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fellowshippers2005-07-05 02:45 pm
ocko-okate.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-07-05 02:45 pm
FIC: The Roses, Orlando/Viggo, rating PG, AU, angst, mystery
Hi everybody, so this is another of my fics. It´s not very slashy, cause it´s more like a ghost story, but I hope you´ll enjoy anyway. And please let me know if you like it! :-)
Title: The Roses
Author: ocko_okate (ocko_okate@yahoo.com)
Beta: Myr (thank you so much!!!)
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, angst, mystery
Summary: On the brink of a new life, the past happens........
Feedback: is greatly appreciated as it´s only my second fic
Disclaimers: I don´t know Orlando Bloom or Viggo Mortensen and am in no way connected to them. This is purely a work of fiction and written for fun. So please, enjoy!
Archive: Please ask first!
Author´s Notes: I know, this story isn´t probably very slashy. But it just creeped into my head, so I had to write it (And I swear by God, that I can´t speak english, so dont ask me, how I could write this!). Sorry, if it isn´t what you´ve been looking for. Hope you enjoy anyway.
It was a mild day....like one of those he loved so earlier. The air was somehow tastier up here, one could almost smell the freshness, taste and see it. Strange, how quiet it was...like there was no wind ever. The sound of his steps was the only sound he heard so far.
After the next corner, the sight of a beutiful garden greeted him. There were flowers all around...the garden seemed almost swamped by them.
Especially the roses were lovely. And all were in full bloom. So perhaps it was their scent, which affected the air so much. The path, which he was walking, was surrounded by two rows of bright yellow ones, almost glowing in the late sunshine.
Yellow roses, white ones, pink....there were many colours surrounding him and in every possible shade and kind, but no red ones so far he could see.
´Another question to be answered´ ..he thought with a light heart.
Unanswered questions didn´t bother him anymore. Over the years, he collected more and more of them, but only few answers and the less of them really satisfying.
There were times in which he thought he had no time to answer them all, but now...those times were over. He was finally going to collect some answers here.
A breeze of creeping cold wind hit him suddenly, lovingly carresing his hair and body with unsettling cold touches. The ghosty coldness placed some icy kisses here and there, causing goosebumps on his skin. It was the first hint of some movement in this oddly quiet place. It made him feel like someone...or something?... finally noticed him.
The row of the lovely roses at his right side ended abruptly. It looked like it wasn´t planted completely so far. And there, a young man knelt... well, rather a boy...on the grassy ground, nearly hidden by the blossoming roses.
Not knowing how he could oversee him till now, Viggo took a closer look at him, ignoring the starting twilight and the growing cold.
´Strange this cold weather in the middle of July,´ crossed his mind.
´The night is propably approaching. I should keep moving; the director awaits me.´
But instead, he stepped closer to the boy; attracted by a sudden curiosity, as he admired the slender features.
The boy finished securing the freshly digged earth around some roses and moved a bit away. He was planting roses to finish the beautiful row, Viggo realized.
But no sings of garden tools or at least a watering can. And the boy´s fingers were clean, although he certainly must have been the one who planted at least the last few roses.
And his work seemed almost done, as there was only one rose waiting to be planted. His head was lowered down, concentrating only on the roses. The movements of his hands were slow, almost thoughtful, but determined, like planting roses was his fate.
´....like planting roses was his fate....´
Before this last thought could fully cross Viggo´s mind, the boy lifted his head and looked at him. And Viggo forget how to breathe.
The boy´s eyes were of a beautiful brown colour, his features soft and intriguing. Unique shaped eyebrows, high boned cheeks, lovely carved mouth. The whole face surrounded by brown curls, tied in a simple braid.
And he was young...not older than eighteen as it seemed from the fragile frame of his body and smooth skin on his face.
But the look. His eyes were deep...one could easily drown, but Viggo felt no desire to do so. The look was calm and collected, a hint of mild curiosity. And something familiar was there as well.
´...how can he know, who I am?´ would be Viggo´s first thought, if he should describe the unsettling effect, the boy had on him.
The spell was suddenly broken, as the boy´s fingers got hurt by a thorn of the last rose, which he held in his hand.
He didn´t flinch or cry, but there was a small rivulet of blood appearing on his delicate palm. Strangely, he didn't seem to mind, his eyes never leaving Viggo´s face.
Viggo could think clearer again. The strange feeling was gone, althought the coldness was still here, getting worse. Without thinking too much, he knelt down to the youth's eye level, taking his hurt hand in his own.
