I know I am going to die.

After leaving our homeland, I used to think that things were only going to be better. I was of the belief that our lives would keep improving and we would touch the stars. That I one day will become a god and you will be the favourite of the divine.

I have seen my ancestors dream great and venture far, and it was my desire to surpass them, not just in excellence of the knowledge they possessed but also in the stretch of their kingdoms. Not alone, though; I wanted to be great beside you.

A king like me, after all, needs a crown of roses. Just like the king of all flowers, I must also shine as one of a kind. And for that, I need you.

But you are gone.

Life is now not about the soft velvety petals of a blooming rose. It is instead constituted of the thorns that we overlook in love. That makes me often wonder about our own arguments– the way I used to shout at you, the way you rebuked me for the littlest of things, and our days of cold silent glares. I used to be disturbed by those thorny days and only wanted to spend rosy time with you. Alas, now, more than all the kisses and shivers, my conscience tells me I need your chiding.

You kept me humane. Amidst all my unachievable ambitions, my unquestionable thirst for godhood and magnificent visions, you were there to ground me. You taught me to appreciate the smaller things in life– like the warmth of the first rays of the sun falling on my face at dawn, the quietude before the battle cry, or just watching the cranes fly while laying down on a golden field. You were there to make me realise the value of humble days. You were there to hold me back when I would grow insane in pursuit of perfection.

To be honest, I don't want to blame myself for my fall, neither you. But I just wish the gods were more sympathetic. Were they wary of us conquering them? We were a couple who could bring down the luminaries and decorate our mansion with their light. We were ready to row over the Milky Way. Nothing seemed difficult when you were leaning on me. Did the gods become jealous of us and killed you because they thought that would destroy our love?

They are damned fools, I tell you.

I used to be afraid of death sometimes. Now, when I lay all alone, listening to the words of my so-called friends who have ceased to be so, I am overwhelmed with a fear of life. To me now, this physical pain is a better medicine than all the potions they make me drink. I am not even sure if they are healing me, or if the men are feeding me poison to slowly decompose my body.

Sometimes I worry if they will bury me alive.

I just can't take it anymore, my love. I want to just die as soon as possible and peacefully, maybe in sleep. I don't want to endure the agony anymore.

As I speak with you now, I hear Mother crying. She doesn't do it in front of me, but she doesn't know that I can hear. I am a hero with heightened senses, and her own blood. I have known her from the womb. I can feel when she is sad and when wrathful. Nowadays, she spends her time sewing a blanket for me, despite knowing it's not meant for the status of a woman that she is. She even cooked for me, which is also not something expected of her. She is trying very hard to keep me happy, and it crushes my heart to tell her that dying is easier to me now. It's not like Mother is less to me. I love her a lot too, but a life without you is just a rose only with thorns. There's only pricking and trickling blood, not the soft tickling sensation of petals to wipe away my tears.

Blood– as red as the rose, the vigour of life. I cough blood often. It burns my chest and makes me feel on the verge of dying, but I don't, as if Death is torturing me with this ordeal. Is this the price of sinning? I am a warrior, my love, and I had to kill in war. If my ancestors passed away with it, why can't I be forgiven?

Was something else expected of me?

I never understood what I was here for. Sometimes, it feels like the journey was more internal than external. That the way the petals of a rose curl around the buds at the centre, my conquests also surround my purpose.

But it's wilting.

I don't have anyone to water this rose.

So yes, drops of blood pour on the paper from my nose. Soon the women will come and ask me to rest and snatch away this paper from me. Before they do that, I want to tell you something.

I love you.

You are truly the rose. Everyone desires to be you but they cannot be. So many despise you. So many more are envious of you. Some admire you.

But very few actually get to know your depth.

I miss your thorny advises as much as your lovely caress, like a flower sliding down my cheeks, teasing me to make love. What makes me happy is, I know this is coming to an end. The suffering shall leave.

I am coming to you, janem. I am coming to you.

Prepare for me a lion's gate, a path showered with roses and summon the greatest singers of the cosmos. Do everything you can, the beloved of the gods, to welcome your Shah.

I wish to feel like a king when I meet you on the other side.

****

word count: 999 words

Maybe I should write more at night

A flashfic based on prompt 30 of Aim to Engage 2023, which asked us to write a story based on a flower. I chose rose.