Her father’s voice is sharp but cool, managing to carry the distance between where he was kneeling in the gardens. It’s finally managed to be warm enough where some of the heavy winter snows have melted away and they’ve begun to see the green of the ground underneath. When your patron deity is the god of winter, you get used to the cold, whether you like to or not. Still, today the ground is green beneath their feet and all of Xandria is released from their cages, ready to take advantage of the beginning of their very brief spring.
Rosalina, all of ten years old, has many current plans for this beautiful spring day. As she’s already completed her fencing lessons for the day, she and her younger sister Veronica intend to have a picnic tea party on the lawn and braid each other’s hair while they watched Aster take his own turn with a blade. Veronica isn’t old enough yet, but when she is, she will do the same, but for now she’s content to eat cookies and ramble on about imaginary adventures while Rosalina works her hair into a delicate crown braid.
Sensible sister things, obviously.
But with her father’s sudden attention she is up like a shot, making her way closer to where he’s kneeling next to one of the recently upturned gardens where she knows the winter roses grow. Like blood red dots against the snows of winter, Frostward is famous for their beautiful roses that can survive the crush of winter. She asked about why this was their family’s gift when she was much younger, and he had woven her a beautiful story of a snow king falling in love with a summer queen, and their love creating something that could withstand the crush of both. Now, it seems as though he intends to show her something, and he gestures to the small cushion the edge of the garden, matching the one that he’s kneeling on himself.
“Kneel with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
She wrinkles her nose a bit at first – playing in the dirt has never been one of her preferred activities – but she does it without complaint, knowing that it will be part of her duties as a lady of the manor one day. Once she’s able to fold back on her knees gently, her father leans forward, digging his fingers into the soil firmly.
“I want you to lean forward and knead the soil. Really get it onto your fingers and under your fingernails.”
“But Papa –”
“I know you don’t like to get dirty, darling, but for some things that’s unavoidable. If something is really worth doing, you must do it with your own two hands.”
A broader lesson she wouldn’t understand the context for until she was much older, but Oleand Frostward had always had his eye on a bigger picture, and that includes his children. She nods once, taking a deep breath before plunging her fingers into the dirt and doing as she’s told. Almost immediately, the look of distaste that was resting on her face blossoms into a look of delight as a kind of music fills her that she hadn’t anticipated.
“It’s singing!”
Oleand smiles, before nodding and reaching his hands over hers, using his much larger hands to show her how to really dig her fingers in. The more they work the land, the more joyful the music becomes until it’s like a symphony, all of the pieces coming together to create something beautiful and transcendant.
“Could it always sing? Do all the realms sing? If I went to Asgard, would it sound like a different song?”
Oleand laughs before shaking his head. “Slow down, Rosa. You’re getting ahead of yourself and I can only answer one question at a time.” She falls silent, mollified for a moment, and lets him continue. “All the realms sing, yes, but only we have the special ability to hear it.”
“Does the song always sound the same?”
“Mostly. In the winter, it can be sadder and slower, but the melody is the same.”
“Do we talk to it? Is that how we are able to get it to grow our roses?”
He nods, withdrawing his hands and encouraging her to sit back on the cushion as he dusts off his hands. Without being immersed in the dirt, the song fades from her mind, returning her back to the world of the mundane, but the warmth of the memory still remains as she pulls her dirt covered hands close to her chest. Once his hands are mostly clean, he draws a small blade from his belt.
“The magic of the roses is on our blood, quite literally in fact. In realms with longer springs and summers, plants are able to get more nutrients so they can sustain themselves on their own. Here, they need a little extra help.” Rosalina watches in a kind of rapt fascination as Oleand pricks himself on the finger with the blade, drawing a small drop of blood that he turns and lets it drop into the soil. It takes a moment for the liquid to sink in, the ground drawing it in like it’s desperately thirsty, and her father closes his eyes, murmuring a soft chant under his breath. It’s with that, that the vines of the rosebushes that had been weakening and browning after the effort of blooming all winter begin to regain some of their color, including small red blooms beginning to blossom.
He stops once the first one reaches it’s full potential, before plucking it from the bush very carefully to avoid it’s thorns. “Roses have been the symbol of our house, and they are the good that we try to aspire to. Beautiful and fragrant, no matter what color they may be, they are always signs of different kinds of love, devotion and loyalty.”
She smiles softly, because these are all things she aspires to have at some point, to be known for her love and respect for others, as any good lady should. He then holds up a finger, before tipping the flower to expose the stem.
“But! Never forget that all roses must be handled with care. People can forget that beautiful things can be equally dangerous. Never cross a rose, for you will always find it’s thorns.” He then smiles, before using his blade to shave the thorns off the side of the stem and then sliding it into her bun in order to hold it securely in place. “We will work on this garden together, you and I. What do you think?”