A foul feeling shot through his whole body, like he was doing something wrong...very wrong. But then the boy´s gaze captivated him once more and the feeling was gone.
He wiped the blood of the soft palm and bound the hand with one of his handkerchiefs. The skin was so delicate; inviting him to hold the hand for a longer while. And the boy´s closeness felt like nothing had felt before.....like something everyone should experience – even if only once in a lifetime.
And God, was he beautiful. A strange angelic beauty, like not touched yet, but enchanting none the less.
Beautiful like... like coming home maybe. Like finding the lost youth again. Or like a well earned rest....
Although writing many poems in his life, Viggo couldn´t find the right words to fit the beauty of the boy.
It was the coldness, which got him out of his reverie. ´Foolish thoughts. You´re getting all weird again, Mortensen.´
He squeezed the boy´s hand assuringly and prepared to stand up.
A delicate hand touched him on his chest right above his heart. Another one caught the back of his head, softly, like a lover would do.
The boy kissed him lightly on the lips, a hint of emotions in his eyes... What the emotions were, Viggo couldn´t tell.
The touch sent an electrifying feeling all over his body. For a while, he felt every fibre of his being.
„Thank you," the boy whispered in a quiet voice. Then he let him go and returned to his previous work, planting the last rose in the ground.
Viggo really couldn´t tell how he got up on his knees or how he found the way to the monastery. His last thought before losing the sight of the lovely boy was:
´Beautiful. Beautiful like...what?´
Until Viggo finished his conversation with the director, it had become really dark outside.
He made all the necessary explanations and signed all papers, but the previous events unsettled him and made it hard to concentrate on anything else.
He only half listened to the director´s speech, wondering if he should ask about the young gardener. He was a fool, not asking the boy for his name, or at least giving him his. It was probably too late to return to the gardens today, but tomorrow....tomorrow he would find him. And get the answer to the question, the boy personified.
He was also very weary and tired, like he hadn´t been for a long time ...since the symptoms and pain had lessened. Propably a normal reaction to the recovery process he was going through. No wonder, considering he never thought this to be possible, giving up the hopes a long time ago.
The director probably noticed, that he wasn´t paying him full attention, so he stood up.
„Come with me, Mr. Mortensen, I will show you to your room. Tomorrow you can clear the things with our doctor. And after, I could take you to a round in this monastery, we have some lovely places here."
„Yes, it is truly a wonderful place", Viggo agreed as they finished the stairs to the upper floor. „Especially the gardens, I would say."
„The gardens?" The director seemed slightly irritated. „Well, if you think so, but they have been in a better shape once. To be honest, I´m not very proud of their current state."
„But, with all the beautiful roses in there..." Viggo didn´t understand.
„Roses?" The director´s voice jumped nervously. „No, you must be wrong, Mr. Mortensen. There are no roses in the monastery´s gardens. Well...not anymore."
As he said the last sentence, the director avoided looking directly at Viggo. Instead he pointed at a door.
„Here is your room, Mr. Mortensen. After you got some rest, things will seem clearer in the morning, you´ll see." He said this somehow inapropriate cheerily, as to lighten the mood.
„ I wish you a good night."
It was the first night since he got the good news, in which he couldn´t sleep. Strange thoughts haunted his mind; pieces of earlier conversations flashed his head again and again.
´.....Thank you.....the boy had said.´
The image of a field of blooming roses, of brown eyes watching him closely
´...there are no roses in the monastery´s gardens........´
The feeling of the boy´s soft hands on his chest and head...strangely familiar and cold.
´....not anymore....´
He made himself comfortable in the doctor´s office, waiting impatiently for the man´s arrival.
´There is probably not that much to tell, what I hadn´t heard before in the previous reports.´
But still, this was the last medical check, the closing report in the most competent place for the matters of his disease.
It was the first question of many to be fully answered. And after this...well, the life began anew, bringing more puzzles to solve. And he welcomed them all.
The doctor was still not here and his patience vanished with every moment. He was eager to get out of here, and have another look for the gardener, whose eyes prevented him from sleeping last night.
He shifted nervously in the chair, and his eyes settled on an unfamiliar object. It was a notice board, placed in the corner and covered with black satin.
There were photos, paintings and newspaper cuts of various people. Young and old, men and women....there were many. And they all had something in common. Small black cross, placed in every picture, signalising, that said person was dead.
´What a strange thing to be found in a doctor´s office´, Viggo thought as he heard the door open.
