[Flashback] Blood Drops on Rose Petals [Private]

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Blood coated the two bodies, the one dead and the one still living. Rose could not believe how much a neck could bleed when stabbed! Blood had gushed out of her neck like a stream over stones after a rainstorm. It had fascinated Rose though she was not overly fond of all the mess it had made.

The mess! Blood was all over herself! How was she going to explain this? Her mind began to whirl, weaving facts into fiction, fabricating lies.

Soundlessly, Rose got off her twin’s corpse and began to remove Lily’s stained clothes, ripping them and tossing them to the side. Then she began to do a whole entire series of unmentionable acts, grotesquely indescribeable though rendering the corpse in such a light that the tragic fate of Lily would never ever be questioned. It was an unthinkable act but her corpse would tell the tale of a brutal rape and murder.

But the lie was not completely constructed yet, not all the details had been made. While Lily’s story in it was told, Rose’s was not complete. She did not look like a victim yet, not completely. Sure she was covered in horrendous amounts of blood, but when it was washed off there would be no wounds. It was clearly not her blood. Lily’s death would be blamed on her and she could not have that.

Slowly, she turned the blade of the stiletto so that it faced her, resting in the air inches just above her hip. If she wanted this to go as planned she needed to commit entirely. Before completely thinking it through she thrust the thin blade into her hip, it now recoated with her own blood. She pulled it out quickly and before she could completely feel the pain she thrust it again into her shoulder, deeper this time.

She gasped and screamed. The pain was like fire in her body and her blood began to flow freely from her body. While the wounds were nothing like those she had inflicted upon Lily just moments ago, they were still quite painful. And she was not done yet. She began to reach the blade over her shoulder and scratch at her back, then at her arms and torso, ripping her clothes and leaving a series of shallow cuts. Finally she rose, limping and crying and walked to the nearest tree and smashed her face into it, leaving dark bruises on her face.

And then she collapsed. The pain was overwhelming and she was not entirely sure she would be able to make it home like this. Shakily, and crying quite loudly, she rose to her feet and began to try and limp home at the fastest pace possible. To all she appeared like a victim of a mugging.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

There was no energy left in Rose even to cry by the time she made it back to the homestead, though her body was so exhausted it was beginning to numb the pain. Just barely. Her white face was paled completely from loss of blood and her shift had been reduced to bloody rags around her girlish frame. She looked like death, granted Lily beat her in that regard. Nothing like death.

Somehow, either by the workings of Lhex or something else, Keating was outside. Probably, he was concerned because the twins were still out and it was late. Darkness only made everything more dangerous. But there was no question in Rose’s mind that Keating was looking for her and not Lily. The taste of her lips still burned on his consciousness; she knew this in the way he looked at her. He had not forgotten.

Memory became dim at this point and she only remembered collapsing into Keating’s strong arms and crying genuine tears, though they were not from the loss of Lily but from the pain she had put herself through. Her breath came in ragged gasps. This was torture, surely, and it had killed all thrill of the kill. She barely managed to lean her head up, feeling the press of her brother’s lips on hers. They were wet. Wet with tears.

Her injured arm hung uselessly at her side and consciousness was beginning to fade and all she was able to whisper was, “Keating… Lily… dead… attacked. Save me, Keating..!” And then she blacked out.

The most believable lie ever told, though what happened next, Rose did not know!

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

The next few weeks passed in a delirious state for Rose; her body was racked with fever from her wounds and she was closer to death than she would ever admit later. So close had her lie brought her to meeting Dira that many in her family had written her off as dead already. They mourned the loss of both twins even though only one was confirmed as dead. No one even thought to ask Rose what happened, the wounds made it seem obvious. Two girls, defenseless, on the road at night. It did not take that sinister of a mind to guess what could have occurred.

But Rose pulled through with much rejoicing of her family, for so many days they had thought that Rose would not make it though that it was almost like she had been born again. The death of Lily had long since been mourned for by the time that Rose came to full consciousness; a great deal of time had passed since she had been buried in the family plot with her other siblings.

