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[Adrian Bishop]

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The rose was still as fresh and beautiful as the day it had been picked. It had been a wedding gift from the Lady Ariana Lenoir. That in itself was suspicious enough. Dewdrops glistened on the petals, and the thorns – those thorns that Soren had cut off at least twice – still lined the stem hatefully from nose to nethers. Adrian narrowed his eyes and schemed on the rose as Soren gathered a few of her…girly things. What did women have to gather, anyway? Their clothes were smaller, easier to fold, and took up less room. Why did it take them twice as long to pack?

“I have to go to the workshop, My Adrian. I’m sorry, but I can’t leave things as they are, not knowing when I’ll return.” Soren carried a bundled parcel out and leaned it against a log by the campfire. “Amdiriel can keep the fire burning and watch the camp while we’re away, but I need to secure the workshop for my absence.”

Adrian startled somewhat as she broke his concentration, and he turned slightly to face her, keeping the spiteful little flower within his peripheral vision at all times. Never turn your back on the enemy…

“That’s fine, we’ll still make it before morning.” He was glad to see the tiny crease that knitted her brow had disappeared since he'd explained to her where they were going, and why. “Please be careful. I will have everything ready to go by the time you get back.” He kissed her softly and watched her go.

When she was out of sight, he turned again, fully facing the rose. “All right you hateful little bloodmonger. Your luck just ran out.”

[Adrian Bishop]

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He approached the rose directly, without pretense or hesitation. Here in the camp, no one could see him. There were no matrons to click their tongues with disapproval, no maids to titter and tsk. No, here there was only himself and the rose. He squatted close to the ground and narrowed his eyes as he glared at the spiteful little monster which he had already banished to the far corner of the palisades. Utter disdain was clear in both his expression and his voice as he taunted and challenged the cheerfully dew-droppy fiend.

“There can be only one.”

With that, Adrian pulled a pair of Kieran’s best leather shears from behind his back. He’d seen them cut through the thickest hides, and shred oiled and toughened armour. Holding them up defensively in front of him, Adrian grabbed the rose in one hand and deftly cut the bloom off the stem. “Decapitated!! That’s what you GET!!”

The blossom fell to the ground with a plop, and Adrian stomped the petals, crushing and grinding them into the dust. “Let’s see you come back from that!!” He realized that he was still grasping the stem, as blood oozed from his tightened fist. Quickly, he threw the stem to the ground and stomped it too, twisting his foot to shred the sinew of the stem for good measure.

Then he stood staring at the mangled rose in the dirt. "Hmph. Well, that was anticlimactic."

[Adrian Bishop]

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Adrian cleaned the shears carefully, making sure that they wouldn’t bear tell-tale traces of the rose or his violent outburst the next time Kieran used them.

“What the hell??” Adrian squinted and looked down the cutting edge of one blade. There was a bite in the razor-edge, as if he had cut wire or flux instead of a wretched flower. “Kieran’s gonna KILL me…”

He sighed and tossed the shears into the smelting crate, resolving to have a new pair made to replace them while he was in Ilshenar. He picked up a shovel and returned to the place where he’d handed the rose its justice. He wanted give it a proper burial, before Soren got home and found out what he’d done.

There in the dust stood the rose, in resplendent glory. In sunkissed dewdropped splendor, it shimmered in the afternoon breeze. Adrian, as he tended to do when he encountered the not-quite-living, froze. He couldn’t move – he could scarcely breathe! This rose, which had lain broken and wilted in the dust – this decapitated and dishonoured daemon of the plant world – now stood proud and tall.

“You Mother-forsaken, entropy-entrailed, bloodmunching, weak-willed, evil little parasite!!” Adrian felt the anger welling up inside and decided that, for once, he would use the fear to his advantage instead of allowing it to consume him.

With a gutteral – almost primal – scream, Adrian threw himself on the rose and tore it to pieces with his bare hands. Leaf from leaf, stem from stem, petal from petal. With each new handful of shredded rose, he tossed it on the wind and watched the pieces scatter. A manic look of fierce determination beset his face, as he laughed bitterly at the dismembered pieces strewn across the camp. For several minutes, he panted and watched the pieces carefully for any signs of resurrection.