„This..this can not be true," Viggo almost stuttered unbelieveing, staring at the papers in his hands.
„Tell me it is not possible, you´re joking, right?" he demanded still completely shocked, nearly shouting at the doctor, standing up from his chair. It seemed he was losing the ground under his feet again.
„Mr. Mortensen, Mr. Mortensen....please calm down!" The doctor´s voice sounded almost scared.
„Listen to me. The results were made in our laboratories here, this very night. And you know, we have the best men here. That´s why you are here. In this very moment, the second sets of tests are running to verify this results.
Mistakes can happen and this one could in fact be wrong. But anyway, I think you should try to consider the possibility that...."
´The possibility that what?´ That his newfound life was taken from him this very moment again?
Viggo didn´t listen to the doctor´s explanations anymore. Blood was rushing in his head, the constant bumping of his heart accompanied his every breath. His mind was numb, thoughts almost not present, refusing to accept, refusing to understand.
In front of his eyes the image of the results flashed again. A new tumor...right above his heart. And a second one, the bigger one...in the back of his head. Both cureless.
The ugly black spots on his x-rays were dancing between his thoughts; ruining all the chances of getting some answers ever again. ´They look almost like roses,´ his mind told him somehow scornful.
As his eyes focused again, he found himself looking straight on the black notice board behind the doctor.
´His previous patients...They must be his previous patients´. He realised suddenly. ´The ones, who didn´t make it.´
And he. He was there too. The brown eyes; painted on a very old looking sheet of paper. The lovely curls, the soft lips, which kissed him...yesterday?!
„Who is he, doctor?"
The doctor seemed surprised as Viggo suddenly interrupted him with his question; staring unbelievably on the wall behind him.
„Are you all right, Mr. Mortensen? Who is who?" The doctor was worried now.
„The boy. The boy on this picture, who is he?"
„This one, you mean?" The doctor´s fingers caressed the lovely cheek on the picture and his voice lightened up.
„Well, it´s a funny old story, Mr. Mortensen. And I´m not a believer in those things. But the legend makes its rounds all around the place for a long time and had became almost true by now.
The older ones would propably swear to you that true it is" the doctor almost chuckled.
„It is propably a good fairy tale to attract more tourists up here. Anyway, as the story goes, the name of the boy was Orlando.
Nobody knows, who he really was, as the monks found him one day in a bed of roses in the garden. He remembered nothing and as he was probably an orphan, they let him stay in the monastery.
He had no money to pay for food or clothes, but he loved flowers and could plant them very well, so he promised to plant two rows of roses as a reward for the kindness of the monks."
The doctor turned from the board and looked through the window.
„Well, he never finished the task. He got ill and nobody knew, what disease claimed his life. But he was all pale and looked unhealthy. He coughed a lot and couldn´t eat properly. Probably the first victim of typhus in this place.
Before planting the last of the roses, he died. His last thoughts were on the unfinished task and never seeing the results of his work.
And as the folks back in those days were easily scarred and very superstitious rumours began to spread. People feared the unknown disease, feared it could infect them too.
So they burned the boy´s body and all his belongings and as the boy spent most of his time between the roses, they burned them too...every single one he planted. Silly people," the director sighed and shaked his head.
„And you know, what the funniest thing is? Short time after the events happened this place really became a haven for typhus patients and even a center of a typhus epidemy.
Many people died here, that´s true, but many were healed too. Anyway, the foolish people living here believe firmly, that the boy, Orlando, is the reason of the many dead.
They say he promised to finish his task and so for every rose they burned down, he takes a life till both of the rows are planted again.
Well, it´s clearly a silly story, Mr. Mortensen. The boy died two hundred years ago. Mr. Mortensen??"
Viggo didn´t know how he got out of the doctor´s office, or where he was going.
He passed door after door, his head spinning; his world falling apart as finally an answer creeped to his mind. An answer, which he didn´t want.
´.....he died two hundred years ago....´
The world blurred around him in an unclear smear. His head was empty as never before, his steps felt lighter with every meter.
He passed the last door and there was an overwhelmingly beautiful sunshine on his face. A lovely day welcomed him outside.
´.....for every rose, he will take a life........´
´......two hundred years ago.....´
Thank you, the boy had said....holding the last rose in his hand. The last rose...
´.....the tumors, they looked like roses.........´
´......take a life, he will take a life........´
As Viggo fell to the soft inviting grass, there were no questions anymore, no answers.
