“So, tell me- why me?”

I glanced at her; carefully she clipped one of her tumbling auburn curls behind her ear with another one of those sparkling diamond clips. She turned around, blinking slowly. Long curled eyelashes starred at me, blue questioning eyes studied my every move.

“Why not you?” She pouted at my response. A quite sigh escaped her lips. She returned to looking at herself in the mirror. A rose was pinned to the centre of her lapel.

“That wasn’t an answer – tell me, why did you choose me? Why did you choose to go out with me, why propose to me? Why not that Clarence one? You both have more in common, not to mention she has legs the length of Manhattan!”

“She is not a challenge like you.”

She blinked again, turning around swiftly to match my gaze. “You see me as a challenge?” she whispered, it was hard to tell by her tone whether she was offended or intrigued.  I nodded simply. She stood up; let the folds upon folds of red silk and satin fall to the ground. She looked like a rose in that ball gown. The fabric shifted softly only to extenuate her elegance as she moved. Eventually, she was by my side. She bit her lip, eyes pleading with me.

“What is it?” I continued to fix my tie. She placed her hand onto mine. I looked at her, she was extremely petite and beautifully pale. She took careful hold of my hand between hers. Slowly she moved my hand down to her face. The old against the new, my hand looked like a beast compared to hers. She kissed the sealing ring of my family and then let go. Those blue eyes looked at me again.

“Royalty should be met with royalty- I’m not worthy of your presence. I’m a peasant – a milk maid, this is not right!” There was an untamed furry in her eyes. She stepped back. I loomed her, she being a perfect rose – I being a vengeful gardener, bitter at the lost of what was once my own crop and the unnecessary wilting and death of my own rose patch. I sought redemption within her.

“Please, I do not want to be a part of this.”

“I choose you as my bride- you should be happy!” I, the gardener, raise my pruning shears. The wind makes the rose terrible in my wake.

“I am!”

“Then why are you crying?!” A threat to the rose’s thorns, without these you cannot and will not be able to protect yourself.

“Because I-” Tears spilled onto her porcelain face. Her cheeks turned a pale tint of pink, her rouged lips parted by a margin of a fraction. A prick, a drop of crimson blood. The rose managed to break through my barrier.

Enough was enough; I grabbed both of her wrists and pulled her close. She looked at me confused, mouthing silent words. Like the wings of a butterfly, her eyelashes fluttered helplessly at me – pleading and daring me to do something.

“Because you what?” I asked as quietly as I could. Maybe not today, I pocket away my shears.

It was almost hauntingly silent in the room, only the sound you could hear was that of her gasping breath. I let go of both her wrists, immediately she flung herself back into my arms, crying. Her tiny frame trembled. Carefully I wrapped my arms around her, swaying gently from side to side – trying to comfort the rose I nearly tore apart.