Lily was gone and no one had the heart to ask Rose what had happened. No one wanted to make her face the horrific events that had most certainly had occurred that evening. Lily’s body had been so butchered, so dismembered that all the Ashes were just shocked that Rose had gotten away in the state that she did. They considered her lucky.

Rose made no effort to speak about what happened, the lie she had come up with that was. She was content to let it fall into obscurity.

While she recovered Rose noticed that every night Keating sat at her bedside, waited there to see if she needed anything. If she so much as moaned softly in her sleep he was there to hold her hand, if she coughed he gave her water, and if she stirred to sit up he held out his arm for her. It was as if he was a slave and she was his mistress. But he was more than diligent. When he thought she was asleep his hands lingered in places that… were not his to touch! Gentle stroking of places that brothers should not stroke.

But all the times she was aware of it she made no effort to stop it. It was not that she disliked it or liked it, but she could definitely see the advantage of allowing it to happen. Though she was mildly concerned if Keating was wrapped any tighter around her finger she might lose circulation.

Keating slowly became more bold with his touching, doing it while she woke and then later touching her while she was awake. Rose never protested not consented, though Keating took this as permission. While he tended to her needs, Keating’s free hand would explore the curves of Rose’s body beneath the sheets. Rose never reacted. Never in pain or pleasure.

Weeks passed like this and then finally Rose was healed. No one made her rise but it was expected that she did. It was time to work and to continue as if nothing had ever happened. It was the one Ash family tradition.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Weeks passed like this and then finally Rose was healed. No one made her rise but it was expected that she did. It was time to work and to continue as if nothing had ever happened. It was the one Ash family tradition.

For days and weeks after Rose recovered from her self-inflicted injuries and illness, Rose had been unable to work in the fields. Summer turned into late summer with autumn and Rose was just starting to get back to her chores, though she was allowed to start herself into the routine slowly. No one ever asked her about Lily; no one was bold enough and no one wished to hurt Rose so much as to bring back the memory. All knew what had happened and no one wanted to inspire the memories in Rose’s mind.

Finally she began to work, returning to maintaining the vegetable garden by pulling weeds and picking produce. It was simple work but it was hard after being ill for so long. For weeks she worked and the weather became cold. With cold in all Mizaharian homes came disease. It as a dangerous place to live, Mizahar. Pneumonia had claimed more than just a few Ash children, It had taken three: two in infancy and one as a teenager.

Violet, Rose’s elder sister, had never been a healthy child. She was thin and often sickly looking. Ever since childhood, Violet had fought with illness after illness, from just the flu to life threatening illness. And in Autumn of year 520, Violet grew sick again. Her flesh grew pale and she retired to bed. She did not stir beneath the sheets. Her cheeks began to sink and she looked worse and worse.

Agatha, Rose’s mother, was clearly agitated by the slow demise of her eldest surviving daughter. Agatha had lost many children but Violet was the oldest get sick. She always got sick and it hurt Agatha, but this time more than others. She sat by her daughter’s side whenever she could and tried to make tea to make her feel better. She was constantly wringing her hands with anxiety. She could not take losing another child.

Violet’s health, despite prayer, continued to worsen and Rose began to notice it. She noticed how it affected her family. She loved how it caused pain. She loved the unrest it caused her in her family. Violet’s moans were pure entertainment for her.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Not one to miss an opportunity when it presented itself, Rose quickly devised a plan to further enjoy the dying suffering of her sickly sister Violet. Oh, there was no question in Rose’s mind that the older girl would soon be dead; the illness had grown so strong that Violet could barely rise from her bed, a sickly bag of bones with hips and ribs protruding nastily. Rose had already recovered and took it as divine sanction to continue on her path; had not the gods poured the life from Violet and into herself? Something wanted her to do as she did.

Rose would not kill Violet, she had no desire to. She had killed Heath because of the cries and Lily because she refused to obey her command. There was no reason to kill Violet. And besides, Violet seemed perfectly capable of handling that mission all by herself. Praise be to Vayt. No, the plan that Rose had for Violet was much more sinister in a way, for there were worse things than death.

