Rose Arcana

Kitsune25   10-28-97

            You’re not sure why you open the door that night.  It’s almost as though something beckoned to you, something unseen, perhaps waiting behind the solid, meticulously carved oaken panel.  But it’s probably just curiosity.

            The heavy door slowly creaks open, revealing to your wide eyes the interior of a rather small room; you immediately feel transported to another time, another place--to your own imagination.  Deep crimson velvet.  It hangs down in voluminous curtains, it drapes every inch of the walls and meets the floor with thick, lush folds, its rich colour a perfect match with the plush carpeting.  The colour of a faultless rose--of gushing blood.

            But you hardly notice the eerie, almost sensuous, almost decadent surroundings before your eyes are drawn to the far corner, where soft silken pillows, some in the purest black, some in the same dark red, have been gathered.  The figure lounging amongst them grabs your attention and won’t let go.  A small form, slight, his slender frame clothed in luxurious black silk trimmed in red, offset by a startlingly white embroidered sash tied around his waist.  His long, tousled hair as black as his outfit, the skin of his narrow face incredibly white, whiter than any skin you’ve ever seen before.  As though it were never touched by the sun’s rays.  Immaculate.

            The features elegant, almost effeminate; high, well-defined cheekbones, full blood-red lips pouting under a straight, somewhat pointed nose, and the eyes under dark, dark, perfectly arched eyebrows--large green eyes that hold your gaze entranced in their intense stare, that seem to have been fixed on you since even before you opened the door.

            You know you should be wary, perhaps even frightened of this strange room and its silent, mysterious inhabitant--that you should turn around and leave as quickly as possible, forget that you ever saw this, for it will surely haunt your dreams.  But you’re too intrigued to feel anything but a strange sort of. . . excitement.

            The young man’s disconcerting gaze remains locked on you expectantly, you can almost feel those deep green orbs penetrating your being, peering right into your mind, your heart.  He sits as though relaxed among the pillows, calm and confident, yet you sense a certain alertness in him.  He could pounce at any moment--like a wild animal.

            And then he moves, shifts slightly to sit more upright.  You take an involuntary step into the room and the door creaks shut behind you.  No turning back now.  Everything is dark, crimson.  A dim light from the intricate candelabra positioned by the young man casts flickering flames against the velvet.  The warm, smoky air envelops you, filling your nostrils with a vaguely musky, vaguely perfumed scent that seems to have drifted to you from somewhere far, far away.  Roses climbing wild among overgrown trellises in a forgotten garden.  Incense, perhaps?

            “Don’t be afraid.”  The rupture of the silence startles you--you realize that your heart is pounding.  The voice was soft and gentle, surprisingly low-toned.  It lures you in.  Your feet sink deep, deep into the luxurious carpet as you tentatively cross the surreal room that might have come out of your dreams.  On the way, you pause to brush a finger against a fold of velvet.  Soft.

            Just before you reach the young man, he rises to his feet in a graceful move.  Surprisingly delicate and not an inch taller than you are yourself.  Suddenly you’re filled with the overwhelming desire to touch him as you had the velvet.  To see if he’s really there.  Your common sense has lost any control over you and your arm moves, hand stretches out of its own accord.  He backs away but the very tip of one finger still just barely manages to brush the draping silk of his shirt.  Even softer than the velvet.  You snatch your hand back, ashamed, as he continues to regard you, his eyelids now half-lowered, and moves his own long-fingered hand to his shirt, shockingly pale against the black.

            “S-sorry,” you find yourself mumbling, your voice too loud in your ears yet swallowed by the plush surroundings.

            “It’s all right.”  One corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly, and for the first time since you peeked into his room, he turns away and releases your gaze.  The spell shatters.  You yank open the door and run from the room in a cold rush of fear and try to ignore the nightmares that plague your sleep the remainder of that night, and the intrusive images that stain your dreams the dull, dark crimson of old blood.

            But when morning at last arrives, the warm light of the sun reassuringly lighting the halls and banishing the shadows and your nightmares, you venture up the spiral stairway at the end of the corridor, traverse the narrow hall and grasp the antique doorknob in a palm damp with an inexplicable anticipation.  The door swings in and you catch your breath in horror.

            Shreds of torn velvet, worn thin, litter the floor in limp, scattered piles; the ancient wood paneling of the walls shows through and blemishes the faded red.  Confused, you approach the far corner and stare down in a daze at the sagging, threadbare pillows that, not more than eight hours ago, had cradled the mysterious, irresistibly attractive young man, with his unusual delicacy, his pale, pale skin and thick dark hair, the piercing green eyes that had seen right into you.

            Then you notice the rose lying against the black fabric.  You pick it up and one deep red petal falls to blend in perfectly with the dusty carpet.