Rosa Lacrimas

He winced in pain, his eyes misting over slightly. He could always withstand pain, but seeing the damage done was unbearable for him somehow. Out of sight, out of mind, it worked for him considerably.

His dark mahogany eyes were pulled to the simple ornament that lay on his palm, its crepe fragments curling beneath his fingers. He traced the delicate object in his mind down to the stem, with tiny blades embedded, almost inconspicuous.

Two sides to every story, what is truly beautiful?

He gently laid the rose onto the ground. He had been in this group for longer than he could remember; yet he never killed intentionally. He watched as the rose had brought forth its melted recruits to defend.

Just like humans, so precious.

He was never a fighter, but a healer, a peacemaker. He never took delight in another's suffering, as so many around him did. He was worried that it might rub off.

"Gone to pick daisies, mama?" a mocking voice called from behind him. He smirked as he turned.

The woman grinned, her scar on her cheek widening, made him think of the roses yet again. If he were the rose, she'd definitely be the thorn.

"So, my little bro seeks comfort in contemplating with roses? How interesting, maybe on our next expedition you'll use them to your advantage."

He continued to say nothing, fully absorbed with the cool sun's rays, casting light and shadow on each flower in turn, some with greater shadows, some weaker. His sister was the one who made him join their group; to do something with their lives, to build character. All he wanted to do was to be around the roses. She was the one who wanted to fight, to prove herself worthy.

She sat down beside him, running a hand through the grass, enjoying its sun- absorbed warmth and texture. Her eyes drew attention to the nearest rose, she leant forward to pluck it, but stopped at the look of her brother's face.

"Roses are just like people, aren't they? Just waiting to be plucked."
The silence had been sharply broken, as the boy continued his enigmatic observations.

She looked at him quizzically. She knew what he had gone through, although she had experienced more by being present more often up front, but she knew he would take it double.

"Hmm." she muttered, playing with the grass, combing it self-consciously. She grew a little scared of her brother when he was in these moods. Empty, no feelings shown.

Just like roses.

"Well, see you around, little bro..." she muttered, running a hand through her long ebony hair, before turning around and shaking her head.

Did roses have feelings? When you pluck it, does it scream?

He reached out his hand towards one, fingers flexing in anticipation. He paused. That wasn't the way. Was all pain based on curiosity?

If it killed the cat, would it have killed the rose?

As he got up to follow his sister, he noticed the rose, which had been previously plucked. A dewdrop held suspended, like a star.

The rose cried.