For her plan to work, Rose had to wait until darkness had drowned out the colors of the day, the sun having long ago set beneath the horizon. Working quietly, not wishing to wake anyone unnecessarily, Rose slipped from the house and into the yard. Carefully, beside the shed, Rose removed her clothes and folded them carefully on a stump so the would not get dirty. Moonlight washed her pale body with icy rays of light. Her form was thickening as she grew older, changing from that of a girl’s to a woman.

But she did not care about that right now. She did not want to look lovely or divine for this task. Quickly, she threw herself into the dirt and began to roll around like an animal, tossing mud and plant matter on herself. She dirtied herself as best as she could and then rose again, studying her work. Filthy but not yet complete. Rose went into the coop where the Ash family kept their animals.

In with the chickens, Rose had put two other fowls that she had purchased a few days ago. No one had noticed them because it was Rose’s job to tend to the chickens and no one else entered the chicken coop unless they had to. Seizing one with the expertly trained hand that betrayed her as a simple farmer’s girl, Rose grabbed one and twisted the head off expertly. It only had time for a few squawks of protest before it had no more head to scream with.

Holding the corpse by the neck, Rose held the gaping wound to her chest and let the blood squirt and pour on her body, letting blood flow all over her body and even in her hair. It was a dirty job and the warm blood quickly grew cool in the night air, covering her body in goose bumps from the slight chill. She smiled wickedly to herself, already picturing how horrifying she looked. Quickly, she grabbed the other fowl and dealt it a similar face, though this time she collected the blood in a small bucket. Now it was time for the finishing touches.

Rose began to work her fingers into the feathers of the birds and started pulling a few large clumps of feathers. She smeared these into her hair and stuck a few to her body, which was sticky from the drying blood. Once satisfied, Rose walked a few yards from the coop and made a shallow grave for the fowl, burying them as quickly as she could.

Naked and covered in blood, feathers, and dirt, Rose looked something awful. She picked up the bucket of cooled blood and made her way back to the home. She entered Violet’s room, shutting the door behind her gingerly but it was pointless, Violet rarely slept well these days and she stirred in her bed and called out weakly, her voice just above a whisper, “W-w-who… is… there…?” Every word cost the girl a great deal of energy.

Rose cackled softly, though loud enough for Violet to hear and swept her hair in front of her face, making it into a veil of blood-streaked hair. With a thrust of her wrists, Rose threw the contents of her bucket upon Violet who could only flinch in surprise and then made pathetic gasping whispers when she realized it was blood that covered her. She was in shock but too weak to cry out.

Dancing grotesquely forward, Rose revealed herself to Violet, who was too weak and the light was too dim for her so she did not realize it was her sister. The dirt and blood helped this, as did the veil of hair. She tried to scream, tried to cry, but only produced a dry, whispering sound like the wind. Her eyes were wide in shock as she watched Rose dance around the bed, beating her chest and ripping at her hair. To her it seemed that a monster had come to her.

Rose spoke, forcing her voice to crack and dragging out sounds to make it sound ghastly, “I am Mrgna, Oracle of Horror! You have played your part well…” She laughed quietly and continued her dance, “You have brought much death and tragedy to this family! K-k-k-k!” She clicked her tongue menacingly, “But soon you shall be back with me, sister! Forgot not ever you are the vile Trshta, Harbinger of Pain! Soon you shall return to me through death!” Rose leapt upon the bed, her frame hovering over Violet. Slowly, so that she could enjoy the smell of fear and feel Violet try to recoil and escape in vain, Rose leaned forward and bit Violet on the neck, breaking the strained flesh easily. It was a small wound, but there were clear teeth marks that leaked tiny drops of blood upon Violet’s neck. Rose leaned in to whisper, "Death and suffering you have brought so must it be your vessel to become Trshta again!"

Violet fainted in fright.

