This Tale of the Navel: The Shadow Forest was the result...
Once more, I find myself returning to the garden when we once met among the roses, unsure if our special place isn’t just as a reflection of the Ashelocke gardens.
This little patch of rose bushes, bordering by foxglove and giving way to vegetation is nowhere nearly as large and lush as the carefully cultivated blooms grown by Duessa, amidst the pruned hedges, mazes, and of course the statues of beauties who’ve been frozen forever in time.
I sometimes get flashes of that place, the exqusite menace lurking within the quiet, waiting to claim us all as we’re constantly watched.
This garden is different. This garden is ours. It’s where I awakened to a sense of self at the sight of Damian’s smile, at the touch of his hand.
Perhaps Damian loves this garden as I do, even if he can never admit it. His spirit is too in rebellion against his aunt. Duessa Ashelocke, to confess his affection for anything which is hers.
“All we were was food to be fattened up in gentle captivity before fed as Marriage Feasts to our brides.” Fear flashes silver amidst the ruddy rage, which deepens the crimson in his rose purple irises. “I’d think you of all people would shudder at the sight of them.”
“I don’t really recall that garden.” My words don’t taste entirely true on my tongue, even as flashes of color streak into memory, accompanied by the sound of mocking, feminine laughter, the ominous rustle of long skirts across a grass carpet. All of this returns to me, raising the hairs on the back on my neck. Not all of this hair-raising is from terror. Some of its stirs with a different sensation all together. “The first time I saw roses was when I reached for your hand. For me, they’ve always meant you.”
Colour blooms in both of his cheeks at my words. “Don’t romanticize the roses. Or me, for that matter.”
“How could I?” I gaze at the delicate point of his chin, flaring up into triangular cheekbones without a trace of beard upon them.
My own face is the same, without a hint of the hair which appears on other male youths my age.
“I know too little of roses or you to romanticize either.” The statement leaves a sour taste on my tongue.
“You’ve only forgotten.” Damian lowers his eyes. As if he can’t bear to see me instead of the other Christopher, the true Christopher. A Christopher who known both Damian and his aunt intimately. “Or perhaps you chose to discard your memories of us.”
There is no hiding the hurt in his voice at this possibility.
I reach out for his pale, slender fingers, the first things I saw in this current existence. The source of my life. “Even if the boy I once was did such a thing, I can’t imagine myself ever forgetting you.”
Perhaps some of my warmth, the warmth I’d once absorbed from Damian himself touched its source.
Damian widens his eyes, which brighten, softening his entire face. For one moment, he is mine. Mine completely.
I’ve learned to treasure these moments. Sooner or later, his rebellious spirit will stir, goading him into remembering he’s Damian Ashelocke, foil to Duessa Ashelocke and all she’s built and caged.
That might well include me. In this moment, however, he’s responding my warmth, feeding on my energy. He was mine as much as he was his aunt’s.
I’ll take these moments whenever they come my way. Take, treasure, and try to make them last. Not that they ever do.
It’s part of what makes them precious.
No comments:
Post a Comment