[P] whether we wax or wane

[Manon]

a messenger bird, brilliant in the shades of near-black blues and varying hues of darkness, should have found it's way to the formidable King of the desert sands. if all had gone well, he would have found it ignorantly, blissfully, perched on his windowsill as it trilled out a happy tune in the rising sun's warmth. it hadn't liked the chill of the winter's night and so it flew quickly through the new day's hours to reach its destination without much fanfare. tied to its leg with a satin red ribbon was a letter and, unsurprisingly once he knew who it came from, a single red rose--freshly cut, spritzed with water to keep it alive through the night, overly saturated like newly spilt blood. it was her symbol, of course, the one whose ink was written in that parchment, and there was no doubt he would recognize it instantly; for though their interactions may have been few and far between, even she could remember the incessant draw of danger in his eyes, the intoxicating pull of the promise for thrill and even greater bounties. surely he would picture her as she was then (as she was now) with shining tri-colored eyes and a body that lured men and women alike to their death without a second's hesitation; she was the ballerina assassin, after all, and who could forget the seduction of an alluring woman that could slit your throat in a heartbeat?

so it was with a gentle kiss that she sent the bird off to find him, letter strapped tight, as the sun was beginning to set on their day. from her room in the morally-grey establishment she let nostalgia take over from better days before her last mission sent her into hiding. how much had she missed during that time? what antics could she had gotten herself into if she hadn't been betrayed? she fumed at the thought, and some deep part of her begged to find out who was responsible, to exact revenge... but buried the voice instead; it wasn't worth the effort. she had to focus on what was to come.

and so the bird chirped its song, and when he would open her delivery (gently, for it was but a sliver of paper) he would find these words written in a neat cursive sprawl:

Raum, the Red Rose is back. you can find her claiming space at the White Scarab. she knows you frequent often; she has been watching you. do make sure you take the time to say hello.

and written in smaller letters underneath, scrawled so finely they were almost illegible:

she missed you. enjoy your rose.


@Raum