Narcissus
Chapter 8 - The Tragic Narcissus
Once Sharon decided on something, her entire mind focused on how to get it done: it was a frame of mind that was carved into her from a young age. One afternoon, with the sun blazing and furiously trying to melt down everything, she found herself in the familiar position of standing in the middle of the street, gazing at the Dancing Dove ahead.
Not too far away, some girl with doll cheeks and a firm hand had thrown a bouquet—no doubt given by some hapless young fool, hopeless in his hoping of his affections returned. Or perhaps the youth was not so foolish after all, for it was a bunch of narcissus that flew out of the girl's dainty hands. Every flower seller knew that a narcissus spoke not of passion and romance, as the red rose, or even fidelity, as the ivy; no, the narcissus was of self-love and self-adoration. And Sharon, staring at the blinding white and yellow of the flowers, lying on the pavement helplessly, was struck by a moment of sentiment. She picked up the fallen bouquet and threw it high onto a tree.
"If your mistress will not have you, then at least you can avoid being trampled, and wither in peace."
She frowned after speaking, feeling that it somehow bore an omen for something to come, though of what she knew not. Such fatality was neither common nor wise of her, and she deemed herself a little sick of too much sun.
In such a state of mind, Sharon strode into the Dancing Dove. Her face was stonier than usual, and even the flower girls, who found a usually willing audience in Sharon (for she found flowers to be rather nice, being a young woman)—even the amiable Rosa, whom Sharon got along so well with, shrunk from her.
She walked upstairs and towards George's chamber. He, upon the opening of the door, flashed her a smile, and when he realized that it wasn't Alanna, whom he was expecting, he asked her what was the matter. In reply, she took out her knives and thrust them his way.
It was a mighty battle, to be sure, of not only knives but also wits and wills. George was not King of Thieves for nothing, but neither was Sharon as an L'Morae. In the end, perhaps Sharon would have won, if only she did not falter at the last second. She would have won, if she did not close her eyes, bite her lips, and shift her body so that her knife slid past her target, and the other knife that was aimed for her arm stuck into her heart.
And as she staggered to the floor, with a look of soft resignation and pained relief, she muttered, "So-so this is how it ends…"
"Shh," George bent down and told the dying woman with a strong voice and sorrow-laden eyes, "Don't say that it's come to an end. Tell yourself that it's alright. You're as strong as they come in—you're gonna walk away from here in a week an' find some pretty-eyed man to make me all spiteful, you are…"
But Sharon didn't answer. Perhaps this was the end she was planning to go all along—at least, at the very least, she exited the stage dramatically. If there were a heaven or hell that she went, she would approve of its tragic manner.
Then entered Alanna. She looked at George accusingly, like a wife who had caught her husband cheating. George only smiled sadly, taking the wobbly heap of a broken woman in his arms and told her "Lass, get yourself a nice brew of ale downstairs."
It would be too cruel to give even this moment to Alanna, and though he loved that feisty girl with all his heart, this woman here deserved his time for now. Alanna would understand—or, she would, when she grew older. Maybe then he'd tell her of the sacrifices his love had made; tell her how another woman died for them to be together, if they were.
This pale little narcissus, who found the love of herself to be too tedious, had been flung aside too often in her love. It is now time to bring her down to the ground and let her rest.