Only the bright blue sky high above him and a pair of lovely brown eyes, welcoming him home.
´He really was beautiful....beautiful like death.´
The End
Title: The Roses
Author: ocko_okate (ocko_okate@yahoo.com)
Beta: Myr (thank you so much!!!)
Pairing: Orlando/Viggo
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, angst, mystery
Summary: On the brink of a new life, the past happens........
Feedback: is greatly appreciated as it´s only my second fic
Disclaimers: I don´t know Orlando Bloom or Viggo Mortensen and am in no way connected to them. This is purely a work of fiction and written for fun. So please, enjoy!
Archive: Please ask first!
Author´s Notes: I know, this story isn´t probably very slashy. But it just creeped into my head, so I had to write it (And I swear by God, that I can´t speak english, so dont ask me, how I could write this!). Sorry, if it isn´t what you´ve been looking for. Hope you enjoy anyway.
It was a mild day....like one of those he loved so earlier. The air was somehow tastier up here, one could almost smell the freshness, taste and see it. Strange, how quiet it was...like there was no wind ever. The sound of his steps was the only sound he heard so far.
After the next corner, the sight of a beutiful garden greeted him. There were flowers all around...the garden seemed almost swamped by them.
Especially the roses were lovely. And all were in full bloom. So perhaps it was their scent, which affected the air so much. The path, which he was walking, was surrounded by two rows of bright yellow ones, almost glowing in the late sunshine.
Yellow roses, white ones, pink....there were many colours surrounding him and in every possible shade and kind, but no red ones so far he could see.
´Another question to be answered´ ..he thought with a light heart.
Unanswered questions didn´t bother him anymore. Over the years, he collected more and more of them, but only few answers and the less of them really satisfying.
There were times in which he thought he had no time to answer them all, but now...those times were over. He was finally going to collect some answers here.
A breeze of creeping cold wind hit him suddenly, lovingly carresing his hair and body with unsettling cold touches. The ghosty coldness placed some icy kisses here and there, causing goosebumps on his skin. It was the first hint of some movement in this oddly quiet place. It made him feel like someone...or something?... finally noticed him.
The row of the lovely roses at his right side ended abruptly. It looked like it wasn´t planted completely so far. And there, a young man knelt... well, rather a boy...on the grassy ground, nearly hidden by the blossoming roses.
Not knowing how he could oversee him till now, Viggo took a closer look at him, ignoring the starting twilight and the growing cold.
´Strange this cold weather in the middle of July,´ crossed his mind.
´The night is propably approaching. I should keep moving; the director awaits me.´
But instead, he stepped closer to the boy; attracted by a sudden curiosity, as he admired the slender features.
The boy finished securing the freshly digged earth around some roses and moved a bit away. He was planting roses to finish the beautiful row, Viggo realized.
But no sings of garden tools or at least a watering can. And the boy´s fingers were clean, although he certainly must have been the one who planted at least the last few roses.
And his work seemed almost done, as there was only one rose waiting to be planted. His head was lowered down, concentrating only on the roses. The movements of his hands were slow, almost thoughtful, but determined, like planting roses was his fate.
´....like planting roses was his fate....´
Before this last thought could fully cross Viggo´s mind, the boy lifted his head and looked at him. And Viggo forget how to breathe.
The boy´s eyes were of a beautiful brown colour, his features soft and intriguing. Unique shaped eyebrows, high boned cheeks, lovely carved mouth. The whole face surrounded by brown curls, tied in a simple braid.
And he was young...not older than eighteen as it seemed from the fragile frame of his body and smooth skin on his face.
But the look. His eyes were deep...one could easily drown, but Viggo felt no desire to do so. The look was calm and collected, a hint of mild curiosity. And something familiar was there as well.
´...how can he know, who I am?´ would be Viggo´s first thought, if he should describe the unsettling effect, the boy had on him.
The spell was suddenly broken, as the boy´s fingers got hurt by a thorn of the last rose, which he held in his hand.
He didn´t flinch or cry, but there was a small rivulet of blood appearing on his delicate palm. Strangely, he didn't seem to mind, his eyes never leaving Viggo´s face.
Viggo could think clearer again. The strange feeling was gone, althought the coldness was still here, getting worse. Without thinking too much, he knelt down to the youth's eye level, taking his hurt hand in his own.
A foul feeling shot through his whole body, like he was doing something wrong...very wrong. But then the boy´s gaze captivated him once more and the feeling was gone.
