White Rose

Written by: hikari -adriana s-

Date:May 16th, 2004.

Warning: We're talking about the necromancer. So that means it is a little over-depressing.

A/N: Just in the mood for some FaustxEliza.

Summary: A dead, white rose. That is what she was…

Because he lived, he loved.

Because he loved, he lived.

And then, everything came to an end.


I watch as another petal falls from the fragile flower placed inside a simple vase standing on the nightstand. It's ethereal, elegant pose never stops amazing me, because it is difficult to understand how can a single flower look so strong and delicate at the same time.

The petal dances beautifully on the air until it lands graciously on the polished surface of the furniture.

A beautiful, white rose.

A white rose of blood-withdrawing thorns and lost fragrance.

A dead rose.

The tears spill from my eyes and I make nothing to avoid it.

That is what my Eliza was…

A lethal beauty.

A dead beauty.

As I curl up my fingers with her slender, motionless ones, I can't avoid anger welling up within me. Blinded with fury, I swear under my breath, wishing I could kill that bastard.

That bastard… that bastard who took away my lovely wife from me...

Thanks to that miserable bastard, my precious Eliza is laying on this old bed, lifeless. Thanks to that despicable assassin, the warmth that her body used to give away is now lost forever. Thanks to that vile murderer, she is nothing but the shell of what she used to be… a vibrant, dashing woman.

She still had so much to give.

I run a hand through my dirty-blonde, messed up hair, despair quickly winning over my sanity. Gripping her fingers I rock back and forth on my chair, the one the nurse had brought in for me since I refused leaving the room.

My eyes dart off around the private, hospital ward; wide, obsidian blue orbs filled with anguish. There's my forgotten coat on the rack and the closed window beside, covered with the bleached, blue curtains. There's also a muddy, old red and purple rug on the floor, and of course, the nightstand and the vase with the white rose.

I find the four, white-grey walls around me suffocating, falling over me. I grip her fingers tighter, searching for some kind of reassurance, but her unresponsiveness only brings me back to reality.

Eliza is dead.

Eliza's spirit has departed from this world and the body that lies before me is just growing colder and colder as every minute passes by.

It's been two days since I brought her in. It's been two days since I've been waiting here for a sign of life that won't come. Two days since I've cried rivers of pain for her, mourning in a silent hell.

If only my tears could bring her back, give her life little by little, she'd be alive already. She'd be alive and smiling at me, and I'd be crying of happiness and not sorrow. And I'd kiss her and we'd go back to our lives.

The thought is bittersweet and it causes a sardonic smile to spread through my lips.

Eliza won't come back…

Even now I hear the doctors and nurses outside in the halls, talking in hushed whispers to each other about the crazed man who's stayed two days straight, with no food or rest, silently watching his deceased wife. About the crazed man that pleads in vain for her to return. About the crazed man who had acted so aggressively when he was asked to leave, when he was told that she was gone and would never come back.

They don't understand. They never will.

Because all of that which I treasured as my reasons to live, had been ripped apart and taken from me. Those reasons had been shattered like a dream.

I can still remember her vivid, blue eyes before they became empty. Her overflowing, golden hair before it got stained with now dry blood. Her delicate hands and soft lips touching mine before they grew cold. Her gentle smile and melodic laugh before she became mute. Her rosy colored cheeks before life was drained from her body.

And I can only long for her.

And weep for her.

So I find myself repeating the same questions over and over in my head.

What will I do without her?

What will I do without my beloved?

Because I'm certain I won't be able to love again as I loved her, to live again as I lived when I was with her.

Because there is no one else like her. There's no one as unique and special as Eliza was.

Her gentle words, her worry, her dedication, her sincerity, all of that filled my heart with happiness I had never hoped for.

My dearest Eliza is dead.

The weak pleadings subside eventually, as my throat grows hoarse. My tears, however, continue to flow freely down my swollen face. I must look like a mad man, with my tear-streaked face and my seedy appearance.

But it makes me crazy not being able to understand, even when everything seems so logical and plain. I can't understand why she was taken away from me so suddenly, after I had yearned so long to be with her. For even then, when I met her in my childhood, I loved her and cherished her. That feeling only grew over years to such extent that she became a need.

My beloved Eliza is dead.

But I will bring her back.

Even when you can never give life back to a dead rose, I will give it back to her. No matter what pains I'll have to endure. If I have to bed or fight, I'll do it. For her only…

It wouldn't be long before I could have her in my arms again… my gentle rose.

A single rose…
A beautiful, white rose.

A white rose of blood-withdrawing thorns and lost fragrance.

A dead rose.

That is what my Eliza was…

A lethal beauty.

A dead beauty.

Until I bring her back…