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She was cursed, she told you when you first met.
You never really understood that word anyway, “curse”. Humans threw it around so casually, so mindlessly. A phenomenon they don’t understand is a curse. A bad winter is a curse. A dragon settling into a mountain cave overhanging the village is a curse… Maybe this one is a bit more valid though…
Elira called half of her blood cursed but when you’re soaring through the sky, veins pulsing of a draconic beat overriding your human instincts, fangs and heart out for the moon to bear witness, you never understood her either. Sometimes you wish you could.
(You pretend not to notice the cloud of pain obscuring her eyes when she hides herself. You wish you were braver— brave enough to ask.)
So when you first met her, a stranger bathed in moonlight, and she told you she was cursed, you certainly didn't take her seriously.
An abandoned castle lost in the middle of decaying woods, framed between bare branches of dead or dying trees like the opening of a fairytale or a ghost story — it was too tempting for you not to go in.
But more than the hallways void of life yet abounding in the remnants of the ghosts that had long left the vicinity, haunting the walls like a museum or a graveyard, more than the wilting library shedding pages of rotten books like a forest in winter, more than the riches and treasures scattered in forgotten rooms begging for you to claim yours, it was the garden that lured you in, capturing your attention like a sweet flower spreading its aroma in the wind for an insect to approach.
The garden was cared for, you realized, and that’s what drew you in: traces of life — of love to an extant — in the middle of ashes and mold.
(It might have been a warning, you thought in hindsight. Something that thrives in death can only mean bad news.
You were never good at reading signs.)
When you stepped into the garden, it looked brighter than it should have under the cloud covered sky, a bith ethereal, a bit like a dream. Dozens of flowers you could not name sprawled at your feet embalmed the air of a delicate scent that was almost short of overwhelming, splashed on the canevas of the ground like a fading watercolor painting.
Yet it was glowing red eyes that dominated the scene.
Standing by the small, cracked fountain surrounded in carved marble stone where a headless fountain cried their endless tears, she tilted her head as you approached, a little bit confused, a little bit delighted.
“I don’t think you should be here?”
It was as much a question as it was a statement. It made your contrarian spirit awaken like a roaring fire.
“I go wherever I want.” You answered with bravado, straightening your back as your wings flexed around your head.
You were a dragon, and dragons were to be feared.
(You crossed your arms because your hands were trembling a little, and your heart was loud in your ears.)
She smiled, first with amusement, then with joy. She patted the spot on the stone bench next to her, beckoning you.
“Care to keep me company, then?”
Like a bee drawn to pollen, you immediately complied, not even sure why.
“What is this place?”
Thorny vines wrapped around her neck like a necklace —
(Like chains.)
— you realized as you stepped in further. It made your heart jump in your chest in panic before you noticed everything else. You let your eyes take her in in the succession of short glances. Her dress was torn all over, covered in the same vines as the pale skin of her neck, yet the thorns drew no blood. There was a rose on her hair, worn like a crown, and the pleat of her dress fell on her knee like petals.
A bit on the nose, you thought with a dry chuckle.
“Let me guess, your name is Rose?”
The words escaped your mouth before you could hold them back. Your face immediately caught on fire and you averted your eyes.
She laughed, amusement fading into something else you could not recognize at the time.
(You were so young, then, and there are things one can’t be taught. Now, you know the taste of sorrow all too well.)
“I— I don’t remember my name actually.”
You blinked, snapping your head towards her. Then you frowned.
“How does one not remember their own name?”
She giggled, and you found it strange, to laugh at that.
“Well, I’m cursed, you know. There's a lot of things I don’t remember” You tilted your head, frowning harder than you thought possible. She smiled again, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone, indulging you in further explanation. “I think I was a maid at the castle, and something terrible happened. Now I just know that I am bound to this garden, and I have to take care of it.”
She bent down as a vine crawled around her wrist like a snake. With the tip of her fingers, she brushed the petals of a flower at her feet — the plant stirred like an animal being pet, petals vibrating for an instant until she withdrew her hand.
You gasped, impressed and in awe.
(You had found it beautiful, at the time. You had not recognized the tragedy of it all.)
“The garden is beautiful.” Honesty eased out of you. It was a little embarrassing.
“You’re kind.” she said, and it made you feel funny. You were mischievous, chaotic, and sometimes mean. Kind was not a word often associated with you, not like it was with Elira. “But it’s a little empty.”
“Then… can’t you just, like… decorate it?” You felt like an idiot, calling out banalities like that. I wish you could find something smarter to say, something to fit her regal looks in the wonders of her garden.
