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Norton can’t help but stare at the velvet petal pressed between his fingers, crimson bleeding into deep violet, a sure mark confirming once more the truth of something he dares not name. The walls have ears in this village, ears and eyes and perhaps even something akin to consciousness.
He shakes himself out of his stupor and chucks the frail petal into the trash can, disgusted and angry and full of a feeling of dread that seems to creep like vines up into his skull through the thin gaps in his vertebrae.
He will not be a part of this. No matter what coercion comes knocking on his door, he will not surrender.
It’s not often that Norton sees the Man in Red, as he is enigmatically called. His subjects perform all the mundane tasks on behalf of their beloved priest, so that he may better focus on preparing for his ceremonies. Norton often sees them fluttering about, gathering food or clothing or various small goods. He knows when a ceremony will take place when he sees the procession of followers, each of them with their arms stuffed full of dried, withered roses.
That, truly, is where it all began. He had watched them all march past from a safe distance, so as not to draw their attention, and had seen a single rose fall from the hands of the one at the end of the line. The girl hadn’t seemed to notice it, and so it was swiftly crushed underfoot.
Something about the flower drew Norton’s eye, and before he could stop himself from making an obviously bad decision, he crossed the road. Half of the brittle petals had been crushed almost to dust, pressed into the sticky mud like a child’s paper mache. He peeled the intact half out of the pile, curiously examining the way the mud clung in clumps to the raw edges, but something changed as he watched—a rush of green climbed up the long stem, followed by the slow seep of bloody, velvety red.
The rose had bloomed.
A single, hard cough scratched up Norton’s throat, something bitter at the back of his tongue, and he dropped the flower as though it had burned him. He shook his gloved hand and stared down at the pitiful little rose that had fallen unceremoniously back into the mud he had rescued it from, lying fully formed amongst the ashes of the half it had lost.
He didn’t know what this meant, didn’t know what the feeling of nails scratching against his lungs meant, but the image remained firmly in his head long after he stamped the rose back into the mud and fled from the scene.
It isn’t long before the coughing fits begin, before he’s bent over the sink with full blooms spilling out of his mouth. He can’t explain how they get there, only that it hurts, the curved thorns of roses scraping all the way up from his lungs and onto his tongue. He tastes the blood, mingled together with the sweet bitterness of the petals, a flavor that is rapidly becoming far too familiar.
Every one of the blooms is the same horrible mix of red and dark violet, undeniably his. The small trash bin is near to overflowing with them, a bouquet of bruises wrapped in a thick aura of dread.
Norton is sick of looking at them.
Still coughing weakly, he grabs the bin and stomps his way to the back of the house. He flings the back door open, tosses the contents of the bin out onto the ground, debates stomping them all into mush before deciding he just doesn’t have the energy left.
Norton has no interest in that priest’s cult, no interest in their obsession with rebirth. Whatever sacrifices they choose to make have nothing to do with him, and he’s been very careful to keep his distance, even as almost all his neighbors were slowly consumed by that fervor.
I have nothing to offer to the Man in Red, and he has nothing to offer to me.
But even as he says the words to himself, quietly whispers them into the air, he knows that they fall just short of truth.
Norton lies in a bed of withered roses, piled high like the kindling of a funeral pyre. Numerous hands hold him down, pushing against his shoulders, his hips, his ankles… His shoulder blades dig into the rocky ground and blood wells up from thin thorn cuts at his elbows. He struggles as much as he can, but he feels weak, weighed down, and there are far too many hands fighting against him. He doesn’t stand a chance.
He hears the hollow tap of firm soles against the stones in front of him, feels the strain in his neck as he struggles to look up at the figure looming above him, as though he actually needs to look to know who it is.
It’s him. The Man in Red.
A single black eye glints silver in the light, its twin devoured by a cluster of pure white butterflies. Norton has never seen his face like this, never seen the vines that grow from his body like a physical extension of his overwhelming presence.
He feels the pressure building in his chest as those eyes stare down at him, feels the sharp pains wracking his body. He thinks he sees the Man in Red smile as he finally succumbs to the pressure, flowers bursting from his throat, choking him with the cloying scent of decaying rose.
But even as he chokes, the pressure does not recede—no, it builds even more, pressing against the weak membranes of his lungs, filling his chest full to bursting… Just as it becomes too much, as Norton fails to heave a breath through the thick petals, the Man in Red leans down.
