Laurent went out into the gardens, wandering through a winding hedge maze. At the center of it, he found a table laid with a light repast for him. He dined, and wandered on from there through the gardens, eventually finding his way into a rose garden. The roses flourished, full and rich, larger than any he'd ever seen, and the scent of them was exquisite. Heady and wild, and full of spice.
Laurent's fingers brushed carefully over the petals, reverent. They resembled the rose that his father had brought, the symbol of his captivity which now bloomed in a vase in his bedchamber. He wondered if it might not be worth his life if he picked one.
And yet, as he wandered further into the garden, he found that the roses beyond a certain point were withered and dry, taken by some kind of blight. He hesitated upon the threshold, half a rose garden where nothing grew.
Laurent knew little about gardens, but it was still a surprise to see this corruption in the enchanted kingdom. Everything else Laurent had seen had been lush and rich. He was lavishly dressed in the products of the kingdom, which seemed able to produce anything. So what was wrong with the roses?
He hesitated upon the threshold, meaning to go. It wasn't his concern.
Something drew him back to that boundary line, where the roses suddenly withered. His heart thudded as he studied it. It seemed, somehow, like there was a blockage in the roses. As if it only needed a few blooms cleared in order to shoot forth again.
He reached for one of the roses. Stopped himself. The roses were worth his life.
Forcing himself to leave, he got as far as the edge of the garden, but his heart was pounding with a sense of a duty unfulfilled. He paced back, reaching again for the rose. It felt like a compulsion. That one. That spot was the worst of it.
Knowing he was mad, Laurent reached for the bloom and pulled it. The stem was furred with sharp thorns, but they softened and blunted at his touch, refusing to prick him.
He reached for another and another, pulling five roses from the edge of the garden and then standing there with the bouquet, hands shaking.
The compulsion passed, and he walked quickly from the garden, taking the roses with him, not seeing how the roses behind him crept forward, growing past the point where he'd plucked the blooms.
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Laurent's fingers brushed carefully over the petals, reverent. They resembled the rose that his father had brought, the symbol of his captivity which now bloomed in a vase in his bedchamber. He wondered if it might not be worth his life if he picked one.
And yet, as he wandered further into the garden, he found that the roses beyond a certain point were withered and dry, taken by some kind of blight. He hesitated upon the threshold, half a rose garden where nothing grew.
Laurent knew little about gardens, but it was still a surprise to see this corruption in the enchanted kingdom. Everything else Laurent had seen had been lush and rich. He was lavishly dressed in the products of the kingdom, which seemed able to produce anything. So what was wrong with the roses?
He hesitated upon the threshold, meaning to go. It wasn't his concern.
Something drew him back to that boundary line, where the roses suddenly withered. His heart thudded as he studied it. It seemed, somehow, like there was a blockage in the roses. As if it only needed a few blooms cleared in order to shoot forth again.
He reached for one of the roses. Stopped himself. The roses were worth his life.
Forcing himself to leave, he got as far as the edge of the garden, but his heart was pounding with a sense of a duty unfulfilled. He paced back, reaching again for the rose. It felt like a compulsion. That one. That spot was the worst of it.
Knowing he was mad, Laurent reached for the bloom and pulled it. The stem was furred with sharp thorns, but they softened and blunted at his touch, refusing to prick him.
He reached for another and another, pulling five roses from the edge of the garden and then standing there with the bouquet, hands shaking.
The compulsion passed, and he walked quickly from the garden, taking the roses with him, not seeing how the roses behind him crept forward, growing past the point where he'd plucked the blooms.