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The world goes dark.
He sees ink drip over his vision as it bleeds from the books above him. They’ve caged his body in their pile of disarray, pages upon pages on his ribs, endless words suffocating his lungs. There is a door in front of him the size of his hand, but the key, nowhere to be found, is but a figment of his imagination he is all too desperate to have.
Riddle forces himself to peer through the lock. The sky is grey. The flowers are wilting. The tables have been thrashed to the ground. What happened? What about the party? Is everyone alright? Where is Trey? Where is…
He remembers mont blanc tarts and anger spells, thrown eggs staining the white of his pants. Broken rules. Red collars. A freshman with a heart on his cheek. The echo of his mother’s words lingers in subconscious, but it fades in light of the faces from those in his dorm, painted in fear like still-drying roses, of him. Afraid of him.
His mother… Mother dearest, was she wrong? Why is he so tired…?
He reaches for the door, but he cannot open it.
(There is no one who can save him now.)
The encyclopedias collapse, knocking the wind out of his breath.
He does not wake up.
— ❢ —
...𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔶 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔬𝔲𝔱, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤.
— ❢ —
“Riddle!”
Trey skids across the dirt to reach his side. The pads of his thumbs press into the housewarden’s wrist, black gloves of his uniform long discarded.
“Come on, come on…” he mutters through gritted teeth, refusing to believe how this would end—he was a fighter, wasn’t he? Riddle wouldn’t give up like that…
Frantically, he searches for a pulse. He doesn’t care how dumbfounded Cater is staring at him right now or what the freshmen are going to think. He just needs a sign of life. Anything at all. Riddle has to be okay.
Two minutes pass. The pool of blood underneath them grows larger, and when Trey brushes his hand against Riddle’s face, it’s going cold. No breath, no heartbeat.
Nothing.
His magical pen falls from his pocket. Trey did this. He could’ve prevented this. If he had just been a little more firm, his childhood friend would still be alive and they could’ve talked all of this out, and maybe if they were lucky, sat down again for tea.
There is no use wishing when he is already gone.
Trey doesn’t hear the headmage’s condolences amidst the whispers in the crowd, watching as the medics take Riddle’s body away. Tears well up in his eyes, but he bites his lip and chokes him back before they can fog up his glasses. He’s gonna have to break this Che’nya later, then figure out what’s going to happen to Heartslabyul…
Behind him, a little seedling sprouts in the sunlight.
— ❢ —
"𝔚𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢, 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔶 ℑ 𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔬 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢?"
"𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔞 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔬𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔬."
— ❢ —
Once upon a time, a little girl wandered into a mysterious land. Having shrunk to the size of a mouse, she treaded through the dirt, hoping to find her way out when she was greeted by a blooming red rose.
“Flowers can’t talk,” the child said.
“But of course we can talk, my dear!”
And while they talked, they bickered, and after they bickered, they sang. It was a lovely little song, that was, until they kicked her out thinking she was a weed.
How unfortunate it would be to reincarnate as a weed. One would rather be a daisy or a daffodil or a violet, or the tiger lillies in love with the dandelions. At least then, if you get plucked, you’ll have your beauty, even if it doesn’t last forever—you were a good person when you were still alive.
So goes a myth in the Queendom of Roses.
For every blossom in the garden, there is another with a soul. It is said that those who perish bloom where their resting place lies, not wanting to lose attachment to the living world. Die in the fields and you will meet nature’s warm embrace, your essence returning to the soil where it once began, and so continues the cycle of life that sustains the wonder of all beginnings.
Flowers are not just flowers. Botanical language has been in use since ancient times—the regret of white peonies, the contentment of sweet peas next to the gardenias near the grave of a little toddler. Love, hurt, wistfulness… whatever meaning you can think of, they have it all.
If you listen closely enough, you can hear the dead sing.
Maybe then, if you stay, they will speak to you.
— ❢ —
"ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔣 ℑ'𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱?
𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨.
𝔚𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔤𝔬𝔱 𝔲𝔭 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤?
ℑ 𝔞𝔩𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔱.
𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔦𝔣 ℑ'𝔪 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔦𝔰 '𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔞𝔪 ℑ?"
— ❢ —
He comes to consciousness in the dead of evening.
The field is different from before. Gone are the shrubs that graced the corners of the maze’s center, the vacancy made duller by the skies. Far away, a gash has dug itself into the dirt where he distinctly remembers a rose tree being present, but it's as if its roots were ripped out and thrown away, leaves singed at the edges.
What happened? Where is everyone?
How many times must Riddle ask and receive no answer?
A set of soles walks towards him. One, two, then four and exchanging, the pairs of high-tops coming and going from his line of sight. Their shoes are so large that their presence feels surreal, but the sounding recoil of the items they’re dropping around him, even more so.
I’m here, he wants to scream. I’m here, everyone, why can’t you hear me?
Only then does he realize his limbs do not feel like limbs and his head doesn’t feel like his head, and he has no feet to speak of anymore when they’re glued into the soil. Where his waist had tickled lie strands of tall grass that swarm him in their never-ended-ness, and beyond them, a display of items that still his nerves.
Bouquets of roses. Wax candles. Ornate photo frames… which all have pictures of him.
All of them.
Sweet Seven above, it’s his memorial.
Ace bites his lip as he tries not to cry. Deuce is already crying. Cater looks downcast, and Trey is attempting to swallow his sorrow even though his eyes are puffy at the edges. Those faces that once held disappointment in Riddle now shadow over in mourning, the gentle candlelight flickering over the cheeks, and the crowds of students behind the four sing him farewell in broken lullabies cracked with sobs.
He wishes he could speak to them. That he could tell them goodbye, that he could say he was sorry, that he hopes that they’ll all be okay… that he’s failed them as their housewarden. It doesn’t matter, now, does it? They can’t hear him. He’ll never be able to atone for himself.
Slowly, the crowd disperses. The waxy petals replacing his hands go wet, droplets transpiring from the stomata in the leaves, and maybe if he had eyes, they’d be welling just as others’ had for him.
Somewhere in his heart, Riddle wails.
— ❢ —
"𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔡𝔞𝔶, 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔡𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫."
— ❢ —
Heartslabyul is not the same without him. It’s clear in how the marble loses shine and the vines have overgrown, hedgehogs twiddling anxiously in their cages. They enjoy their freedom from the once strictly enforced rules, but the absence of Riddle’s voice booming in the hallways is haunting more so than it is relieving. Rumors have spread. The garden’s wilting. No one’s in the mood for parties. It’s been terrible.
Trey grasps the scepter in his hands. After the results of the recent trial, the dorm’s executive committee had named him the new housewarden, but the weight of gold doesn’t feel quite right in his hands. He doesn’t understand why they chose him. He’d rather they hadn’t.
Earlier that morning, he offered Cater the position.
“You were the housewarden before him. You’re a much better fit.”
… but Cater simply pushed the scepter back at him and shook his head, that sad smile unmatched with his eyes.
“It’s what he would’ve wanted.”
Was it? Can they really say anything about what he would’ve wanted? Trey has seen their house flitter in panic trying to follow Riddle’s orders. They hated him. They wouldn’t continue to kiss his arse just to get off scot-free, or listen to whatever he might’ve said, but perhaps in that twisted route of logic, it explained why they would listen to Trey.
Law is order and order is law, and intertwined, they were Riddle’s world. He won’t rule over Heartslabyul with an iron fist, but he can respect his friend’s wishes to some degree, give him some legacy over his memory that’s already fucked up.
He’s already failed the guy twice. He can’t afford to charm a third.
Regretfully, Trey takes up his post, and his newly tailored boots clunk without heels as he approaches the podium from behind. Cater nods. The courthouse is waiting.
It doesn’t make him miss Riddle any less.
