The Fiercest Rose
First posted February 2023.
Author's Note
One of the beta readers for The Sharpest Thorn, my gothic retelling of the myth of Eros & Psyche, commissioned a short story for them after reading it, which is just about the most flattering thing ever! She's kindly allowed me to share it here as a Valentine's Day treat. It functions as kind of an epilogue to the book, but I think if you have any familiarity with the myth, it'll make sense. I hope you enjoy it!
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The pink roses are sulking again. In the gardens of the enchanted palace, serene beds of white asphodel stand silent and resolute, and bright waves of tall strawflowers sing the joyous morning chorus. Green hellebores whisper soothingly from the dirt paths they line, while red poppies wave warm greetings from the fields. Red and white roses twine around each other, climbing stone pillars and weaving themselves through wrought-iron railings, sighing into each other’s embrace, laughing as butterfly feet tickle their soft petals.
Glowing like the sun, Psyche touches the flowers with gentle admiration. She buries her hands in the pliant earth and lays in their beds with them as rain blankets the gardens. Rising and falling with her breath, the gardens grow thick with plump and prismatic efflorescence.
And in the corner, the pink roses sulk. They seethe and pout and lower their heads. They grumble and mutter beneath the conversation of the other flowers. When Psyche’s fingertips try to lift their heads, they bite her sharply with their thorns. Psyche laughs, licking the ichor off her fingers and letting drops of divine blood sink into the soil.
“You could uproot them,” Eros offers as he presses her wounded fingers to his lips.
“No,” Psyche smiles as she brushes his cheek, staining the corner of his mouth with ichor. “I’m sure I never will.”
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An old manor house sits on the outskirts of Syros town. No one now living remembers it as a house lived in, but where memory dies, stories grow.
There was a man, they say; whether he was kind or cruel depends on the teller of the tale, but what remains true in all versions is that no one remembers his name. There were daughters, they say; sometimes two, sometimes three, but always, the youngest was the most beautiful of them all. So beautiful was she that Aphrodite herself grew jealous, and in her rage cast a powerful curse on the girl.
Crowded at the rusting fence, children gaze in awe at what is left of the house of beauty. Its windows misted and mildewed, its hinges cracked and corroded, its roof pocked with holes, it stands still as a statue, unmoved by even the strongest winds.
“What happened next?” one whispers to the teller of the tale.
“What happens to every beautiful, cursed girl,” they say with a curling, impish smile.
This is not an answer, but where explanations die, stories grow.
From every side of the house grow thick, woody, thorned stems, rising in towering tangles to claw at the walls. No flowers bud on the branches, no leaves break the monotonous brown with colour. The eyes of the gathered crowd find every gap in the thicket, every opening in the maze, and stare at the house for the faintest flicker of movement. They wait for a curtain to flutter, a door to creak, a muffled footstep to fall.
There is a girl, they say, waiting for her curse to be broken. Inside, dust settles on glass bottles bearing the fingerprints of a goddess.
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Behind the palace, tucked into a secret corner, is a garden that only blooms in the dark. Sunlight fades over the horizon, and the white moonflowers turn their open faces to the night sky. Pale red brugmansia trumpets begin the serenade as Eros and Psyche stroll past the slow-waking lilies. The sweet scent of evening primrose laces itself through the warm, gentle breeze that wraps around the gods.
Journeys end in lovers meeting, Eros once read in one of Psyche’s books. He thinks of it now as they walk hand-in-hand through the night garden. It is nonsense, of course. Why should the story end just when there is a whole new world to explore together?
Aphrodite had always told him that once the two of them were done with mortals, they became either Hera’s problem or Hades’s. Eros hadn’t understood then why it felt wrong to him, but now, he has the answer every morning when he wakes to find Psyche’s red-gold curls in his face or her arm lazily draped over his stomach.
Love, though winged, is not fleeting; it is not the bright burst of passion that fades over time, nor is it a shackle borne out of duty. It is the choice, day after day, to bring joy to those who bring you joy, to care for those whose hearts reside in your own chest, to take the gift of someone’s hands and fill them with all you possess. He feels each mortal decision to love in every moment they choose it; he feels it each time he looks at Psyche, in moonlight or in bright sun, and meets her soul with his body.
Pink and yellow four o’clock flowers smile at Psyche in the darkness, and Eros can’t help but do the same. Clouds cover the moon; candles burn in the palace windows above them. He feels her soft skin brush against his, her warm breath meeting his lips the moment before hers do, her shift and sway as they find every inch of each other in the luscious dark.
Roses climb the side of the palace and curl around the balcony of their bedroom. In the golden morning sunlight, Eros stands beside Psyche as she plucks a red rose and tucks it into her hair, thorns and all.