Finally, sliced and bloodied by the threads of stalk and the jagged thorns, he turned to the trough, satisfied that the rose would never hurt him again – and moreover, would never hurt Soren. With a shaky sigh, he immersed his hands in the water, each cut and scratch stinging in protest, and washed off the blood that coated him up to his elbows.

[Adrian Bishop]

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Adrian could do nothing but stare. His hands, still wet, hung limply, dripping at his sides. Blood mingled with water and painted pale paths down his arms between scratches and cuts. And yet, for all his pain, for the blood and energy he had spent in the endeavour, all was for naught. The rose – that damnable, insufferable not-quite-living rose – it stood, pristine and perfect, bejeweled with dew and glistening in the fading afternoon sunlight.

A cold, unnatural wind caught Adrian’s hair and tangled it across his face. Strands stuck to the cold sweat on his forehead, and still he gave no response. He was frozen, terror-stricken, and expressionless as he stared in horror at the rose. Thoughts raced through his mind in rapid succession:

What if this rose couldn’t be destroyed?
What is its purpose? Why had it been gifted to them, specifically?
What if it ate his brain?
What if it ate Soren’s brain??

At the last thought, he seemed to snap out of his self-indulgent panic. What if it hurts Soren? What do I tell her now to keep her safe? “Sparrow, I was relentlessly attacking your most prized rose earlier, and I couldn’t help noticing it’s a HEINOUS UNDEAD ABOMINATION THAT MIGHT EAT YOUR FACE OFF!” Adrian took a deep, shaky breath and continued to stare at the twice-resurrected rose. No, he couldn’t tell Soren. What if she told Ariana? What if Lady Lenoir was offended by this insinuation? What if she sought retribution on Soren for my actions in trying to damage the gift?

The rose pulsed. Just once. For a split second, it became brighter, more radiant, maybe even…larger? Or was it his imagination? Gods, how he wished Soren were there with him, to calm him, and take his mind off this curse. The delicate curves of her body never failed to divert his attention from any task at hand. Even watching her swing the blacksmith’s hammer – the strength and confidence of every move she made…it made him want to press his body against hers and feel her – Adrian shuddered and broke his concentration, remembering the task at hand. Soren would be home soon, and he had to protect her from this plague while there was still time.

Adrian dove at the rose and grasped it tightly in his hands. The thorns bit viciously into his flesh and blood again flowed down his wrists and arms as he ripped the rose to bits and left it in a tiny pile of shredded foliage and petals. He grabbed a bottle of liquour from a pack near the fire, uncorked it, and doused the pile with spirits. Then he grabbed a branch that stuck out of the fire and plunged the flaming end into the pile. It went up in a blaze that burned hotly, warming his face and stinging his wounds. Again and again he doused the fading pyre with liquour until it was nothing but black ash. Like an old love letter, the black parchment flakes of ash blew away a few at a time, until nothing was left but a fine grey powder.

With that, Adrian trembled and fell to his knees on the cool, grassy earth beneath him. Finally. It’s gone. It can’t hurt you, Sparrow. Not anymore.

[Ariana Lenoir]

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She sat in her study as one of her manicured nails tapped lightly on a desk, the tempo steady and perfectly timed. Her intelligent eyes appeared darker than usual, the blue resembling the bottomless ocean, unfathomable and profound in their depth. In front of her on the desk, rested an intricate, leather map of the city of Minoc and the surrounding countryside. Numerous markers were attached to the oiled surface of the map with translucent wax. Small squares of orange, red and black peppered the surface and appeared to captivate the woman's thoughts.