He wiped the blood of the soft palm and bound the hand with one of his handkerchiefs. The skin was so delicate; inviting him to hold the hand for a longer while. And the boy´s closeness felt like nothing had felt before.....like something everyone should experience – even if only once in a lifetime.
And God, was he beautiful. A strange angelic beauty, like not touched yet, but enchanting none the less.
Beautiful like... like coming home maybe. Like finding the lost youth again. Or like a well earned rest....
Although writing many poems in his life, Viggo couldn´t find the right words to fit the beauty of the boy.
It was the coldness, which got him out of his reverie. ´Foolish thoughts. You´re getting all weird again, Mortensen.´
He squeezed the boy´s hand assuringly and prepared to stand up.
A delicate hand touched him on his chest right above his heart. Another one caught the back of his head, softly, like a lover would do.
The boy kissed him lightly on the lips, a hint of emotions in his eyes... What the emotions were, Viggo couldn´t tell.
The touch sent an electrifying feeling all over his body. For a while, he felt every fibre of his being.
„Thank you," the boy whispered in a quiet voice. Then he let him go and returned to his previous work, planting the last rose in the ground.
Viggo really couldn´t tell how he got up on his knees or how he found the way to the monastery. His last thought before losing the sight of the lovely boy was:
´Beautiful. Beautiful like...what?´
Until Viggo finished his conversation with the director, it had become really dark outside.
He made all the necessary explanations and signed all papers, but the previous events unsettled him and made it hard to concentrate on anything else.
He only half listened to the director´s speech, wondering if he should ask about the young gardener. He was a fool, not asking the boy for his name, or at least giving him his. It was probably too late to return to the gardens today, but tomorrow....tomorrow he would find him. And get the answer to the question, the boy personified.
He was also very weary and tired, like he hadn´t been for a long time ...since the symptoms and pain had lessened. Propably a normal reaction to the recovery process he was going through. No wonder, considering he never thought this to be possible, giving up the hopes a long time ago.
The director probably noticed, that he wasn´t paying him full attention, so he stood up.
„Come with me, Mr. Mortensen, I will show you to your room. Tomorrow you can clear the things with our doctor. And after, I could take you to a round in this monastery, we have some lovely places here."
„Yes, it is truly a wonderful place", Viggo agreed as they finished the stairs to the upper floor. „Especially the gardens, I would say."
„The gardens?" The director seemed slightly irritated. „Well, if you think so, but they have been in a better shape once. To be honest, I´m not very proud of their current state."
„But, with all the beautiful roses in there..." Viggo didn´t understand.
„Roses?" The director´s voice jumped nervously. „No, you must be wrong, Mr. Mortensen. There are no roses in the monastery´s gardens. Well...not anymore."
As he said the last sentence, the director avoided looking directly at Viggo. Instead he pointed at a door.
„Here is your room, Mr. Mortensen. After you got some rest, things will seem clearer in the morning, you´ll see." He said this somehow inapropriate cheerily, as to lighten the mood.
„ I wish you a good night."
It was the first night since he got the good news, in which he couldn´t sleep. Strange thoughts haunted his mind; pieces of earlier conversations flashed his head again and again.
´.....Thank you.....the boy had said.´
The image of a field of blooming roses, of brown eyes watching him closely
´...there are no roses in the monastery´s gardens........´
The feeling of the boy´s soft hands on his chest and head...strangely familiar and cold.
´....not anymore....´
He made himself comfortable in the doctor´s office, waiting impatiently for the man´s arrival.
´There is probably not that much to tell, what I hadn´t heard before in the previous reports.´
But still, this was the last medical check, the closing report in the most competent place for the matters of his disease.
It was the first question of many to be fully answered. And after this...well, the life began anew, bringing more puzzles to solve. And he welcomed them all.
The doctor was still not here and his patience vanished with every moment. He was eager to get out of here, and have another look for the gardener, whose eyes prevented him from sleeping last night.
He shifted nervously in the chair, and his eyes settled on an unfamiliar object. It was a notice board, placed in the corner and covered with black satin.
There were photos, paintings and newspaper cuts of various people. Young and old, men and women....there were many. And they all had something in common. Small black cross, placed in every picture, signalising, that said person was dead.
´What a strange thing to be found in a doctor´s office´, Viggo thought as he heard the door open.
„This..this can not be true," Viggo almost stuttered unbelieveing, staring at the papers in his hands.
„Tell me it is not possible, you´re joking, right?" he demanded still completely shocked, nearly shouting at the doctor, standing up from his chair. It seemed he was losing the ground under his feet again.
