Ghost of A Rose
This was posted at nekid_spike. For book keeping purposes, I'm putting it here so I can archive it. But there's no need to comment.
Ghost of A Rose
The alley hadn’t changed much in all the passing years-except for the mountain of dead bodies, of course. They were gone. And the dragon’s carcass had been hauled away. Probably turned into processed dog food, along with all the demon dead. The enemy was cost conscious, even in defeat.
He could still see the battle superimposed in the narrow asphalt confines between bricks and street. Illyria had saved the day. Used the last of her failing strength to do it. He’d held her head in his lap, when they were all that was left, and stroked her cheek. She smiled, a Fred smile, and closed her eyes quietly. It was all over.
Hard to believe fifty years had slipped by so swiftly. Fifty years separating him from those he’d lost and what he once was. He had been a vampire. Then he wasn’t. His hair was thick and gray now. Wrinkles lined his face and his eyes had gone rheumy making it hard to read. He loved to read. It was the last of his small indulgences to be stripped from him. But that was alright.
He could feel the cancer drifting through his bones. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he put down the empty shell of his life and stepped away, free of it at last. It was a good thought. He was very tired, and he hurt in all the places that used to bring him pleasure. Yet it made him sad to realize there would be no one left to remember them when he was gone.
Kneeling on the pavement where he’d last seen him, he placed a single white rose on the ground. His fingers skimmed the rough surface, as they did each year when he came to bring the gift. Even the echo of his ashes had long since passed away. Bowing his head, a lone tear escaped to trace the furrows of the man’s cheek and hang suspended from the sagging line of his jaw. The wrinkled throat swallowed convulsively, forcing the old sorrow back into his heart where it belonged.
“Light in my sunless world," he whispered. "Star of my evening sky. I’m a terrible poet. You were so much better. And I miss you with every breath I take.” He stood with difficulty, aged joints creaking, then paused. "Sometimes, I feel you're still here with me."
The wino, hiding in the dumpster’s shadow, watched the old man shuffle slowly away. He thought of robbing him. He was too frail to defend himself, and the drunkard's bottle was nearly empty. But he drew back in sudden fear, blinking at what he saw forming in the pale wash of moonlight. A ghostly figure swirled protectively behind that stumbling wreck, bright haired, slim and strong in a whirl of ebony leather. A cigarette dangled at his lips, a sparkle gleamed in his eye, and when he looked at the wino, a wicked laugh unfurled on the night breeze.
Ghost of A Rose
The alley hadn’t changed much in all the passing years-except for the mountain of dead bodies, of course. They were gone. And the dragon’s carcass had been hauled away. Probably turned into processed dog food, along with all the demon dead. The enemy was cost conscious, even in defeat.
He could still see the battle superimposed in the narrow asphalt confines between bricks and street. Illyria had saved the day. Used the last of her failing strength to do it. He’d held her head in his lap, when they were all that was left, and stroked her cheek. She smiled, a Fred smile, and closed her eyes quietly. It was all over.
Hard to believe fifty years had slipped by so swiftly. Fifty years separating him from those he’d lost and what he once was. He had been a vampire. Then he wasn’t. His hair was thick and gray now. Wrinkles lined his face and his eyes had gone rheumy making it hard to read. He loved to read. It was the last of his small indulgences to be stripped from him. But that was alright.
He could feel the cancer drifting through his bones. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he put down the empty shell of his life and stepped away, free of it at last. It was a good thought. He was very tired, and he hurt in all the places that used to bring him pleasure. Yet it made him sad to realize there would be no one left to remember them when he was gone.
Kneeling on the pavement where he’d last seen him, he placed a single white rose on the ground. His fingers skimmed the rough surface, as they did each year when he came to bring the gift. Even the echo of his ashes had long since passed away. Bowing his head, a lone tear escaped to trace the furrows of the man’s cheek and hang suspended from the sagging line of his jaw. The wrinkled throat swallowed convulsively, forcing the old sorrow back into his heart where it belonged.
“Light in my sunless world," he whispered. "Star of my evening sky. I’m a terrible poet. You were so much better. And I miss you with every breath I take.” He stood with difficulty, aged joints creaking, then paused. "Sometimes, I feel you're still here with me."
The wino, hiding in the dumpster’s shadow, watched the old man shuffle slowly away. He thought of robbing him. He was too frail to defend himself, and the drunkard's bottle was nearly empty. But he drew back in sudden fear, blinking at what he saw forming in the pale wash of moonlight. A ghostly figure swirled protectively behind that stumbling wreck, bright haired, slim and strong in a whirl of ebony leather. A cigarette dangled at his lips, a sparkle gleamed in his eye, and when he looked at the wino, a wicked laugh unfurled on the night breeze.