She sat for an hour, her dark eyes held steady on the map in silent, calculating contemplation. Her strong nail keeping perfect regularity on the top of the desk, the interlude between taps fixed and unconscious in its execution. The darkness that enveloped her sanctuary was silent except for the unwavering sound of her sculptured fingertip.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

All at once the tapping stopped and a complete unnerving still washed over the room. The fingernail was poised perfectly, a centimeter above the small indent the repetition had created in the polished wood. The woman's body flinched slightly as her once fixated stare became momentarily unfocused. Her dark blue eyes narrowed as the muscles in her back quivered like warm autumn leaves that had been touched by the first breath of winter. Her jaw clenched and the muscles relaxed once again. A flicker of irritation sprinted across her face as she slowly lowered the poised fingernail allowing it to rest silently upon the wooden surface. Her eyes regained their focus as her pupils shifted their attention to stare at the small cluster of tents inscribed just south of the City of Minoc. She stared at the location with narrowed piercing blue eyes, her expression unreadable.

[Adrian Bishop]

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“Z-zombie rose. ZOMBIE ROSE! Zombie rose…”

Adrian could hear his voice, but it sounded so far away, he couldn’t be sure it was his own. He felt disjointed, as though his soul had been ripped from the flesh, then laid alongside again with no regard for reattaching it.

The last thing he remembered was patting his face dry, having washed away the soot and oozing and half-crusted blood. He opened his heavy eyelids as his consciousness threatened to slip away completely. It was a losing battle, but he had to know. Millimeter by slow, heavy millimeter, his eyelids wrenched open, the light and what he saw before him sending his conscious self scrambling backward, clawing at the flesh of his back from the inside in a frantic and helpless attempt to escape.

There it stood, as pristine as the day it was picked, glistening in the waning hours of twilight. He could hear light footfalls. Soren perhaps, but he could not force himself awake a moment longer. Not to warn her, not to move his broken body away from the rose, or move the rose away from her. He coerced an arm to reach for it, allowing the thorns to find purchase in the meat of his hand. If it was the last thing he did, he would prevent it from hurting her. It was all he could do to hold onto his consciousness, weary fingers wrapped around the one thing he knew was real, above all else. “….zombie rose,” came the voice that may or may not have been his own. It was so very far away. “Zombie rose.”

The grappling stopped – fingers released. There was nothing here now but darkness and terror, and the earthen smell of spilled blood.

[Adrian Bishop]

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Screams were coming from somewhere, dragging him from the depths of sweet slumber fathom by slow, heavy fathom. His name dangled from the lips of his beloved like a hooded hangman, frantically, lungs trying to find purchase with thin air. Finally, breath caught him and buoyed him to the surface.

“Adrian, my Adrian!” Soren’s screams were throaty and frantic. A fear that gripped Adrian and wrested him from his unconscious cocoon. He found his wife on her knees beside him. Her fiery auburn hair clung to the tears on her cheeks as she held tightly to his body, still heavy with disoriented sleep. The rose was still in his hand.

“Sparrow, no. Sparrow…” Adrian whispered, before he could even fully ascertain what had happened. He stroked her hair with his free hand and held the rose in the other, his body a protective barrier between the bastard rose and the one he loved.

Ping.

There it was, again. He saw it from the corner of his eye, and knew it could not be his imagination again. The rose pulsed brightly, and the pain from the thorns in his flesh seared through his hand and up his arm. But as it did, the pain dispersed and replaced itself with something white-hot, but not painful. Adrian became keenly aware of every curve of this angel’s body and wanted nothing more than to explore each one with…

Again, he shook his head to clear it. He looked into Soren’s eyes, still red and rimmed with tears. “Sparrow, don’t cry.” He threw the rose over the top of the palisades and cupped her chin in his hand, drinking in her gaze like a honeybee drinks nectar. “Don’t…”

He was powerless to resist her pleading gaze a moment longer. He kissed her tender lips and was drawn in as every tendril of his soul reached out to her. The Solstice bonfire was still hours away. They could make it before dark. This hour would belong to her, and no one else.

Soren opened her eyes, dizzy from the kiss and still somewhat uncertain of what had just happened. But in her eyes, heat shimmered as it did from her precious forge, and he knew what she wanted, as well. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her back into their tent, fastening the flap firmly shut behind them, and leaving the rose forgotten, for now, glowing faintly in the dusty shade of foxglove.