— ❢ —
"ℌ𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪, 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢 — 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪, 𝔱𝔬𝔬."
— ❢ —
When he was little, all he could think about was independent study time. It was the one hour his mother let him be, the one hour he was left alone, which meant his sneaky little friends could pull him through the study window and get him out of his house for once. They climbed trees, played croquet, rolled around in hedgehog piles for hours. They even brought him to the bakery for his first taste of fresh strawberry tart. They were good friends.
Until she ended it.
Children were supposed to learn well, Mother said. Children were supposed to be good students, but these boys his age were playing, too. Therefore, it should be presumed that children were also supposed to have fun, and as Che’nya put it, playing was a form of self-study, right? Alas, the words of another’s family do not hold the same weight as his own family’s, and that logic earned little Riddle a slap on the wrist. Never again would he break her rules, the rules, even if they broke him… and well, he supposed they did.
Riddle has a secret.
He would’ve loved to eat that giant mont blanc. He doesn’t care if the roses are white or the flamingos are pink, and he prefers honey over sugar in his tea. He wants to flavor it with milk instead of lemon and talk with everyone at lunch, and if he could go back in time, he’d play with Trey and Che’nya again, lots and lots…
Trey has always been good to him. He didn’t deserve his composure, but it was a given ever since they reunited a little more than a year ago. That kind face and warm voice, daily tarts compensating for every day Riddle went without one… he did his best.
(Though he supposes he can never make it up to him, now.)
If it was guilt, he can’t admit it. If it was love, he’ll never know. The bud was snipped before it could blossom and discarded, lost among the fallen petals in the wind. Riddle wishes they had a little more time, but he allows himself to yearn, for his grief is still raw and his mother’s looming cannot reach him here.
His petals have grown bigger, spots of black against their crimson hue. It seems even post-hubris, the corruption hasn’t left him, causing him to stand out like a sore thumb amidst the bright red of the other roses. Still he sits in the gardens unnoticed, watching as those pairs of shoes walk around him time and time again.
Deuce visits often, offering dessert at his grave. Ace keeps glancing towards the memorial, but then away just as fast (he blames himself, even Riddle knows). He hasn’t seen Cater since the end of the funeral, which he completely understands if not for the thought of it making his petals droop, though at least Che’nya drops by in his place. No cats allowed in areas of festivity. Hah! He’s likely broken that rule thrice.
If his childhood was normal, could this have ended differently? Would they have all been friends again?
He had a dream, once, but it would never come true.
(His younger self would be so disappointed.)
— ❢ —
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣, 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔦𝔣 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪.
— ❢ —
It’s been three weeks since then.
Heartslabyul’s recovering. The grasses have regained a tinge of their verdant splendor, greens blending into the tips of greys. Students are talking again, shrugging their bags off their shoulders before playing card games in the lounge, and the house fills itself with new life. Even the sugary treats no longer reek of depression, having stopped tasting like cardboard two days ago.
Trey still isn’t used to the crown. He fashioned his hat into that of the Hatter’s, a wellington top in white and striped gold, and wears that in its place. It doesn’t matter how many people reassure him, or how scared they get when the flap shadows over his face—he’s not wearing Riddle’s belongings. He can’t replace him. He’s not their Queen.
Nevertheless, he forces himself into the maze where it all started; he has to make the rounds, unpleasant as they are. Every step he takes feels like it’s sunken into dried mud, the ink permanently stained into the grass. The puddles might be gone, but the image stays. There are too many feelings here. He can still smell the scent of tar.
Destination arrived. He crouches down to the memorial, places his hat onto the grass next to him.
Deep breaths.
“Hey.” The words feel heavy on his tongue. “It’s been a while, Riddle.”
No answer. Of course there isn’t.