Laughing, Rose quickly fled the room. She still had to clean herself off and get to bed so no one suspected a thing! The poor pathetic creature that was Violet had not stood a chance; she was too weak from illness to fight, scream, or even runaway! Entertainment like that could not be purchased, it had to be made!

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

The next morning, after only a few hours of sleep, Rose awoke to the sound of horrified screams. Her mother’s screams were echoing painfully from Violet’s room. Rose rolled over angrily, burying her head in the pillow, plumes of dark hair splayed messily around her like a shattered halo. Fratching mothers! Sure, this is what Rose wanted but could Agatha not contain her horrified lament for at least another hour? Rose was exhausted!

Finally, though, Rose seemed to conclude that the screaming would not abate any time soon and the chaos that was beginning to brew in the house could not be replicated later. This was her child, her creation, and she must go see the results it was reaping.

Racing down the steps in apparent horror, Rose rounded the corner in the hallway and found her mother collapsed on the ground outside Violet’s room. The front of her was wet and she stank of bile, clearly the sight of Violet had caused her to vomit upon herself. She was clawing at her face and pulling at her hair. Even Rose was surprised to see her mother this way, as if her mind had completely left her. She did not appear to be human, she appeared to be a monster.

Rose was shocked and this helped her for it gave her a natural expression that completely fit the situation. Outside of the room was her Keating who did not even look up to face Rose, he was tending to their mother, rubbing her arm, but the paleness of his face, which was almost tinged green, made it quite clear that Rose’s little charade had quite shocked him. It had jarred him to the core. Little Daisy was also outside, but she was cowering in a corner sobbing silently. She did not understand what was going on but her mother in this state was more terrifying than death.

No one said a word to Rose, as if urging her to go in and see for herself because no one had the stomach to describe what they had seen. Gingerly, acting as if she knew not what to expect when she entered the room, Rose tiptoed into the room she had only left hours ago, though now the blood and grime had been cleaned and she donned her night clothes.

Violet was much the same as how Rose had left her hours ago: collapsed unconscious on her bed covered in blood and grime and the vicious bite on her neck and purpled and bruised, the blood drying in the teeth marks like a crude tattoo. Her skeletal frame was even more apparent and her skin seemed to stretch more tightly over her bones and her breathing seemed quite labored and painful. Their father was knelt at the foot of the bed, sobbing. He did not even look at Rose so thick were his tears. Rose was sure that if Violet had died there would have been less emotion from everyone.

As dramatic as ever, Rose screamed one loud, shrill cry and threw herself on the ground, eyes closed. She pretended to faint with fright, a natural response to such a horrifying image in her modest opinion, but her mind was far from unconscious. It whirled with malicious speed: why had no one gone to aide Violet? Why did not a single member raise a finger to clean up the mess? While pondering these thoughts, Rose heard Keating enter the room and soon his arms were around her, pulling her up and out of the room. He held her close, too close, she felt all the heat of his body.

She lay like this for sometime, sobbing and mourning like the rest of the family. Agatha’s cries became fainter, her face became more stone-like, and her hands finally began to break from tormenting her scalp and face. Deep red gouges still lined her cheeks, pricks of blood blooming up, but her face was set. She rose and went into the kitchen and came back holding a butcher’s knife, her teeth barred. “I am going to kill that fratching monster for all that she has done to us.”

Rose blinked in true surprise and cried out faintly in horror; she assumed that her mother had figured her out, that Violet had said it was Rose who had done this. She clung to Keating in genuine fright not wanting to die but willing to fight if she had to. But Agatha did not approach her but went into the room where Violet lay dying. She had meant Violet! Violet must have told their mother what Rose had said to her last night! This was far more entertaining that she had expected from her lie.

Having no excuse to go in, Rose could only listen carefully from outside while pretending to cry in Keating’s arms, her own hair wet from his tears. It was hard to hear over the sobs of Daisy, but a scuffle could be clearly heard and then suddenly Agatha was thrown from the room and their father came after her, his face streaked with tears and flushed red with anger. “Are fratching mad Agatha? She is your child!”