His skin splits where the Man’s nail trails down his chest, and even more bruised flowers burst forth from between his ribs, thin vines weaving through the broken tissue to reach out towards their owner’s lingering hand.
Norton shudders as a single rose is picked from his chest, twirled lightly in the Man’s hands as the bed of dried roses slowly absorbs his blood, blooming back into brilliant color.
“A perfect rebirth.” The man’s voice is low and soothing, almost hypnotic. He gently smells the flower in his hands. “Truly… you are so very beautiful, Norton.”
Norton tries to respond, but he cannot form words anymore.
“You’ll come to me, won’t you? You’ll come home to your beloved Naib.” The thin smile is haunting, the words more a command than a question. “There is no need to fear for your pride. I will make sure you have no way to resist.”
Norton jolts awake, covered in sweat, chest aching, panic rushing through every vein. His lungs heave with hard breaths, but he feels like he can’t get any oxygen, like his lungs have lost the ability to absorb it. He hastily throws his blankets off when he feels the flowers choking up his throat, but they begin to burst freely from his mouth before he can bring himself to stand.
When the fit finally passes, Norton stares angrily at the bouquet now scattered on his floor. He wants no part of this. He’s not involved. And as far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing on this earth that can change his mind.
He stands and scoops up the disgusting pile of flowers, then stomps his way to his back door once more, tossing them out into the partially-frozen mud. This time, he indulges himself, trampling every last bloom until they’re nothing but mush bleeding into the earth. It’s only when he finally pauses, rage temporarily subsided, that he notices something is wrong.
The flowers from yesterday are gone.
A quick look around in the blue morning light disproves the idea that they were blown away by the wind, which leaves only one theory—
No. It’s not possible that they know about this. That he knows about this. It’s too early. Norton shakes away the creeping feeling of unease and hurries back inside, shutting his door against anyone who might be watching.
He lies down again, hoping to get at least a little bit of proper rest, but he only manages it for an hour or two before his sleep is disturbed once more, this time by a knock at his door.
The sun is up now, not high in the sky yet but high enough that Norton knows it’s not particularly early. He trudges to his front door, tiredness stinging at his eyes, and opens the door to… nothing. He looks around, confused, and finally catches sight of the procession, their arms full of dried flowers as usual; but something isn’t quite right. The girl at the end of the procession isn’t carrying dried flowers. Hers are fresh.
Norton’s blood runs cold, his lungs shuddering against sudden pressure. It’s not difficult to recognize the color palette even from this distance, and Norton finds himself hastily stepping back from the door without actively willing himself to.
He almost trips when his foot suddenly slides out from under him. When he regains his balance and looks down, there’s a thick parchment letter under his foot, obviously slipped under the door while he was sleeping. A delicate butterfly is stamped into the wax seal.
Norton doesn’t want to touch it, already knows what it is and who it’s from, but ignoring a summons is about the worst thing that someone in this village could choose to do. He’s already being watched, he knows that much. They will know immediately if he tries to run.
And Norton knows, too, that there are fates worse than death; he still remembers the echoing cries, the scratching against stone barricades, the desperate calls of please save me I can’t breathe—
He picks it up. The seal peels away from the paper easily, revealing a letter written in flowing black script.
My dearest Norton,
As I’m certain you are well aware, it is finally your turn to be welcomed into my arms. Still, I doubt you will come willingly. No, I am quite sure you will not.
However, you are something of a… special case. Therefore, I am extending this invitation more as an offering; there are a great many things I can give to you, things that you so desperately desire, and all I ask in return is that you appear before me.
If, after seeing everything I can offer you, you have no desire to partake of it, I will graciously allow you to leave. I will not stop you, nor will my followers. On this, you have my word.
Naib
Norton stares at the name written neatly at the bottom of the page. There is no doubt in his mind that the letter came directly from the Man in Red; does that mean his name really is Naib? There’s no way that Norton could know that, and yet…
Just how many powers did that man possess?
If he even had the power to invade Norton’s dreams, it stood to reason that the promises made in his letter weren’t just a trap. If he really could give Norton anything that he wanted, without even having to become one of his followers…
Norton shakes his head. This is a horrible idea. Perhaps the worst idea he has ever entertained.
Why is it, then, that he finds himself wanting to go?
Norton considers the offer for a day or two as his fits grow in number. He’s stopped throwing the flowers out; he doesn’t want the Man in Red’s followers to take them, but they are quickly filling up every available space he has to put them in.
