Even now it stood straight and proud in the crystal vase. Undying. Ever-blooming, in its unnatural beauty. It wasn't a true blossom, and so death had no hold over it.

Would that the same could be said of the one who had treasured it so. Death had come too soon to pluck that bloom. To take away the beauty that far surpassed that of the rose. Now the flower was left, but only as symbol of shattered promises, broken dreams.

It was wrong. Wrong that the rose had outlasted the one to whom it had meant so much. A simple pink flower, but it had been so appreciated. Even though the one who had brought it into existence hadn't given much care to its creation.

That hurt. That rankled. To think that he hadn't really meant it, had only used it as a tool to avoid unpleasantness. And yet it had been treasured, given a place of honor in the dark, shadow-filled room. It stood in its vase, a mocking reminder of how he had taken love for granted, had used that love so often to further his own purposes.

If only he had known. If only he could have known, he'd have treasured each moment, every precious second together, as the rose had been treasured. Never taken it for granted, never misused it.

But then his loved one had been taken from him. There was still the love, but it tore at him, roiling dark and bitter in the hole that had been ripped in his heart. Not even hatred, hatred held for those responsible, could fill that aching void, could ease the agony. Nothing could do that, nothing could ever heal a wound that deep.

And there sat the rose, mocking. Pale and pink in its vase, looking so out of place here in the darkness. As out of place as their love had been. Perhaps that was why his beloved had had to die. There was no place in this evil kingdom for true emotions, for lightness of the soul.

And yet, the rose sat there, telling him it was his fault. There should have been something, must have been something, somewhere, he could have done to prevent it. Prevent the death. A word spoken, or one not spoken. Somewhere was the moment of no return, where he had started his loved one down the path toward death.

Maybe it had even been with the gifting of the rose.

That damned rose.

A symbol of love. But love was lost and dreams shattered. It had been valued. But the one who had valued it had not himself been valued enough. Not enough to keep him from death.

A death the rose would never experience.

The crystal vase shattered against the dark wall, sparkling shards catching what little light there was, so very like the tears streaming down his dark face.

And the rose lay, mocking. Still perfect. Undamaged. Sweet and fresh as though it had just been plucked off a bush, though no soil had ever birthed it.

He crossed, blindly raising a foot to grind the offending flower beneath his bootheel. But then he paused.

The rose had meant so much to Zoisite. As much as that hurt now, could he really destroy it? It was truly the only physical symbol that remained to him, the only real proof of what the two of them had shared.

He bent and carefully lifted it. The pink petal gleamed, smooth and perfect.

Perhaps it hadn't meant anything to him when he had brought it into being, but it could hold a much more powerful meaning now. Perhaps it was time to stop viewing it with bitterness, and to remember instead the beauty it had reflected into that dear face, the way it had lighted up those green eyes.

He gently placed it on the shelf. No vase. It didn't need a vase. But he wouldn't destroy it. Couldn't destroy the one remaining link to his lost love. The rose was more than it had ever been meant to be. It was more than a mere token, more than a trifle.

It was a memory, and as memories were all that he had left to him, it was now treasured. Not the way it had been, not the way it should be, but with deep and fervent emotion.

He bowed his head and gave in to the pain.

A simple pink rose.

Memories.

Love.

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