She smiled at you again, not in the least bit offended. “I wish I could, dragon. But I can’t leave here, not even to go into the castle.” Her hands brushed the vines around her neck.
“Oh… that… sucks.” you stammered out miserably.
You looked at the garden again, and the emptiness of it striked you finally. Flowers and weeds, growing wild and unorganized, roots crawling on the ground like a crack running on stained glass, broken pots scattering their ceramic shard, overgrown by untamed moss.
“I think there was a sculpture I loved there.” She nodded at the ruins behind her, eyes distant like she was trying to remember a dream. “I always imagined it would look good by the orchards.”
She turned to you suddenly, eyes shining with hope.
“You’re a brave dragon, aren’t you?”
You were not brave, but you were a good liar.
“I am.” You said, lips curving in a smug smirk.
“Could you get it for me? In the catacombs?”
You let out a strangle laugh. You hope it passed as a laugh, and not as the scared whine it actually was.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.”
The stripes of metal curved and bent into the form of a penguin did look good by the orchards, you had to admit. What you did not admit is how much you screamed and cowered during your expedition in the basement.
The result was that the sculpture was there, she was smiling, and it was all that mattered.
“What do you think about ‘Rosemi’?” you asked her one night.
The half moon was high in the sky, and particles of pollen floated in the air like fireflies in summer. It made her look like an angel, surrounded by a halo of light, highlighting the vibrance of her pink hair.
“For what?” She glanced at you curiously, kneeling in front of a batch of lilies. She brushed a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes, smudging dirt on her forehead. Your fingers itched to reach out and wipe it off.
“For your name. Rose is too basic, but you should have a name. And anything else wouldn’t feel right.”
She stood up, cradling a small flower in her hand and stepped towards you. You freezed, pinned down on the bench.
“That’s a pretty name, I like it. Thank you, Selen.”
As she kneeled by the bench, she shot you a questioning look, asking for permission. Throat dry, you merely nodded. With a gentle touch, she pinned the flower to your shirt, patting it twice for good measure.
When you looked at it, such a small token of beauty on you, it didn’t feel as out of place as you’d imagine.
“So, what’s next now, Madame?” You pulled on your shirt’s collar, as if readjusting it would make you feel more at ease. It didn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“Well surely, the garden could use some more decorations. And I happen to be an excellent dragon delivery service. Your wish is my command.”
You mocked a bow as her laugh ringed in the air.
“Hello ma’am, are you Rosemi of the Moonlit Garden who ordered…” you pretended to check an invisible list as the maiden hid her laugh behind her hand. “Ornate lanterns from Italy?”
“Why yes, that would be me.” She bowed with overt reverence, adding flourishes with her hand. “How much would that cost?”
It was hard to tone down the grin on your face. You didn’t remember if you even tried. You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over as you pranced around, circling around her with a skip in your step.
“Hmm… I believe a flower will do.”
The tint on Rosemi’s cheek matched her hair when she gingerly approached, holding her hands behind her back.
She hopped on the tip of her toes as she slipped something around your neck. Her hands were shaking a little. Yours were too.
You looked down to see a small flower encased in resin hanging from braided vines resting against your chest.
Words failed you as you held it between your fingers, almost afraid that a brisk move would shatter it.
“Holy shit, how long did it take you to make this?”
She laughed lightly with a dismissing shrug. “It was worth the time.” She merely said.
(You were never good at reading signs, after all.)
The moon was new when you returned with arms full of supplies.
She was waiting for you, as always, by the fountain. The garden was a ballet of shadows as the only source of light came from a few shy, blinking stars above. The darkness wrapped around her like a blanket, the tip of her hair almost brown against the dark canevas of the night.
(Why didn’t you notice? You should have noticed.)
“Here for another replacement?” she teased you, glancing at the dead petals pinned on your shirt.
“I’ll take the usual.” you grinned back as she browsed around the garden looking for the best option.
You had tried many types of flower, and many colors at this point.
Your favorite was the one in Rosemi’s eyes when she attached one to your sweater.
Your feet hit rubbles when you landed in the main entrance of the ruins, raising a small cloud of dust that tickled your nose. You crunched your face, coughing a couple of times before heading to the backyard, to the garden.
The metal gate creaked loudly as rust grinded against metal when you passed the threshold. You told yourself you’d need to fix that, next time you came around.
(What a blind fool you were.)
Rosemi greeted you as usual, eagerly taking her seat on the bench for you to join her and recount your adventures. You liked how bright her eyes shone, when you told her about creatures and lands across the sea. You liked even more when she gasped in shock or surprise, sometimes even concern, grabbing your arm when you retold a danger you had encountered, a foe you had befallen.
