Disclaimer: Still not mine. Obviously.
A/N: Phew. Passed the deadline! Erm…I'm not too sure about this one, but I do hope some people could still enjoy it. Please let me know what you think of it if you have the time; I'll greatly appreciate it :).

White Remembrance
theme#11 gardenia

It was only a memory, a small recollection with parts fading away and distorted like a washed out painting that he sometimes recalled when sleep was hard to come by and the night was far too quiet. He was not one who would treasure memories and keep it safe inside his mind; he thought memories as frightening, cruel things that even the most beautiful of them could easily twist into a terrible one by loss or mistake. But some memories bounded to stay. Some memories kept him living the way he did.

--

Cross wished (and it was rare that he was actually wishing) that it had been one of those days in which the sky was murky with darkened clouds, portending the rain —a perfect cliché for the ongoing event. But it was a tepid summer afternoon, with a rich hue of golden and red above the town of Radiata, when he received the news of his mother's death.

It wasn't that much of a surprise for one who had such a frail body. He, however, sometimes found himself thinking that it was her who had been truly strong. She had been confined to a room less pleasing than the outer world for the longest time —the last time she had managed to go out, he remembered, was two weeks ago during his engagement with a girl from the renowned Silverlake family, whose given name he had even forgotten really (Ripley? Rinslet?)— and yet she would still offer him a smile and warm, welcoming hands that he often shoved away as of late, saying that a thirteen-year-old was not a child anymore, hence no need for her constant coddling.

And then he was here, standing in front of a place where she would eternally rest, six feet under the ground, while a priest from Olacion murmuring prayers in words he could hardly comprehend. Again, and to no avail, he wished that the sky would mourn on his stead, because Cross did not cry. By crying is admitting that you have weaknesses. His father's teaching rang clear, resounding whenever he felt that strange, threatening lump in his throat and he had to force it back down with a swallow. A knight-to-be must not show weaknesses. Of course he had never had any, he assured himself, and he was not about to show any, not even now.

Soft sobbing and whispers droned in a deafening intensity; some mourned about how the Lady, someone who had been blessed with a warm and glowing kindness, had passed away in this kind of sad, miserable way, and some, perhaps, tattled about a husband and a son who didn't even shed tears upon her death. Cross paid them no heed. They could say whatever they wanted to say for all he cared. It irked him though, the way they offered him fake comforts and reassuring words; he would glare whenever this happened, giving them such intense stare until, one by one, they looked away from him.

But he took more willpower than he usually did, willing himself to wait until he was sure that everyone had left, except for a few people (one of them was his father, he noticed, who was talking to the rest of the group and wouldn't bring himself to care as to what his son was about to do). Slowly, hesitantly, he approached the handsomely carved tombstone in front of him and kneeled. Faint scent of gardenia—his mother's once favourite flower, white and delicate and perfect—pervaded the air as he pulled out a pouch filled with dried petals of the flower and put it on the ground. He remembered how she would sit down on a chair with a book on her lap and placed the similar looking pouch on a table beside her. It's a calming fragrance, she had said, smiling softly.

Far and away someone sang a lullaby: gentle voice vibrated a familiar tune, entangled together with the wind and dissolved into thin air. He felt a shiver running down his spine.

It frightened him how clearly a memory could suddenly re-emerge and transform into something more realistic than mere illusion. Memories were strange things; they interlaced with one another, creating an endless tangle of web. And they would never stop coming once you remembered a fragment, because then your mind would try remembering more, picking up the shattered pieces to construct something entirely whole. Only that it would never be whole.

He swallowed, somehow that annoying lump in his throat had grown to suffocate him, and it was suddenly hard to maintain balance without him gripping hard on the tombstone. He clenched his jaws, keeping himself away from doing something completely stupid like, well, crying. Of course he couldn't let himself fall into such level of indignity. He was a strong person —he was sure of it, and would not break easily. To be stronger was the only possible option for him to grow from now on. He would thrive to be nothing but the one who was more powerful than anyone else. Yes, far more powerful.

And it's a promise, mother.

He whispered it against her tombstone, engraved it within his soul, sealed it with a kiss.

"Why did you kiss the tombstone?"

Surprised, he automatically whirled around to see the person who dared to despoil his moment of sacred silence and found that girl from the Silverlake household (Rinslet, he decided) standing behind him, swaying foliages on a nearby tree leaving dark patterns dancing on her face.

"Obviously none of your concern," he retorted, irritated by the fact that he was caught in an embarrassing situation and that he had failed to notice her presence on his back to begin with.

The lines of her brows arched and she gave a little shrug. "I suppose," she said. "It's just that you're weird."

She thinks I'm what!

"You'd better watch your tongue, because I—"

"'Death cancels everything but truth; and strips a man of everything but virtue,'" she cut his exclamation though uncertainty caressed her face as the words fell from her tongue, fingers tucking strands of hair behind her ear.

"What was that?"

"Something I read from a book."

"That's not what I meant," he hissed, not liking the way she talked, because what was hidden beyond her undertone was the same poison, carefully veiled under comforting words. "Do you think telling me those kind of words will make you more superior than I am? Do you think I need to be pitied from someone like you?" There was certain harshness on his voice that often made people flinch. It was an obvious threat and a signal cast upon her in order to make her go away. This would always do the trick. Soon enough, she would look away and leave him be, just like that, like everyone else would do.

"Is making that kind of prejudice against other people's concern makes you any happier?" she asked back, round, brilliant eyes not wavering from his intense glare.

"That..." He stumbled at his words, at loss for ways to respond.

She was a strange one, definitely strange one. There was something in the way she calmly placed her eyes on him that he found disconcerting. It was almost as if she was reading every small pattern of his mind, predicting his movement, and made sure everything he throw would rebound on him. It was almost as if she could tear away his facade of fierceness and knock him off his feet, leaving him sprawled on the cold ground, completely defeated.

And this time, he was the one who looked away.

"Oh, forget it! It's not worth to be argued over, anyway."

Troublesome girl, he thought, fingers idly grazing trough the embossed alphabets on the tombstone. But maybe, just maybe, things would be more interesting this way.

He stood up from his kneeling position and the feeling of smug superiority crept back as he realised how small the girl was compared to him. "It's late, Rinslet, why don't you just go home or something?"

"Ridley," she corrected, obviously annoyed and slightly wide-eyed (after all, Cross' lack of common sense was indeed astounding).

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. He supposed he should apologise for being rude as to not remembering her name and all but then decided that he could care less. "Whatever, just go, you're bugging me here."

Ridley sighed, running a hand through her forehead and hair. "Sure, I'm sorry to have bugged you. You looked like you were going to cry back then. It would be very unbecoming if someone related to me crying in public, you see."

Cross, of course, didn't appreciate the comment. "I wasn't going to-- you take that back!"

"Feel free to wet the pillow in your room tonight, though, since no one will be there to watch."

"Why, you insolent little..."

"Well, I'll be leaving then, if you so wish," she said abruptly, turning her back, not taking any interest to issue another taunt or argument. Cross watched until her frame was out of sight, swallowed slowly by darkened depth of the night.

Suddenly, exhaustion washed over him and he sighed, giving the pouch he had put on the ground one last look —his last gift, last prayer for the loved one. Soon, he must leave, go back to his daily routine, and act like nothing had ever changed (but something would change, wouldn't it? Everything would never be the same). He walked away to go back to his place of residence. Still, there was lingering scent of gardenia he could smell —a fragrance that brought back memories and reminded him of unfulfilled promise.

-End of 3rd Kiss-