In a castle inhabited by unusual residents, Rosie must be the most unique, and not because she's a vampire! For even the vampire was birthed at one time or another, and grew from baby
to child to adult.
Not Rosie, ghost Rosie, who was the ghost of roses. . .
How's that? you wonder.
Once, there was no Rosie, but there were roses. Lovely roses showing off their blue beauty. Yes, the rarest blue petals (of |Eternity Unmasked|, cultivated by Rhea), and white and pink, red and burgundy, golden and black. All of them perfumed the air by night for vampires, by day for mortals -- until the fire. Orange flames blackened the once soft petals like people generally believe all vampires char in sunlight. Sweet floral perfume died beneath the thick smoke, going to stench.
Amazingly, unknown to anyone at that time, sweet little sparks of life found they were souls. The spirits of the roses and thorns floated about, flowing towards people. They found voices to talk with, had thoughts to think. They could create rainbows of petals falling like a floral snowstorm, or let only one or two pirouette down to alight on some favored human's hair, to delicately brush against an upturned face.
They were many colors yet also one, desiring to be human.
Finvarra, the handsome and golden King of the Fae, visited. Attracted by his magic aura, petals floated in through a window, the accompanying spirits humming their little crystal tunes. Before leaving, the King picked one of the petals, gave it a kiss and let it drift back outside. Finvarra left gold dust in his bootsteps, being a bit like Midas perhaps, but he also
left a miracle. . .
The rosies can finish their (her) story:
"Kissed by a King, I (we) float outside, moving high into the air, turning over and over, until we (I) hover. The slightest updraft moves the rose petal like a soft skirt on a twirling dancer. Finvarra leaves the mansion to ride the glorious horse back to his magical home. We, already touched with gold from his lips, drift down, drawn to the gold-flecked prints. Alighting in one of the bootsteps, I see other rosie petals follow, singing and sighing as we create our own legend about the night the King of the Fae kissed the rose ghost.
"'Gold kisses for a rose lady. .
.' perfumed voices sing, harmony sweet, much motion of other petals
appearing as if from nothing to share the golden legend. All colors of the rose touch themselves to the fairy dust in the prints, and we rise up in a roseate rainbow tornado. Round and round and round, moving away from the house, through the trees, to the water fall,
swirling above the starlit lake in
a magic dance of floral confetti! Colors meld and become silvery white as the moon slides above the horizon to witness wonderment.
"'Gold kisses for a rose lady. . .'
The voices merge, a symphony in one, and the grasses turn their blades at a new, pretty resonance moving the air ever so gently. The paleness swirls and hovers near the falls. Mist and vapor gather around upraised tendrils, now beginning to resemble the arms of a graceful ballerina. Luna sees the creation of golden hair where the dust was a moment before, twirling with the new form that is -- me! IT'S ME!
"We fall into the lake, laughing. Splash. Gravity, I feel gravity and water! Not water tapped from the ground by my roots but water that my. . . legs kick against and I am swimming. I move through the life-giving
liquid. . . Oh miracles and magic and gold and silver and all in the universe where time is meaningless yet there are minutes of birth and creation and such joy to sing!
"To dance. . . I reach the ground, then hesitate. All the trees and grassblades seem to look at me. No jealousy, only interest and kinship. My left foot (oh Finvarra, I have feet!) touches land first. Slim and silvery in the light of Friend Moon, with perfectly formed toes. Wheee, toes -- see how they wiggle! and I giggle at their wiggles. I have legs! and we can walk as well as swim. Dancing, a woman actually dancing in the sylvan glade. What are these sensations? Cold and wet, but I don't care! It's me!!!!"
The lady dances with nature, and her own nature, nude with the innocence of her magical becoming. Pale-colored eyes spy the prints, and change from silver gray to a golden tone. She kneels down by the footprints of her creator,
her father, touching one in thankful awe and humming softly to herself, the ethereal now embodied.
She is the daughter of the sweet rose and Finvarra's Golden Kiss.