Agatha quickly jumped to her feet though dropped the blade, letting it clatter to the floor, “She is not my daughter! You heard her! You heard her words! She is a monster and she is the one who took my children from me! My children and she is not one of them! And yet I bore that horror into this family so I shall remove it!” Even Agatha’s husband could not fight her and he relented, shuffling aside, head hung. But Agatha only cried out from within the room, “The monster is already dead! The horror died before I could kill it! Pull this bed out, pull it out now and into the yard!”

No one had ever seen their mother this way and Keating and her husband leapt to obey, pulling the bed with the stained and dead Violet still upon it. They dragged it out into the yard where Agatha soon joined them. She was carrying flint and began to spark a fire on the sheets. The fabric lit quickly and soon the bed was roaring in flames; the fire licked and feasted upon Violet’s dead corpse. Her bed had been transformed into a funeral pyre.

The stink was something awful but Rose could not pull her eyes away, she stared transfixed as the fire consumed her sister! She had not expected this result at all. But she was jarred from her thoughts and the fire as her mother let out a horrible cry and leapt into the fire, “I do not deserve to live anymore than this monster.”

Her dying cries were horrible as the fire consumed her flesh while still alive, burning from the outside in. The smoke grew thicker and darker and it seemed that her father was too shocked to do anything. Rose grew faint and limp in Keating’s arms but it seemed that he was just as shocked and both fell to the ground. She heard retching and saw that he was throwing up everywhere.

Oh the horrors of the Ash family was Violet’s funeral pyre claimed two lives, not one. The screams soon died into the crackling of the flames.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

501 A.V., Summer

Months had passed, nearly a year in fact, since the Dira had taken the souls of Heath, Lily, Violet, and Agatha from the Ash family. To each a separate horror was given by Rose as a dying gift: to Heath was suffocation, to Lily was false blames and a painful death by blade, to Violet a horror show and to her mother, Agatha, she left a mind of doubt and pain so poignant she took her own life. And while the deaths most have been gruesome, the aftermath and the pain it caused the surviving Ash members was worse, save Rose.

The horrors had affected each member of the family differently. Harold had grown silent and distant, sealing up from the world that had given him so much pain. From this world he had lost eleven of his fourteen children and his wife, four of who had died in quick succession within the last year. He seemed to have no love left to give and turned his back on the remaining members of his family, figuring them soon to die as well. He was just a shell of what he used to be.

Daisy, in Rose’s opinion, was affected the most curiously. She showed both being severely affected by the brutal events in her past as well as the amazing resilience of children. She got over the horrific death of their mother the quickest in the sense that her eyes were dry the fastest. But gone were the laughs, smiles, tears, or any outwardly signs of affection. She became very withdrawn and spoke very little. But she was not dead to the world like their father; she just seemed to withdraw as an active participant in life. Preferring to life. She could watch a kitten play with the same indifference she could watch it drown, though she never would play with it or kill anything. She just liked to watch as fate unfolded before her.

Keating was grown enough to try and hide the pain but the death of Violet and Agatha had clearly fractured himself deeply enough for some of the pain he tried to hold in to seep out. He picked up the slack around the house that Harold left in the wake of his hallow shell. And it was perhaps his work that he threw himself into so readily that prevented him from cracking too much visibly. Perhaps, Rose had considered, that Keating had managed to channel his sorrow and pain into rage, which could be funneled out through hardwork.

Harold held all of his pain inside until it consumed him, Daisy had experienced it with the full force of childhood and somehow it had dissolved and disapated, Keating redirected his into manageable rage, and Rose just was indifferent. She was not affected in the slightest, though she knew she could not let it on. So she worked hard around the home by cooking and cleaning so as to make it seem like she was just trying to do her part. In actuality, she was just trying to cover her ass.

But she was also aiding in Keating letting off steam, for she was one of the outlets of his anger. Ever since the death of their mother their relationship had progressed to all levels of sinful. At first it had started with light, ephemeral kisses that could be played off as innocent and then progressed to touches so light and subtle they could hardly be seen as perverse. But these actions deepened with the months. Touches became gropes and kisses became deep, intense, and passionate.