Finally, he comes to a decision. Or rather, the decision comes to him; a tall man, dressed to the nines with his face obscured by long black hair appears at his doorstep in the evening. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to force him to come with him, but Norton knows that’s why he’s come. The worst part about it all is that he doesn’t hesitate to follow.
The tall man leads the way through the fading light of the village, playing a slow song on his violin. It’s haunting in this twilight, the way the thin notes echo off the flagstones of the square, not a single soul there to absorb the sounds. The music paves their way out of the village, Norton’s feet moving along in a trance through the isolated houses at the border, through the dark trees beyond, and finally, to a wood door, cut into the side of a small hill. It would be rather unassuming if not for its placement.
The song abruptly ends and the tall man swings the door open before him, leaving Norton with nothing but the ability to stare into the darkness beyond its vine-covered frame.
His mind screams at him to turn around, to go back to his home and ignore the summons, ignore everything until the thorns finally puncture the thin flesh of his lungs and suffocate him, but some tiny strip of calm in his mind allows him to take a step forward, to take one more over the threshold.
Please save me I can’t breathe—
He puts one foot in front of the other, and the tall man follows him down the narrow, spiraling stairs leading into the darkness. His eyes strain to adjust, a familiar feeling, and after some time, he becomes aware of a light welling up beneath him.
His descent continues, and soon a room opens up in front of him, light pouring across the stairs. Hundreds of eyes stare at him, watch each careful step, until he finally reaches the ground. They hastily move aside as he approaches, clearing a path across the painted floor straight towards his destination.
The Man in Red sits, relaxed, on a bloody throne opposite him, surrounded by ornate carvings that stretch upwards to the rafters. His eyes bore into Norton’s as he continues his slow march, until finally, a smile graces his pale lips.
“So, what brings you here, my dear Norton?” His blood boils even as his lungs flutter under the man’s gaze.
“You know damn well what, Naib.” He hates that he sounds out of breath, that the anger in his voice is so easily betrayed by the flowers that threaten to tear his throat. The Man in Red’s smile only seems to grow.
“So I do.” He nods his head, and several of his followers move forward, quickly grabbing hold of Norton’s arms and shoulders and forcing him to his knees. He struggles against them, but even he doesn’t possess enough strength to pull himself free. “I would say you should learn to watch your tongue, but that’s not particularly fun for either of us, is it?” He stands in one smooth motion, descending the steps of his throne to tower above Norton.
“And I would say I should’ve expected you wouldn’t keep your word, but I’m already the fool here, aren’t I?” He manages to rip one arm free, but it is quickly recaptured. Naib laughs, a hollow, echoing sound.
“Who said I wouldn’t keep my word? I will keep it, if the need arises, but it won’t. This is simply for the purpose of confirming your devotion.”
Devotion. He doesn’t have even a moment’s notice, not even a second to try and stop it, before the pressure breaks in his lungs and he coughs, thorns once again raking their way up his throat. Something in his mind screams, do something do anything if he sees it’s all over— but it’s not enough. Blood red and violet once again spill from his mouth, pouring to the floor in a series of spluttering coughs.
Through the corner of his watering eyes, he sees Naib kneel down in front of him before he feels a cool hand slip under his chin, pulling his head up.
“You understand it too, don’t you, Norton? How you so desire to die for me…” Norton feels sharp nails pressing into the side of his neck. “The proof is right here. Unfortunately, that’s not what fate has in store for you.” Another hard cough wracks Norton’s body, and another bloom bursts from his mouth, leaving behind a single rosebud. Naib plucks it from his tongue, watches as it blooms between his fingers. “No, you belong only to me. These flowers bloom only for me.”
“I—” Norton wants to protest, wants to push Naib away from him, wants to run back where he came from, but his body is weak, and his breaths come only in wheezing gasps now.
“It’s alright, you don’t have to speak. I understand.” His other hand finds Norton’s shuddering chest, pauses over the excruciating feeling in his lungs, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I can accept you into my arms, and take all of this pain away. All you have to do is affirm your devotion, pledge your aching soul to me, and all of this will go away.”
“You—” Norton tries again, energy rapidly failing under the pressure of the hand at his lungs.
“Say it, and it will all be over.”
“You—” Norton gasps for air, his head swims. “You have— my devotion.”