The Wilted Rose.
Summary: She was like the wilted roses, decaying, dried, but yet pure beneath the surface, with a childlike innocence and a childlike hurt. Yet, the thorns that grew prevented anyone from getting close to her. A thing of dried up beauty. Tymmie's take on Cassandra (TC)
AN: Well, the idea for this came into my head after I wrote Prince of Darkness, Prince of Deception awhile back, and now I'm finally writing it. This is a one-sided Tymmie and Cassandra romance. Cuz hell, everyone assumes it, and Tymmie's so much cooler than Stanton. I said it!
Often connected with romance, love, lust, and obsession. Occasionally used to represent grief and loss. So many colors, so many meanings. There were the red ones, the ones that smelled sweetest, and the ones meant to represent true longing. The orange and yellow ones, which seemed to endear frivolity and innocence, and the unspeakable thirst for fun. The white, a single portrayal of purity, but more often than most, used to portray grief. And finally, there was the black rose. Beautiful in it's own right, but seen so rarely it became almost a thing of legend. The beauty of it faded into despair and the misconception of it in lieu of decay spread to replace the true awe that was to be held from a black rose.
To me, she was like the black rose, wilting around the edges like a capricious destruction, but nevertheless retaining the purity that was to be found in such a rare gift.
Her name was Cassandra, and she appeared to be broken. A lifetime of hurt, pain, and malice had permanently etched itself onto her soul, and a self-embittered girl was all to remain intact from the betrayals, damages, and emotional scars. She was like a fragile fading light locked in a safe that no one could penetrate, no one could scathe or even come close to that light that had shut itself away from the world.
The light of the innocent and purity that was her. It showed, occasionally, whenever she looked at the direction of the man whom I had begun to hate.
Stanton. Prince of the night, ruler of all things evil, and overall a most despicable person whom had caused me a lifetime of remorse and pain.
Yet, he was the only one she had let seen her light. The purity that was so far buried it could only be reopened by the one whom had been the first to lock it away. She doted on him, praised him, let him see the inner most thoughts and desires of a poor, hopeless girl.
And he had rejected her. Rejected her with such a fearful intensity that I was afraid her delicate strength had shattered like the panes of a mirror. The light and grace that had been holding on and gripping for dear life had finally released itself, overcome by the darkness within everyone's soul.
But I was wrong. Her hope was still bound to her, but it was miniscule. And once again, her love and life was buried deep within her. He had wanted nothing to do with her, I wanted everything for her, but apparently I wasn't enough to help bring her glory to the surface once again.
My own light had been extinguished. Perhaps that is why I clung to her the way she clung to him. Endlessly wanting, and endlessly waiting for the tiny opening of chance that would reverse the cruel game of fate and let her be mine. I was greedy, I was selfish, I wanted to hold her light in the palm of my hand and never let go of it. The craving for it was immense, and only enhanced by the way I saw her occasionally glance at me. And nothing was crueler, then having to watch that egotistical fiend break her heart over and over. Everyday fading more and more.
But she knew what I wanted, and for a time I had hated her. I thought she was playing a game, engaging in the conversations and leaving with a bittersweet parting of how she loved him more than anything else. I felt used.
Over time I began to stop hating her, realizing that perhaps the hatred was not what it appeared to be. The aching in my gut and the longing in my chest was not something negative or disgusting.
It was something radiant. It was more than the simple need for sex or hope, it was what they call love, I suppose. The purity that lay hidden in her had begun to affect me, and the numbness that I had lived my life with slowly began to disappear.
I felt alive again.
And one of my most painful memories was when I had talked to her, confessed my devotion and failed to show her that Stanton was simply toying with her, using her to slick his own needs and desires. That's what he did, I had said, he took what he wanted and refused to give anything back.
But she refused to believe me. Calling me names with a stinging injury that affected my soul as she spat that I was jealous because I would never have anything as pure and untainted as the love between her and her Prince. I was nothing, I would never be able to feel anything, and I should stop messing with her emotions and feelings just because I wanted to fill the empty void that was the source of all our pains.
When I asked her if she felt anything towards me, my voice choked with grief, she stated that it was impossible. She loved another, and would always love him, till the heart in her chest stopped beating.
It was that day that I chose to join Infidi, the treacherous ones. Under the false pretensions of the Atrox doing harm to its Followers, I joined. I joined to escape having to see her, having to watch her pine over that regrettable Immortal who only managed to break her heart instead of trying to salvage it like I had done. And with Infidi, I found my chance, my chance to escape the terrible burden of unrequited love, and the ability to set goals for myself.
Even now, as I stare into the cold blue flames that wait before me to take my mortality, I think of her. I think of her always. She will haunt my thoughts and dreams forever, never ceasing, and never weakening the urge to try and save the wilted rose from shriveling away and turning to dust in the cold wind of a moonless night.
I love her, and it will never cease. Not even when my heart stops beating in my chest.
She is my wilted rose, and one day, I will revive her.