[P] whether we wax or wane

[Manon]

we don't have to worry bout nothing
'Cause we got the fire and we're
burning one hell of a something

It was a living, thriving thing, the Scarab--to those who looked in awe at the grandeur architecture from the inside (instead of merely standing meekly from the opposite end) could swear that the walls danced with the entertainers' shows; it held its breath as the fire breathers, all lit up from both within and without, swallowed flames whole; and even listened with pricked ears at every secret that was whispered between occupants, voices nearly inaudible from fear of being overheard. But the Scarab knew--it came alive with every beating heart that entered its throat as they too were extinguished like the burning fire in a performer's act. For really, wasn't that all they were, simple puppets on a string being guided by invisible hands?

She would have been naive to think otherwise. Those that called the dim establishment home, whether for a couple hours or longer than any could remember, were all out for one thing: they craved a sense of belonging, they all wanted to be part of something more. They found their way into the Scarab because, at some point in the building of the foundation, the idea of 'we are all the same here' was inscribed in tiny letters; and of course they flocked there, the broken-hearted, the thrill-seekers, the ones that tread on thin lines and called out for some sense of fulfillment.

It's why she was there, after all, and why he would soon be as well.

The room she occupied during her down-time between outings and missions sat tucked away in a corner of the hallway, the path leading off from the stairs descending from the Den. Candles lined the walls with tapestries of sinful desires covering the spaces between the doors that were interspersed here and there, some marked and others completely unadorned. Any that knew what the rose on the last one in the order meant would know it was hers, and would know that was the only place she would talk.

One couldn't be too careful in a place with eyes and ears that belonged to none so savory willing to sell them out for but a moment's worth of pride.

The taps on her door calling for rapt attention drew a smile across her features, velveteen lips curling in a soft girlish grin. It had been about the amount of time for a letter to reach across the continent and have its recipient travel the same distance back to her. She would be lying if she denied her heart skipping beats, the coolness of it warming at the thought of the danger he brought. She was a creature of raw deception and impure intentions, laced up tight with the desire for revenge; and whoever it so happened to be taken upon was of no consequence to her. In that appetite they shared, a full-course meal for two as they sat on opposite ends of the dinner table. And for dessert...

In a whirl she removed herself from her seat upon lavish silk cushions, roses filling every inch of wall space along the perimeter. A singular window was open and curtains billowed longingly against the brush of winter's breezes. Silver hair was let loose to play against the tendrils of air that whispered through the rather large enclosure, both crown and necklace sparkling against her flickering red skin. Before she reached the door with her symbol illustrated on the outside, she composed herself with face relaxed and body soft. Swinging the wooden barrier open lightly, her tri-colored eyes only saw blackness; the image was surprising and she almost shut it again in a huff when she realized the glint of a red rose against the parchment she clearly recognized. The sign of her smile returned and she stepped back to allow the shadowy figure to enter.

Behind him the door was shut with an inaudible click, and she looked at him expectantly, awaiting his greeting. "Nice detective work, sir King." Her voice filled the room in the way the sun's rays would spread across the land after waking from sleep. "It pleases me that you came." Softer, softer then, a sincerity she rarely showed anyone working its way to twist in between each syllable.

the red rose

CREDITS

@Raum c;