The event of finally earning her cutiemark had not affected the townsfolk in the same manner it had the filly. Of course, she had been affected more greatly due to the fact that it was a mark of change upon her life, but even so normally in Ponyville such a happening was a grand event worthy of celebration. Still, nopony had breathed even a word to her about her new mark. It was, quite literally as though she didn't exist. Such a lonely feeling bottled up inside the young filly, that she could do nothing but heave a long sigh.
Looking down upon her flank, she followed her heart's desire and went into the garden. The roses were silent today, and had been since the event of earning her cutiemark. Today, even the wind refused to speak to her. In a very desperate act, the filly felt she needed to speak, even if only to fill the silence that so tortured her. Opening her mouth, once more as dry as the deserts in some far-off land, she spoke the words that most needed to be heard:
"My name is Lingual Rose."
With those words, the filly had taken her fate into her own hooves. Her identity had been spoken aloud in the garden for all to hear. However, in the lack of ears, excepting her own of course, all that remained to hear such a declaration were the roses. Upon the proclamation of the diminutive pony, the flowers burst forth with life. The wind howled and the sky grew ever dark. From nowhere, clouds filled the grey sky though there was no pegasus weather-pony to put them there. Growing fearful, the pony called Lingual Rose shrunk back, her wings folding against her body in terror. Her maroon mane swirled in the wind and raged against the constrictions of the ponytail. Afraid and alone, she raised her eyes to the roses. As they had before, they began to speak and from that day on the never ceased.
Never.
Many years later the filly transformed into a mare, as so often happened during the course of a lifetime. Her coat, now sleek and shiny, did still not draw the attention of those around her. Indeed, the slight physical beauty that she possessed did nothing to earn the attention, much less admiration, of those ponies around her. No, those in Ponyville preferred to hear about the daily exploits of the heroes of town, not some nopony pegasus with parents of little import. When she walked about town, she gazed intently at those around her and wondered fondly if, someday, she would matter to someone. Even just to have one friend, thought the pony, that would make all the difference.
During the days, she worked in the public garden of Ponyville. It was not, by any means, as grand and ceremonious as the famous castle garden in Canterlot, but it was lovely nonetheless, and in no small part due to fact that it was Lingual Rose tending it. While there were other ponies that sold flowers in the market square, Lingual Rose preferred to remain alone in her work. She did enjoy the pleasure of thinking in quiet solitude most of her days. Some days she wished for a companion in her efforts, but none ever came. Under her care alone the garden flourished with a life that seemed to captivate all who passed it. When the mare saw others stop and admire her handiwork, she felt a deep sense of pride well up within her. This, more than anything else, was her reason for her work in the public garden of Ponyville.
However, her private garden remained even more impressive. Since fillyhood, she had developed techniques so skillful that she could keep her flowers alive even during the winter season. Still, this was a bit less important to her as all that remained in the personal garden were the roses. Some time ago, the thorny vines of the roses had choked out all of the other plants in the garden. The daisies, the purest and happiest of all the flowers, had been the first to die. Lingual Rose herself had attempted to save them, employing all manner of tricks to save them, but to no avail. The daisies, strangled, died without another breath. The lilies followed and so on and so on until all that was left was the horrible red of the bloody roses. Still, what could the pony do but care for the roses anyways?
They told her they were her only friends, after all.
So it was that during a particularly warm spring day, the mare trotted outside to water the roses. The roses loved the sunshine the most, but without proper water they could not thrive. With a watering-can in hoof, Lingual Rose made her way outside. The sun shone down on her, warming her body. She felt uplifted by the spirit of the nature outside, so much so that she almost felt like spreading her wings to go for a fly. As she extended them however, the thorns that circled the gazebo of the garden grew thicker and blotted out the sunshine so that the pony remained in the shadows, her minty green coat dappled by the shade.
Sighing, she moved away from the gazebo and returned, temporarily, into the light. She began to water the plants and hummed gently to herself. She was off-key but it was still lovely nevertheless. Then, her ears pricked up. The whispering had begun.
One rose moved slightly towards her, the thorns trickling along the vine as it slithered towards the pony so that the magnificent bloom was staring her directly in the face. The pony, startled, blinked. Still, she was not so surprised that she backed away, though her wings still remained firmly attached to her sides. She put down the watering can.
"Bạn có hạnh phúc không?"
Slowly, for the question was so pointed, she nodded, her head bobbing up and down with a fearful sort of canter. The rose withdrew and many others began to surround it. The pony attempted to reach out to them, but they cut her with their thorns. The pony winced with withdrew. A long cut appeared on her foreleg and, as it appeared, a slow drop of blood began to trickle down her foreleg. The sight of the blood made her feel faint, but she did not have much time to dwell upon it.
"我们让你快乐." The pony nodded once more, this time with a bit of fervor. Of course the roses made her happy, why wouldn't they? Still, with the blood currently dripping down her soft coat she was reminded of the dangers of such happiness—such beauty. Her terror began to intensify and she reached for the watering can once more. The roses did not stop her and instead let her continue with the watering."Τραγουδούν για μας."
And she began to, in a wavering and weak voice, one that would not possibly gain any attention whatsoever. However, as weak as the voice was the words held all the power they needed to. And so, with the words she knew so well, she began to sing:
"Tu vas me détruire
Tu vas me détruire
Et je vais te maudire
Jusqu'à la fin de ma vie
Tu vas me détruire
Tu vas me détruire
J'aurais pu le prédire
Dès le premier jour
Dès la première nuit."
As she sang the little melody, the roses cried out in ecstasy, each in a different tongue that could neither be seen nor possessed. The vines tangled together in sweet bliss and the thorns glided past one another, neither quite piecing nor evading. Lingual Rose watched the display, her lips wet with song. So many times had she witness such an act, yet the longing she held within her never dissipated, even after the climax had long passed. So, in a grotesque manner, she contented herself with watching.
When the roses had finished, their blooms grew ever larger and even more rosy, flushed with the heat of the day. Setting the watering-can down for a third time, the pony smiled weakly. Yes, the secret to everlasting roses was a bit of a song after all. Though, the song was not what truly mattered. Lingual Rose did not notice that, really, the roses also grew when she shrank away from them—when her frighten face was against the proud "faces" of the blooms. To her, the reality of the situation was that the song changed the roses and this reality was what marked her perverse life.