She smiles widely before nodding. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Good.” He grins and rubs his hands together. “Good. Let’s get dirty, shall we?”
just a wild mountain rose | original (teleios) | 1,135 | round 1, set 4
Her father’s voice is sharp but cool, managing to carry the distance between where he was kneeling in the gardens. It’s finally managed to be warm enough where some of the heavy winter snows have melted away and they’ve begun to see the green of the ground underneath. When your patron deity is the god of winter, you get used to the cold, whether you like to or not. Still, today the ground is green beneath their feet and all of Xandria is released from their cages, ready to take advantage of the beginning of their very brief spring.
Rosalina, all of ten years old, has many current plans for this beautiful spring day. As she’s already completed her fencing lessons for the day, she and her younger sister Veronica intend to have a picnic tea party on the lawn and braid each other’s hair while they watched Aster take his own turn with a blade. Veronica isn’t old enough yet, but when she is, she will do the same, but for now she’s content to eat cookies and ramble on about imaginary adventures while Rosalina works her hair into a delicate crown braid.
Sensible sister things, obviously.
But with her father’s sudden attention she is up like a shot, making her way closer to where he’s kneeling next to one of the recently upturned gardens where she knows the winter roses grow. Like blood red dots against the snows of winter, Frostward is famous for their beautiful roses that can survive the crush of winter. She asked about why this was their family’s gift when she was much younger, and he had woven her a beautiful story of a snow king falling in love with a summer queen, and their love creating something that could withstand the crush of both. Now, it seems as though he intends to show her something, and he gestures to the small cushion the edge of the garden, matching the one that he’s kneeling on himself.
“Kneel with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
She wrinkles her nose a bit at first – playing in the dirt has never been one of her preferred activities – but she does it without complaint, knowing that it will be part of her duties as a lady of the manor one day. Once she’s able to fold back on her knees gently, her father leans forward, digging his fingers into the soil firmly.
“I want you to lean forward and knead the soil. Really get it onto your fingers and under your fingernails.”
“But Papa –”
“I know you don’t like to get dirty, darling, but for some things that’s unavoidable. If something is really worth doing, you must do it with your own two hands.”
A broader lesson she wouldn’t understand the context for until she was much older, but Oleand Frostward had always had his eye on a bigger picture, and that includes his children. She nods once, taking a deep breath before plunging her fingers into the dirt and doing as she’s told. Almost immediately, the look of distaste that was resting on her face blossoms into a look of delight as a kind of music fills her that she hadn’t anticipated.
“It’s singing!”
Oleand smiles, before nodding and reaching his hands over hers, using his much larger hands to show her how to really dig her fingers in. The more they work the land, the more joyful the music becomes until it’s like a symphony, all of the pieces coming together to create something beautiful and transcendant.
“Could it always sing? Do all the realms sing? If I went to Asgard, would it sound like a different song?”
Oleand laughs before shaking his head. “Slow down, Rosa. You’re getting ahead of yourself and I can only answer one question at a time.” She falls silent, mollified for a moment, and lets him continue. “All the realms sing, yes, but only we have the special ability to hear it.”
“Does the song always sound the same?”
“Mostly. In the winter, it can be sadder and slower, but the melody is the same.”
“Do we talk to it? Is that how we are able to get it to grow our roses?”
He nods, withdrawing his hands and encouraging her to sit back on the cushion as he dusts off his hands. Without being immersed in the dirt, the song fades from her mind, returning her back to the world of the mundane, but the warmth of the memory still remains as she pulls her dirt covered hands close to her chest. Once his hands are mostly clean, he draws a small blade from his belt.
“The magic of the roses is on our blood, quite literally in fact. In realms with longer springs and summers, plants are able to get more nutrients so they can sustain themselves on their own. Here, they need a little extra help.” Rosalina watches in a kind of rapt fascination as Oleand pricks himself on the finger with the blade, drawing a small drop of blood that he turns and lets it drop into the soil. It takes a moment for the liquid to sink in, the ground drawing it in like it’s desperately thirsty, and her father closes his eyes, murmuring a soft chant under his breath. It’s with that, that the vines of the rosebushes that had been weakening and browning after the effort of blooming all winter begin to regain some of their color, including small red blooms beginning to blossom.
He stops once the first one reaches it’s full potential, before plucking it from the bush very carefully to avoid it’s thorns. “Roses have been the symbol of our house, and they are the good that we try to aspire to. Beautiful and fragrant, no matter what color they may be, they are always signs of different kinds of love, devotion and loyalty.”
She smiles softly, because these are all things she aspires to have at some point, to be known for her love and respect for others, as any good lady should. He then holds up a finger, before tipping the flower to expose the stem.
“But! Never forget that all roses must be handled with care. People can forget that beautiful things can be equally dangerous. Never cross a rose, for you will always find it’s thorns.” He then smiles, before using his blade to shave the thorns off the side of the stem and then sliding it into her bun in order to hold it securely in place. “We will work on this garden together, you and I. What do you think?”
She smiles widely before nodding. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Good.” He grins and rubs his hands together. “Good. Let’s get dirty, shall we?”