The garden grew in denizen, and of various additions from all over the world to keep them company.
You wondered if that what Elira felt like, in the forest of fairies by the ocean, and if that were why she wouldn’t roam around the sky like she used to.
You wondered if that was it was, to have a place to call home.
The cold air of the night had a bite to it, pricking at your skin like rust eroding metal. Half of the castle entrance had caved in, you noticed distractedly in the corner of your eyes. When did this happen?
(You should have noticed sooner. You should have paid more attention.)
You shrugged it off — the castle was never a source of interest to you, not when a realm of flowers and warmth was awaiting you just a bit further.
The ground was dry — was it always like that, at this time of the year? This night, no snow covered ruins in the usual white blanket of ice. Your heart felt a bit heavy in your chest. You had longed to get revenge on Rosemifor having defeated you at a snowball fight, some moon cycles ago.
Shaking off the disappointment, you headed to the garden, passing through the gate that had fallen off its hinges. You were supposed to fix that, you remembered. Must have slipped your mind.
Rosemi was already sitting by the bench, wrapped in a heavy coat you had brought back from one of the northern countries, a while ago. She offered you her usual smile as you sat down, but there was a dull to the shine in her eyes.
You wondered if she got enough sleep. Then you realized, you didn’t even know if she slept at all. The shadows of the night danced around her features, giving her a grave look that was a bit uncanny, a bit out of place.
But before you could think to ask, she pressed you on your latest adventure.
“Tell me your tales, dragon. No books from the library can rival your stories.”
You stammered a bit, clearing your throat before trying to find your words. Your brain always was a little slower around her, your face a little hotter, your palms a little sweatier.
(Had it worked to its fullest capacity, would you have noticed? You often wonder. The shake in her hands, would you have taken it for what it really was. The bag under her eyes. The shortness of her breath.)
You told her your story, with drama and enthusiasm, acting out the most riveting part as she laughed, cheered and gasped. That was your routine then. You’d give her what you brought from your travels, and she’d find it a place amongst the plants and flowers, explaining her reasoning. She’d ask you about the world, about the sea, about mountains and tigers, about humans and birds, and you’d indulge her with the little eloquence you could muster.
You’d ask her what she wanted next, something, anything, and she’d think about it with a bashful smile, scouring through the books you gifted her for other exotic ideas.
You’d fly away, body light in the wind, and heart even lighter in your chest.
However, your well crafted routine shattered that night with a half whispered question falling lightly out of Rosemi’s lips like a wilted petal floating down to the ground as you were preparing for your departure.
“Do you have to go again so soon?” her voice was small, uncertain, uncharacteristic for her.
There was also something else in her tone you did not recognize at the time.
(You should have paid more attention. You should have listened.)
You laughed, giving her a harmless punch on the shoulder. “I’ll be back before you know it, you won’t even have time to miss me.”
(The words keep echoing in your mind, a sadic mantra that grips you like a virus crawling on a sickness ridden garden.
Time.
Time .)
She laughed, and you can’t remember if there was a hollowness to it and if your memory added it afterwards. You just remember she laughed, leaning into your sides to give you a shove before pulling out another flower pin from her pocket. Standing proudly like a soldier about to receive a medal, you puffed your chest exaggeratedly, and she genuinely laughed — you were sure of this.
She placed it above your heart before covering it with her hand, lingering there for a few seconds as a frown pleated her brow before it disappeared.
You noticed a dark spot on her side before she pulled the pans of her coat closer to her, shook by a shiver of cold.
(Had it been because of the cold?)
You huffed, biting back a tease about smirring dirt everywhere, and you turned around.
(It wasn’t dirt. It wasn’t dirt.)
You gave her a small salute as she waved goodbye, her gentle tone ringing in the night.
“Fly well, dragon, take care of yourself.”
“Always does!”
(She had not said “See you soon.”
You should have known better.)
You landed before the main gate of the castle on a moonless night. The universe always had a sense of irony, or maybe it was grieving for you, as if nature itself was preparing you for what was to come.
Maybe it’s hindsight, or maybe the ruined castle, crumbling under the weight of time that had eaten away at its structure like salt meticulously eroding a cliffside, did really look like a haunted house.
Your feet hit the metal gate of the garden you didn’t notice as it was mostly covered by moss and dirt. Swallowing back a curse, you tumbled your way into the garden before freezing after a couple of steps.
