New content in the previous post, which chronologically precedes this one, even though the writing is more recent. This post has been bumped down to position it in the right place.
The Blue Rose
Wilhelm stood in the Nars pass and looked up at a low, gently sloping rock formation. The land around him was mostly flat, green grassland and rolling hills, scattered throughout with massive boulders and isolated stands of timber. A creek ran nearby, issuing from a small lake to his north. The sun slanted low on the horizon. It was late afternoon, and the harsh light of day had grown soft.
At present, however, Wilhelm was oblivious to his surroundings. His eyes were fixed on the rock formation, on the lone and lovely figure of a dark haired woman standing on its summit.
He was sure it must be Jade. Her armor had changed, and her hair was longer than he remembered. But there was no mistaking that strong, slender frame and that elegant greatsword on her shoulder. How many elven women carried such a blade? How many such women dwelled in these harsh northern lands? He could think of only one; it had to be her.
“Jade,” he asked softly? Her name escaped his lips absently, inadvertently. He had not meant to draw attention to himself, but rather had betrayed his own presence in a moment of distraction. He felt a twinge of apprehension as she turned to face him.
It was her. He felt himself freeze inside. He felt chills on the back of his neck as her gaze fell upon him.
She wore armor enameled in subtle greens and browns that blended well with her surroundings. Her armor did not appear to be of elven design, at least not to his (admittedly untrained) eye, but it conformed to her shape perfectly. It was something new, something different, a replacement of the banded mail she used to wear.
Her hair was full and luxurious and black as ink spilling down her shoulders, flowing in the languid breeze. Her face was fair, lighter than he remembered, but her emerald eyes were as stunning as before. And her expression was proud, almost imperious as she looked at him now.
Their eyes locked, and he felt suddenly that the world was unreal, like he was captive in some clever illusion, some creation of his own fantasy. He grasped for words, but did know what to say, could not conceive of out how to conduct himself, could not fathom how to approach her after all the years gone by. He just stood there feeling helpless and inarticulate. And slowly, strangely, a sensation crept over him, of being detached from his own body, looking down on the both of them from a distance above.
Second passed awkwardly, feeling like minutes. His fingers flexed nervously. He wanted so badly to say something, to say the right thing to her, if only he knew what that was.
She smiled at him then. The proud, imperious warrior vanished in an instant, replaced by the vulnerable warmth of a young woman. There was genuine affection in that smile, real humanity in those fair elven eyes.
He smiled back, feeling like an idiot, still frozen in his tracks.
She surprised him then. She had always managed to surprise him. Thank the gods she knew what to do. She came running into his arms, and instantly he was himself again, with her lips planted firmly on his, her slender elven form pressed against him. He crushed her to him, despite the armor, and relished the pain of her steel-clad form against his.
It was the right thing, just perfect. There was no need for discussion, no thicket of words to get in the way, just him and her and their enduring, inexplicable love.
He pulled her close, and she clung tightly to his embrace. And he felt as though time had contracted, as if he was standing on the threshold of a yesterday from years ago.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries, hardly hearing the words: where had he been, what had she been doing. They gave vague explanations, not really hearing them, not willing to waste precious time on the past. There was only now, only this wonderful, exquisite reunion.
They walked hand-in-hand, down from the promontory, and wandered by the creek, looking ahead at the small lake to their north. She laid down her greatsword by the stream, as if relinquishing a heavy burden, and turned to gaze into his eyes. And he knew that she was his, and he was hers again, and he would never walk away from her again. But something inside him could not rest easy.
“Jade, I am so sorry, I . . .” he began, and then paused, trying to think of what he could say.
She turned away from him and moved to the edge of the creek, taking up her sword. And then she ran, north toward the lake.
He chased her, still in shock, not really trying to catch her, just following. She didn’t run far. She stopped when she reached the lake’s edge, looking out over the water.
“You killed me,” she said. It was not an accusation, just a statement of fact delivered in an even tone.
Wilhelm swallowed. “I know,” he said.
