Widowed Rose

It was the night before the young Princess Rose was to be wed to the man she had dreamt about; her childhood companion and more, recently, the love of her young life. She had slipped out of her room, in her red orange wedding dress, the colors of her royal seal in a need to be alone. Her flaming red hair was done and her crown was upon her head. On her shoulders was hung a purple velvet cape. She was ready to be married.

A few hours before, Rose had overheard the stable hands. Her beloved would not be returning to her today, tomorrow, or the next day. The man she was to marry had been murdered in his hunting party, the tradition her father had insisted upon. Rose learned of her widowhood far before she was even made a wife.

Now, her soft slippers crunched on the new fallen snow that would have made her wedding seem like a glittered fairy tale, but now it was only cold. The cape dragged behind her, giving no warmth to its owner. Her soft skin was turning pink in the frigid cold of the outdoors, but Rose was ignorant of it.

In her mind's eyes she could still see his smiling face and how he looked upon her from the corner of a room or the height of his horse. He was so regal and perfect, like the tales her nursemaid had told her every night before she went to her bed, alone. Rose had been looking forward to waking in his arms for the rest of her life.

She hugged herself close, knowing that no one else would. No one even knew that she was aware of the young man's death. She knew they had been afraid to tell her, and had she not overheard the stable hands, she would have found out as soon as she had broken fast. But she knew now, and no one could comfort the pain that reached into the deepest part of her heart.

Her lips, turning a rosy blue with the cold, quivered in restrained sobs. Rose wanted to cry, but she had cried so much already that she didn't think she had anymore tears left to fall. All she could do was stare dumbly out of her dark eyes at the ground before her.

She stopped at the steps of the chapel that would have housed her wedding. Slowly, she looked up at the doors. Rose unfastened her cape and let the velvet fall into the snow and unbuckled her beaded crown and dropped it into the pile of purple.

Each step she took that brought her closer to the door was like a stab into her heart. Each step was another step toward her bleak destiny. Perhaps she would marry later in life, but she would never love and be loved like that again. Rose was a widow in her heart for the rest of her life.

Her numb hands clasped the double doors and threw them open. The chapel was empty and lit with only a few candles. The seats were decorated with her favorite white flowers from her mother's greenhouse and pale pink, silk ribbons hung limply.

There was an empty area in the front, before the steps the she would have taken with her betrothed, which was her favorite place in the whole chapel. On the floor was a circle, ceramic design in purple and blue knot work. It was the center of the chapel and had always been a source of comfort for her.

Rose walked toward that spot, her arms hung uselessly at her sides and her skirt rustled and dragged on the ground. Her chest heaved a couple of times as silent sobs consumed her.

When she reached the center of the circle, she collapsed to the ground and just laid there, her knees as close to her chest as she could and her arms folded near her face. She was silent and still no tears fell from her eyes. Emotionally, the young Rose was spent.

Her eyes were dull and stared at her wrist, where a violet, beaded bracelet rested. It was the bracelet he'd given her after his mother's ring was too big for any of her slender fingers. Rose simply stared at it.

'He's gone. He'll never come back. No one will understand. Why? Why does it hurt so much? Why does my heart cry so much? He'll never been at my side again. I will be alone, so very, very alone. I hate to feel so aloneā€¦'

In the morning, the friar would find her on the floor, her red orange skirts around her like a rose; her eyes, unfocused and hollow; her red hair fanned behind her in a semblance of the design they had been; her slipper covered feet wet and cold.

The friar would use his own cloak to cover her and then bend to try and lift her to her feet. Rose would shove him off until he stepped back. Then, she would sob.


Author's note: Comments greatly welcomed... Just a little diddy I wrote up after I was inspired by a Grey's Anatomy episode... and I don't really watch the show...