A/N: I seem to have a thing about writing stories with roses, especially white. Ah well. This story is for Shandethe Sanders, because she actually emailed me awhile back to bug me about a story like this, and this has been sitting on my computer for months. Yes, it takes me three months to write and edit a short little vignette like this. Pathetic, I know. So, Shandethe Sanders, this one's for you! Be warned, it's pure fluff so it will make your teeth rot.


White Knight



He always bought her white roses. She had told him once that out of everything he had given her, she treasured the roses the most. Her father used to give them to her when she was a child, claiming that they were the flowers of the angels. She had saved her father's flowers until they had become hard and brittle, watching as the soft white petals faded into a pale yellow. He remembered watching her press her roses into a small book back when they were children. She had been sitting by a lake, her blonde ringlets fluttering in the summer breeze, and a smile of absolute ecstasy dancing across her face. He knew then that he was in love.

Sometimes he caught her pressing the roses he gave her into a leather-bound book, and seeing her do so made him love her more than he thought was possible.

She kept the book of roses on her dresser, where it was placed strategically among a golden ring, a red scarf, and the book of fairytales he had given her on the eve of their wedding. Many times he had wandered into the room, watching silently as she stroked her treasures lovingly.

He often wondered how many books she was planning to fill with dead rose petals. He had asked her once, a year after their first child had been born, and in place of an answer he had received a mischievous grin and a playful slap on the arm. Obviously, he assumed, she wasn't going to tell him.

She did, however, tell him a story that her father had told her. It was an old Roman legend about a beautiful woman named Rodanthe. Day and night Rodanthe was pursued by suitors until she finally barricaded herself in her house. In their eagerness to reach her the suitors had broken down the door and rushed upon her. The goddess Diana took pity on Rodanthe and turned her into a red rose and each of her suitors into a thorn on the stem. The red rose then came to resemble passion, the yellow meant friendship, while the white rose symbolized the purity of love.

And so he came to give her white roses, for their love was the purest of loves. It was the type of love mentioned in fairy tales and dreamt about in dreams. It was not something to be questioned, only accepted. Christine was the epitome of the innocent princess and Raoul was her white knight.