Slowly, she turned, drawing her greatsword, Shen Enai, from its long scabbard over her shoulder. Her eyes were flat; she did not even look at him. Instead, she held the blade before her, point upraised, her gaze following its length.
“I should kill you,” her voice was distant.
“I know,” he said again. And after a moment, “But . . . would that heal you?”
Her posture softened. The blade slowly fell, its point lodging in the soft soil between them.
“No,” she said. “It would only kill me again.” Shen Enai slipped from her fingers to lay in the grass, forgotten for the moment. She looked at him then, her eyes vulnerable.
“I would rewrite history if I could . . .” he began. He groped for an explanation.
“No, Wil.” She approached him, embraced him, rested her head against his chest.
They kissed again, and then again. He held her for along moment. It felt so good to hold her again. She was so very special to him. He wanted to hold her forever, to keep this moment and all the ones before it suspended in time and perfect memory for the rest of his life. Alas, that life is a quicksand running through our fingers, and we are slowly descending into its depths.
As he held her, he saw in the grass next their feet a small bush with tiny blue buds, some of which had just begun to open. He gently extricated herself from her embrace, bent down, and picked a pair of stems from the bush. Each stem was topped with a single, small blue rose.
It occurred to him then, in another surreal moment, that he had never before understood the metaphor of the blue rose. Romantic poets from ages past had idolized the blue rose as the symbol of impossible love, of the hubris and the longing for something beyond the reach of mortal beings. He had never known love as something hopeless, something unattainable. But in that moment, he knew that all love in some sense reached for the impossible, that all love aspired to exceed the limits of ordinary life, if only to keep as permanent that which is fleeting.
“These are very rare,” he said absently, tucking the stems into her hairclip. She smiled faintly, one hand touching her hair, feeling the position of the flowers. She straightened them, securing the flowers in place.
“You look ridiculous,” he grinned.
“I know,” she said, a faint smirk on her lips. “Come, I have something to show you.”
They walked away from the lake, heading northwest. She nearly left her greatsword behind, lying in the grass, so unlike her. They went back to retrieve it, and then she lead him away. Eventually, they came to a waterfall, lovely and luminous in the fading light of evening.
They hiked to the top of the falls and looked down on the pool below. The shape of the falls, its volume and current, reminded him much of the old waterfall in Norwick, the place where he had first caught her attention, or so he believed. A lone tree stood at the top, and butterflies flitted and circled among the little flowers in the grass. The little blue roses were all around them. He had never seen so many in one place.
“Our waterfall is gone,” she explained. It seemed impossible that a waterfall could disappear, but he had already seen for himself what had become of the old Norwick.
“But we can always come here now,” she said. “We will always have this place.”
He looked at the meadows around them, felt the cool breeze, and listened to the rushing murmur of the falls.
“I love you, Jade.”
“I love you . . .”
He laid her down in the grass, then, and pulled his fur cloak over them. They stayed the night there, no camp, no fire. Just the stars above, the rushing water, the cold night air and the heat under the fur cloak, like a furnace through the night.
Later she slept briefly, curled against his side, and he stared up at the stars. It reminded him of another night, just weeks ago, when he had looked out at the stars from a mountainside, reflecting on the interplay of memory and dream.
And another memory came back to him, of a night in the Boarshead Inn. They had rented a private room, just for the two of them, a luxury in those times. The next day he had noticed where her fencer’s grip had left dark bruises on his biceps.
It was so wonderful to see her again, like no time had passed. He felt just as much in love with her as he had ever been. He was so fortunate to have met her, felt so glad to have her back, in whatever way she would allow.
The experience of seeing her again was . . . thrilling, exquisite, wonderful. It is fascinating the way that the mind builds constellations out of connected events. She had become a beautiful constellation in his mind. Absolutely scintillating, sparkling, laced with color and emotion, never to be explained or understood, and he didn’t mind.
He pulled her close, buried his face in her night-dark hair, in the scent of the blue rose, and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, just drifted on the edge of the unconscious, waiting for her to stir him again.