But did Rose love Keating? No. She had never felt love. But she did enjoy it and so she acted upon it, feeding into his passions and making the fire to grow. Keating loved her, deeply, but Rose was only in it for the physical enjoyment and comfort it brought her. Such were the decisions Rose made: how much did it benefit her?

For two months they had been having sex. At first it had been quick and brief, done in the darkness outside so that no one could find them. But Rose loved the thrill of perverseness too much. She lured him into the house, having sex with him in her own bed and his. They did it even in the day sometimes, each time being riskier than the last!

Rose was addicted to the pleasure. The way it lit her body on fire and caused everything to writhe wonderfully. She also liked the power she had to give pleasure. Or to deny it.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

One day, Rose decided she wanted to take their sexual activity to the most blasphemous and dangerous place they could do it. The bed they were conceived in. Even Rose, looking back, could not say what it was that made her decide on that day at that time, it was around midday. She did not even care about being caught? Or did she? Or maybe, she really did want to get caught.

Anyways, her seduction was going to be the most forward and as bold as she could make it. Though, she did not really know how to seduce someone other than get naked. It always seemed to work that way with Keating. Rose could take off her clothes and make him do whatever she wanted. Whatever she wanted. Whatever.

And this time she was going to be bold to get what she wanted. She had to be. She knew that even Keating would be leery to bring such filth to the bed that had brought both him and her into the world. She wanted it and if there is one thing Rose was becoming known for, it was risking it all to get what she wants.

On this day, Keating was in the vegetable garden, which was only just outside of the house. He was hoeing vegetables and fruit, removing the weeds viciously and darkly. Harold was off somewhere doing something, probably getting drunk—a new hobby of his. And Daisy? Who cared about Daisy, she was only seven! Let Daisy watch for all she cared!

So shedding her clothes, Rose walked from the house and into the garden and stood there silently next to some gourds waiting for Keating to notice her. But that was not enough! She lay down in the dirt and took a particularly shaped gourd and began to do some things that are not quite mentionable. She was silent at first, but Keating did not seem to notice her because he was so invested in taking his rage out on the weeds. Rolling her eyes a bit annoyed, Rose began to moan. Softly at first but growing loud enough until Keating heard her.

Keating dropped his hoe in shock as he saw her, his mouth falling open. Rose could only laugh; the type of laugh that lovers often shared with each other. She began to crawl her way over to him, leaving her gourd behind and swinging her hips side to side as sexually as she could. When she reached him he still had not moved or said anything but this did not cause her fear. She had seen this before.

She reached his legs and looked up at him, smiling at him softly. Slowly, she rose, dragging her fingertips lightly up his leg, across his torso and then locking themselves tightly in his dark curls. She pulled herself to him, pressing her body hard into his before locking her lips with his, kissing him deeply. This seemed to revive Keating and his hands began to grab and grope her all over. Pulling, squeezing, and teasing every part of her body.

Pulling backwards, undoing their tangled limbs, though leaving the fingers of her left and his right hand interlocked. Slowly and gently as a mother pulling a child, Rose walked him backwards across the garden, into the house, and upon the bed of their parents. Keating was so dazed by is lover-sister that he did not even notice where they were. She lay back on the bed and pulled him on top of her.

Instantly te love-making began. They were like animals on the bed turning one side then the other and then another! Turning, bending, twisting, and curving; locked and intertwined, they were recklace and hopelessly interlocked. One body melted seamlessly into the next, hot flesh pressed against more hot flesh. Their lovemaking was carnal and full of biting, scratching, and pulling. It was animalistic and perverse.

Keating was on his back with Rose firmly locked in his lap, his fingers pulling down the pale of her stomach, leaving gouges of red in their wake. She had thrown her head back, a moan of utter delight screaming from her lips. She did not care about anything except this moment and neither did Keating. But for Rose it was for the carnal delight and for Keating it was the physical manifestation of their love, which was really only his love.