„Mr. Mortensen, Mr. Mortensen....please calm down!" The doctor´s voice sounded almost scared.
„Listen to me. The results were made in our laboratories here, this very night. And you know, we have the best men here. That´s why you are here. In this very moment, the second sets of tests are running to verify this results.
Mistakes can happen and this one could in fact be wrong. But anyway, I think you should try to consider the possibility that...."
´The possibility that what?´ That his newfound life was taken from him this very moment again?
Viggo didn´t listen to the doctor´s explanations anymore. Blood was rushing in his head, the constant bumping of his heart accompanied his every breath. His mind was numb, thoughts almost not present, refusing to accept, refusing to understand.
In front of his eyes the image of the results flashed again. A new tumor...right above his heart. And a second one, the bigger one...in the back of his head. Both cureless.
The ugly black spots on his x-rays were dancing between his thoughts; ruining all the chances of getting some answers ever again. ´They look almost like roses,´ his mind told him somehow scornful.
As his eyes focused again, he found himself looking straight on the black notice board behind the doctor.
´His previous patients...They must be his previous patients´. He realised suddenly. ´The ones, who didn´t make it.´
And he. He was there too. The brown eyes; painted on a very old looking sheet of paper. The lovely curls, the soft lips, which kissed him...yesterday?!
„Who is he, doctor?"
The doctor seemed surprised as Viggo suddenly interrupted him with his question; staring unbelievably on the wall behind him.
„Are you all right, Mr. Mortensen? Who is who?" The doctor was worried now.
„The boy. The boy on this picture, who is he?"
„This one, you mean?" The doctor´s fingers caressed the lovely cheek on the picture and his voice lightened up.
„Well, it´s a funny old story, Mr. Mortensen. And I´m not a believer in those things. But the legend makes its rounds all around the place for a long time and had became almost true by now.
The older ones would propably swear to you that true it is" the doctor almost chuckled.
„It is propably a good fairy tale to attract more tourists up here. Anyway, as the story goes, the name of the boy was Orlando.
Nobody knows, who he really was, as the monks found him one day in a bed of roses in the garden. He remembered nothing and as he was probably an orphan, they let him stay in the monastery.
He had no money to pay for food or clothes, but he loved flowers and could plant them very well, so he promised to plant two rows of roses as a reward for the kindness of the monks."
The doctor turned from the board and looked through the window.
„Well, he never finished the task. He got ill and nobody knew, what disease claimed his life. But he was all pale and looked unhealthy. He coughed a lot and couldn´t eat properly. Probably the first victim of typhus in this place.
Before planting the last of the roses, he died. His last thoughts were on the unfinished task and never seeing the results of his work.
And as the folks back in those days were easily scarred and very superstitious rumours began to spread. People feared the unknown disease, feared it could infect them too.
So they burned the boy´s body and all his belongings and as the boy spent most of his time between the roses, they burned them too...every single one he planted. Silly people," the director sighed and shaked his head.
„And you know, what the funniest thing is? Short time after the events happened this place really became a haven for typhus patients and even a center of a typhus epidemy.
Many people died here, that´s true, but many were healed too. Anyway, the foolish people living here believe firmly, that the boy, Orlando, is the reason of the many dead.
They say he promised to finish his task and so for every rose they burned down, he takes a life till both of the rows are planted again.
Well, it´s clearly a silly story, Mr. Mortensen. The boy died two hundred years ago. Mr. Mortensen??"
Viggo didn´t know how he got out of the doctor´s office, or where he was going.
He passed door after door, his head spinning; his world falling apart as finally an answer creeped to his mind. An answer, which he didn´t want.
´.....he died two hundred years ago....´
The world blurred around him in an unclear smear. His head was empty as never before, his steps felt lighter with every meter.
He passed the last door and there was an overwhelmingly beautiful sunshine on his face. A lovely day welcomed him outside.
´.....for every rose, he will take a life........´
´......two hundred years ago.....´
Thank you, the boy had said....holding the last rose in his hand. The last rose...
´.....the tumors, they looked like roses.........´
´......take a life, he will take a life........´
As Viggo fell to the soft inviting grass, there were no questions anymore, no answers.
Only the bright blue sky high above him and a pair of lovely brown eyes, welcoming him home.
´He really was beautiful....beautiful like death.´
The End
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What a great story! :D
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PS I love your icon
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PS: the icon is a PLOT bunny :-)
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