I wanted this story to have ten chapters. But I've decided to accept (for now) that it's not to be. Standard disclaimer applies as usual.


A flower didn't ask for much.

A patch of sunlight, a little water, a little of your time, to grow and to blossom. And see how your efforts are rewarded, with a tiny masterpiece of nature. A life in miniature, all dressed up with no way to go anywhere, unless pulled from the only home ever known.

This was what the Rose had been, a living, breathing work of art, now reduced to floating mystically inside a glass jar, not truly alive, but slowly, slowly, dying, dying, dying all the same.

Clocks?

Candlesticks?

Teapots?

Inanimate things given the sparkle of life, an existence to call their own, an energetic presence that a rose could not have, should have, for she was the only one that had truly been alive. And see how carefully she had chosen her petals, and how striking her posture was, and how thoroughly she had sharpened her thorns like the claws of her Master, so only the bravest suitor would be worthy to pluck her exquisite beauty.

See how the glow of magic only saturates her already perfect existence.

See why the Enchantress chose her to count down the years.

See the vanity that lies underneath her picture perfect petals, veiling her jealous being. Watch the petals fall away like teardrops, revealing the authentic interior with such cold honesty, for roses have no love of winter's icy breath.

Beauty and the Beast, perfectly matched, and perfect for each other.

See them as they are.

See them wither, all, all alone in their despair.

Until the petals fall away at last.


This is easily my personal favorite chapter. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I feel like it's a unique viewpoint that isn't seen very often; maybe not at all. Please enjoy, and do tell me if anything like this has been done before - I'd love to read it.

-SilverInkblot