“I know you probably would’ve liked some of the tarts I just made, but, uh… we’ll enjoy them for you in spirit. I’ll tell you about it later.” He shifts his weight so that he’s kneeling on one knee, resting his elbow over the other. “I think you’d be happy to hear that everyone’s grades have been holding up. No failures in the past three weeks. We’re holding study sessions to help the others catch up and they’ve been successful. Cater’s been a great help with that.
“As for the freshmen…” Trey nods his head in thought. “They’re alright. I can’t promise they won’t cause any trouble, but they’ve somehow managed to rally the dorm’s spirits. It’s amazing, really. I don’t know how they do it.”
I don’t know how you did it.
That’s not true. Lots of the damage control was handled by his truly, but Riddle had a certain assertion about him that Trey could never match. Knowing what he wanted, even if it was wrong.
(Even if it was something they could’ve fixed.)
All this time, and the flowers look the same—the candles shrunken, but still intact. His memorial remains untouched, like some twisted time capsule of a memory, where Riddle lays forever frozen as the world spins. Trey should move on. The headmage wants to take it down.
He cannot bring himself to let go.
“Listen, I… maybe you won’t be able to hear this, but we think about you everyday. Cater misses you. I miss you. It’s not just because of the statue they’ve built in the courtyard, if you can even imagine it… it’s that you were our leader, and you were my friend , and I messed it all up.”
Seven knows what else he’s ruined. Every word he didn’t say, every instance playing the bystander. Resenting him because it was easier than telling the truth. Trey knows it’s selfish, that it’s just the guilt eating him alive, but to hell with preserving his own dignity because he’s overthinking on what to say to a fucking gravestone.
He tilts his gaze upward, hoping it’ll stop his eyes from misting.
“I wish I had your courage,” he chokes. “Maybe then, I could’ve saved you.
“I’m sorry.”
The wind rustles. It blows gently through the bouquets of roses, red and white as Riddle once loved. Trey sits there for a while, head lowered to the picture frames. He finally props his legs up.
That’s enough mourning for today.
He retrieves his hat, slowly turning his heel…
… and then he hears it, a gentle voice.
“It’s alright.”
Trey gasps. He looks behind him. There’s no one there. Nothing except for burning candles, as if the breeze blew in their flames, and a wild bloom tucked in the corner of the obituary. It is deep red with black spots, a sole rose in a sea of grasses. It wasn’t there before. He doesn’t remember it being there.
They say that when you die, you bloom into a flower, and in the fields you will find your way home. If he were younger, he might’ve believed it; that the legends in the stories were true. Alas, the flowers don’t talk, and every myth is some nonsensical fairytale. Wishful thinking isn’t going to put Riddle’s soul to rest.
… but if he can peacefully bury that boy’s inner child, then maybe it will.
He’s grown up.
Bittersweetness fills his lungs as he tips his hat a final time, saying goodbye to the eight-year olds of the past. They will forever play in the bushes of Riddle’s courthouse, in Trey’s heart, where he’ll have a place for, and somewhere in there, he can learn how to forgive.
Weeks later, Trey comes back for the rose when the memorial is taken down.
Behind him, Riddle smiles.
— ❢ —
ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔶,
ℑ𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰,
𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢𝔢𝔱.
— ❢ —
Did you know?
Inside of Heartslabyul, there is a shelf at the back of the lounge. Within its topmost tier lies a rose immortalized in glass, shaded crimson and crystallized in ink.
They say their housewarden died here. He loved the Queen of Hearts so much he reigned the dorm in her spitting image. Perhaps it was his downfall, but he was just a boy, that one, only seventeen when he met his demise.
Flowers are not just flowers. Urban legend in Night Raven’s whispers claims that at the stroke of midnight, the hall echoes of ‘Thou Doth the Little Crocodile’, along with a lullaby no one has recognized. His ghost has been in mourning since the moment he passed, and he grieves for himself rather than seeking vengeance, but he is a kind soul who watches after the house and guards it with his presence.
If you listen closely enough, you can hear him sing.
Maybe then, if you stay, he will speak to you.