Just then, with Rose fully mounting her brother, the door was thrown open.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Rose was mounting Keating with him deeply inside of her, his pressure pushing on her so hard that she screamed her head back in pleasure.

Framed in the door, sloughed over and reeking of alcohol, Harold stood. He had been on a binge and he seemed barely capable of walking but the sight before him caused him so much rage that he flew across the room before either of them could react. Rose was just coming off the peak of the eclipse of her love making so had no time to react. She only managed to give a scream, in fear this time, as Harold’s open-fist struck her across the face.

The force was stronger than all three of them expected and Rose flew off the bed, collapsing in a heap of confusion on the floor. She body was jarred by the sudden juxtaposition of absolute pleasure and unexpected pain. A welt was burning on the side of her face, already red, puffy, and hot to the touch. It promised to bloom into a dark bruise soon.

Rose was still a bit dazed and she did not call out or try to get off the floor and there was a ringing in her ears. She pressed in a pale hand against her swelling face and a tear leaked out from the eye just above the abused cheek. It was not from pain or fear but just a natural response from such a close infliction. No more attacks were launched at her, though. And Keating was not diving to help her.

Keating! The name seemed to jolt her to consciousness and out of her daze. Beginning to sit up, she heard and then saw the struggle on the bed. Harold was on top of Keating, strangling him tightly and screaming an unending, and largely incomprehensible, series of swears. Never had Rose seen Harold so angry and not since before the death of Agatha had she seen so much emotion from him. Rose knew the gleam in his eye; she knew he intended to kill Keating and she would probably be next. Buried within the stream of swears, occurring over and over again, was one that struck out to her: Spawn of Rhysol. It shocked her and made her blink. But she leapt into action.

Still undressed, Rose ran from the room as quickly as she could and Harold made no motion to follow her. He was drunk and full of hot rage and was too blind to think or see anything other than Keating for the moment. Keating seemed to have been caught off guard at the right moment, for he seemed powerless to get up.

Rose flowed like a water through the house, sweeping to her room, picking up her stiletto, and running back as quickly as possible. She told herself that she was not trying to save Keating, she could not care less about her brother, but at this moment Harold was the most vulnerable, which gave her an advantage. He might be drunk, but pound for pound, Harold was definitely stronger than she.

The thin blade that had struck down Lily a year ago was clutched tightly in her thin hand as she flew into the room. She jumped the last steps, flying through the air and using the momentum of her weight to knock Harold off of Keating. The two rolled to the other side of the bed and while he was still dazed, Rose stabbed the blade of her knife into the first place she could reach, which happened to be his shoulder. The blade pierced his flesh and blood poured out. Harold screamed in pain, but he was also crying from their sin.

Harold might have been drunk, which had definitely given Rose the initial advantage and his pain continued it, but she soon lost it. The drunkenness came to his aide and helped mask the pain. He pulled the blade from his stomach, ripping it from her smaller hands easily. He responded and stabbed the blade into her thigh. “You fratching bitch! You are not my daughter, you are not Rose! You are the fratching spawn of Rhysol, that is what you are.” He was sobbing now.

Rose screamed and cried in pain, the wound burned horribly. “Keating, kill him! He intends to kill us! He will not let us love! Save me, Keating! Kill him!” Her screams were full of pain and helplessness that she would have never been able to fake and it lit a newfound fire within Keating’s chest. His love was in danger. It did not matter at this moment that was his father. Nothing mattered other than Rose at this point.

Keating flew at them and locked his strong hands around Harold’s neck, throwing him back on the crimson-stained sheets of the bed: blood from both Harold and Rose. He was yelling but did not seem to know it, and Harold could only gurgle and claw at Keating’s arms. Unlike Rose, Keating was stronger than Harold and was sober, so had a definite advantage over the older man.

Acting quickly while Keating pinned him down, Rose ripped the blade from her thigh and leapt forward, driving it down with all of her force into the chest of Harold, rupturing his heart. The two held him down as he died, his body thrashing all the while. Blood began to ooze from his nose and his mouth foamed red. It did not take long for him to die. Soon he lay still, his neck bruised and laying in a thick, sticky pool of dark red.