All the colors you were accustomed to had faded into a sick brown, flower hanging their head low and wilted, for those which were still standing and were not sprawled on the ground in a hundred pieces like shards of glass of a broken stained glass.
You visited ruins of fallen civilisations many times prior.
You never considered the heartbreak that came with bearing witness to a broken home.
Rosemi was by the dried out fountain, as she always was.
(As she always will be.)
Leaning against your fountain, vines were crawling up her frail body — did it always look so small, so fragile? — digging their thorns into the fabric of her clothes. With horror, you realized that there was no blood to be drawn.
You threw yourself at her side, panic surging in your system like the ocean at high tide, overwhelming, inescapable.
You cradled her face with a trembling hand, impossibly gently. Dark veins spidered up the white of her skin in broken lines, ink roots digging their claws into her like a monster…
…or a curse.
Her eyes weakly fluttered, her chest struggling to catch a breath. She stirred with difficulty, angling herself to look at you. Her smile, however, shined as bright as ever.
“You came back.” Her voice was hoarse, pain leaking through like water through the fountain cracks.
A nervous laughter shook you, your brain running wild to try and make sense of the scenery. “O-Of course I did. I said I would. I always come back.”
“I’m glad…” She reached out a shaking hand, trying to get to your face with difficulty. You took her hands into yours, pressing your cheek against her palm.
“Rosemi, what’s happening?” Desperation echoed in the empty garden.
“I told you Selen, I’m cursed. Roses were never meant to live this long, but I’m glad I could spend so much of my time with you.”
Her words didn’t make sense to you.
(You were too young to understand.)
“But— It’s not— it’s too fast. It was barely any time at all.”
You searched your memory — how many moon cycles when you first met her? Your memory was surrounded by thick, smothering fog, details losing their focus, only discontinued flashes of your trips, interrupted by peaceful nights in the garden. You could only remember her smile, and flowers pinned upon your sweater.
“Selen, how long do you think it has been?”
“Wha— I don’t—” Why couldn’t you remember? “I don’t know.”
“It’s been half a decade, dragon. I know it probably doesn’t mean much to you. You were gone for years, after all. But I’m happy you always took the time to come back to me.”
Her voice was laced with a gratitude you didn’t understand. She should have been mad. She should have said something. She should have—
(You should have known. You should have listened. You should have noticed.)
“If I had known… If I—”
You didn’t know what you were trying to hold on to. Even then, you didn’t listen.
“It’s okay, Selen. You’ve done more than I could ever have hoped for. Take care of the garden for me now, will you?”
It was the resolution in her eyes that brought you acceptance. You relinquished your denial in her hands as she cradled your face, wiping the tears rolling down your cheeks.
“I will, I promise.” How could you ever refuse her anything?
It was all she needed to hear — she relaxed, offering you one last smile as she closed her eyes.
Hopeless, you could only bear witness.
The vines encompassed her completely, wrapping her form in a coffin of thorns until nothing was left but a void in your heart.
Under your fingers, something warmed and tingled. As you removed your hands, a light bloomed from the thick, dark vines, a single sparkling orb of bright, pink energy. It smelled like Rosemi, you noticed distractedly — your heart churned in response.
When the ball of light subsided, a rose stood upon the grave of vegetation, red as vibrant as a beating heart.
What is a haunted place? It’s a place where lifeless things roam around, longing for a time gone by, lingering like the scent of a withering rose garden.
Are you haunted, you wonder as you walk around the garden turned graveyard, or are you doing the haunting?
By the pool where the broken fountain stopped its wailing — it is your role, now, after all — a single ever blooming rose thrives.
You shove your hands in your pocket, gingerly walking around the meadow as you chew on your lips. Reflexively, you seek out Elira, making sure she’s never too far way from you vision field. .
It’s not that you’re anxious, no. It’s just that the Spring Festival of the forest is very loud, very bright, and you barely know anyone. You’re not really in a sociable mood — if it were up to you, you’d be asleep by now — but it is important to your sister, so you’re here, trying not to sulk too much.
You pass by baskets of flowers in bloom that the fairies spend a year preparing for, sprawled everywhere eyes could land on in an explosion of color and aromas.
You stop on your track when you see one, a little isolated, petals spreading in the shadow of a weeping tree.
You crouch, reaching out to graze it like a greeting, like a mournful prayer.
“You like roses, Selen?”
The voice makes you almost jump on your feet, heart shooting up in your throat. Still, you don’t turn around to greet Pomu, eyes fixated on a lone flower that reminded you of a forgotten garden bathed in moonlight.
“Nah, I hate roses. They wilter too fast.”
You are, after all, a good liar.