic idea. Well, there were some problems with the plot that I couldn't work out without taking a little time to do it. Hope the chapter lives up to the last one. ;)
-
Eighteen Years Later…
Transylvania, 1768
Only daisies grew in that field.
Tatiana stood in the middle of it, perfectly motionless amidst the tableau. She held her breath, as if it might disturb the nature around her. The field she stood in was a yellow shade of green, as it always seemed to be, even in winter. The daisies, the only flowers that colored it, lived and died there like all other flora but the grass retained its pigment even when the snows of January covered it to its tips.
It would be winter soon. Already the mountains in the distance had gathered their snow and hovered ominously on the darkened horizon like the prelude to a storm. For Tatiana, there would be no daisies for her on her birthday. She had been born in the blackest of December, on the longest night of the year. Snow was the only weather she knew on her day.
It was all very well. She was sick of the little white flowers.
Everything she owned was the same, like daisies. Her cloaks were gray, or brown. She had a white apron, and wooden clogs; they were earthen colors, and she hated them with a passion.
She longed for something red.
Tatiana had never been called beautiful, but that was because she never flaunted her face like most girls in her village. They were happy, she realized, about so many things, and they wanted husbands. Tatiana was neither happy nor in search of a mate, and she did not desire to have any part in the lives of the other girls. She hated the looks of the villagers as she passed them in the streets. They pitied her because she had no mother.
She didn't know why they pitied her.
There was no regret in her for what she did not have. Tatiana had black hair that she kept straight and long, down to her knees, that she would never cut. It wasn't gold and shiny like the hair of the other girls, but golden hair always got more attention, and that was something that Tatiana did not want. She had white skin like paper, and people told her that skin that beautiful was a rare gift. That part of her drew attention, and in order to avoid it she wore long sleeves and kept her hands hidden in gloves or the pockets of her cloak.
I don't want to be like the beautiful girls.
To be beautiful was a sin. The witches that lived in the forest had told her that.
They were ugly.
Tatiana's black eyes darted to the side, to the mountain to her right that rose up from the field as a fearful hulk. Gray clouds were beginning to hide its peak, and the sky as well. Tatiana didn't look up to see if a storm was gathering. She could feel one in her soul.
With one white hand she reached up and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Slowly she stretched the other hand out before her. In the distance, a low rumble of the thunder came rolling up over the hills, echoing morbidly around the field where she stood. A single drop of rain fell into Tatiana's palm.
The glistening drop lingered in the hollow of her hand before dissolving on her skin.
A flash of red caught her eye.
It was a rose. A single rose, growing in the middle of the field, it's royal color blinding against the dull tapestry of the field like a drop of blood.
Tatiana felt her breathing increase. Quickly she reached her hand out and fell onto her knees. With slow, labored crawl she approached the flower. It was a quite the only one of its kind. Tatiana glanced around but she could not even see on the edge of the forest another rosebush that might have scattered its seeds over the field.
Her face brightened as she bent down beside the rose, admiring its rich hue with hungry eyes. She laid down on the ground, keeping her gaze to the rose and the gray blue sky that spun above it.
You will attract much attention with a color like that. Tatiana smiled to herself.
Talk to me. I'm alone too.
The clouds hid the sun. A raindrop fell and glistened on a single red petal.
Hello.
Tatiana looked up. A tall man stood over her. He had black hair like night, and eyes like velvet. His face was pale, and from his shoulders streamed a long cloak that fell to his feet like a curtain. He was smiling at her.
You are not from my village, Tatiana said to him.
No, I'm not. He laughed. Tatiana kept her eyes locked to his, and did not move from her position on the ground.
Why are you here? You're disturbing me.
The man knelt down beside her and laid a delicate hand on the rose. How do you like this flower?
She blinked at him.
I am very fond of it. I am very fond of red.
Are you? He looked surprised, but pleased. You should wear it more often.
Tatiana frowned.
We do not stitch clothing in red. Those who wear red are considered unclean.
Do you think it is unclean?
No.
What is your name?
Tatiana Veronica Radislaw. She saw the man smile again at her, as if her words had given him much pleasure. Another voice met her ears from across the field.
They are calling me. I must go to them.
She got up very slowly, and so did the stranger. They were facing each other now, and but Tatiana was not ashamed. She did not break her gaze. Something in her was attracted to the dark man, and she had a sudden urge to touch the long strands of black hair that hung on either side of his face. He was looking at her.
You can have the rose. I want you to have it.
Tatiana didn't miss a beat. Why? I will take it if I like.
It's not yours to take. I will give it to you. I made it for you.
I don't believe you.
The man did not say anything else. Tatiana reached down defiantly and plucked the flower from the ground. One of the thorns pricked her finger. She saw a drop of blood form above the wound.
It hurt me.
Can I see it?
Tatiana looked at him curiously. No, you can't. I like you. Will I see you again?
The man nodded. Yes, you will see me again.
What is your name?
I will not say that yet. Soon you will know me, but not now.
Tatiana brought her hood that had fallen to her back over her head again, covering her hair. Tucking her hands back into her cloak, she turned and ran away over the field, back to the village. The rose was in her pocket, but she felt as if the color had bled all over, like the wound on her finger had bled.
She did not feel unclean.