It was as if a muffler had been lift off the room and Keating and Rose finally became aware of themselves. Both were covered in blood; some of it was Rose’s but most of it was Harold’s. Rose was crying out in pain and breathing deeply while Keating had fallen silent. None moved. Rose was still infuriated by her pain while the reality of the situation, as the adrenaline faded, began to strike him. Almost instinctively, his gaze drifted to the door.

Keating began to cry and collapsed onto his father, burying his face in the bed, murmuring words that could not heard. Rose turned to look at the door. There stood little Daisy, not a tear in her eye and her face blank, peering in at them.

[Amorette la Rose-Noire]

Daisy only stood in the doorway for a moment longer. She did not cry, or scream, or even runaway in horror. She simply had peered in, observed, and then left without a word. A curious child but that was not what was on the mind of either Rose or Keating. Their father still lay on the blood-soaked bed dead. Dead, dead, dead. They had killed their father.

Naturally, Rose was not that upset about the actual death, but her leg was bothering her a good deal. On further inspection, she discovered that the wound was not that deep and had not cut any major arteries, which meant that it would heal but the torn muscle would be a pain. A scar on her thigh, though? That irked her a great deal; it was an unattractive place, in her opinion, to have a scar.

She rose from the sheets, sitting on her knees. She was still naked and covered in blood. Human blood this time, unlike the time she had frightened her dying sister with fowl blood. The blood of her father was all over her and the irony of the entire situation almost made her laugh and she might have if it were not for the pain in her thigh and Keating sloughed over the body.

Gently, Rose leaned over to Keating, embracing his back and pressing her chest against him. Her warmth against his. She leaned into slowly, almost motherly, until her lips were pressed just against his ear, which was stained red with a splash of blood. Softly she whispered, “Rise, Keating. Its done. We are safe. We can be together. He is gone now. Keating.” Her voice was almost pleading, begging him to rise. With a sudden thrust and twist of the torso, Keating threw Rose off of him.

Once again Rose flew off the bed and landed in a heap of naked, blood-covered limbs on the floor but this time she rose immediately. Instantly, Keating reached out with his fist and struck her in the nose, causing it to spurt blood immediately. Rose screamed and clung to her nose, her dark, charcoal eyes smoldering with rage. With hate. Keating screamed at her, “How can you speak to me? Look at what we have done! Look what I have done!” He pointed at their father or the bloody mess they had made of him.

Keating collapsed in a heap on the bed, crying and sobbing. He muttered and cried, begging out to all the gods to grant him forgiveness. While Rose could not hear exactly she was sure he had made a point to beg to each, promising to do whatever if they could undo what he had done. Stupid boy. Rose could not care less about him now. She watched him with cold eyes as she tried to stem the flow from her nose. She could not tell if he had broken her nose or not but the pain was almost overwhelming.

Suddenly Keating stopped and his shoulders slumped and Rose knew without him speaking that no amount of prayers was going to save him from his blasphemy. His eyes fell upon Rose, his mortal love and his reality. She was part of the physical and she was why he had killed his father. Their father. And then he had struck her. Guilt overwhelmed him.

Keating crawled forward, stepping from the bed. He hunched before her and gingerly reached forward to move the dark, sticky hair away from her brow but she flinched backwards like a cat cornered. Once the hair and been swept away, Keating held her chin and leaned in for a kiss. This was the love of his life. They would get through this. He would and she would help him. Be the comfort he needed.

But he jerked back from the kiss quite suddenly and touched his fingers lightly to his lips; blood glistened on them. Rose had bitten his lip hard when he had tried to kiss her. She had bitten it so hard that it was swelling and bleeding quite bad. All the rage that he had momentarily dispersed came flooding back and he rose, his nude, blood-streaked form hovering over her. “You fratching bitch! You are crazy!”

With that he turned and ran from the room.