I tend the one I have that reminds me of you. Sweet-scented, intoxicating,
spicy. Lots of thorns. A survivor. Winters that have slaughtered everything
else cannot touch it.
Summers, hot and humid, blistering and heavy-aired. The rose ignores them.
The heat is endured, the rain, welcomed.
It stays with me and will remain mine. Forever. It craves my touch, as you
used to. My own hand will not hurt it and its thorns on the other do not hurt
me. We both understand pruning, the rose and I.
The flowers are wondrous and appear sporadically for months. I find myself
looking forward to them, each, a joyful surprise and celebration of life. Of
living.
It feeds on that which it needs, that which sustains it, makes it thrive.
The soil around it is teeming with lower lifeforms, rich and dark. Dark as your
hair...
Moss grows in a carpet beneath it. The moss, so like your eyes... Rich,
vibrant green in sunlight, murky in shadow. My shadow. I take care to keep
behind the sun. I could no more withhold light from the moss and the rose than
I could from you. But, you know this. I explained it to you. I know you heard
me. And understood. How I had to keep you safe. And with me. I know you
understood.
They do not understand. I've kept in touch enough to know. They still look
for you, not even remotely comprehending how you could have disappeared,
escaped from their clutches as they clawed, grasping, for you. Their clutches
will remain empty. I will protect you as long as I can, shield you from them. I
don't want their shadows touching you, either.
Your friends are more insistent than your enemies. Scully and Skinner.
Skinner, especially persistent. He's gotten close a couple of times, but has
never found this place. Nor will he. I don't want him here. I don't want him to
be anywhere near you. You belong with me. I won't share you. And I have a duty
to keep you safe. They would never believe I'm safe, for you. That I alone take
care of you.
Yes, they know you were with me, that night. But, they haven't found you.
Nor will they. Only I know where you are.
And the rose.
The End
The Rose
by Amirin
I've heard you can always find old roses in a cemetery. It's true.
Tangled, overgrown, hardy. But, there. Always. Guarding the dead.
