The Legend of the Rose; a Cyrenian Myth

By: Ale Posted on: May 16, 2004

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The author claims no responsibility as to the portrayal or actions of any character within.

Scarlatti was in love with Selene. From the deep red locks of hair crowning Her head to the pink soles of Her delicate feet, She was perfect. The slow rolling melody of Her voice captured Him under Her spell, and truly, He was lost. Day after day Scarlatti would sit in the Garden of the gods, leaning back against one of the fruit trees and strumming His lyre as He contemplated the perfection that was Selene.

On one such balmy day, Scarlatti sat underneath the same apple tree and watched Selene with a dreamy smile, His fingers idly composing beautiful music as His lips mouthed words to the greatest sonnets ever written. So enraptured was He in Selene's beauty that He did not notice the shadow lurking over her that day. He saw the sparkle of Her violet eyes and the smile on Her face and His heart leapt. Finally, finally She had heard His plea! The God of Art rose to His feet and nearly ran toward Selene, knowing that She would be His.

Halfway toward the gazebo in which Selene stood, Scarlatti stopped in His tracks. An invisible force held Him back from His love and He turned, searching for the face of the God that would dare deny Him this pleasure. A soft touch on His arm brought His attention downwards, and there stood Demeter, Lady of the Earth. The limbs of the trees rustled as She smiled sadly at Scarlatti, giving Her words to Him in breathy sighs, "Oh brother of Mine, can You not see? Look closer at Your lady love, dear brother, and You will see it is another of Our kind that has captured Her heart."

Unable to resist the pressure of Demeter's hand on His arm, Scarlatti slowly turned to face Selene once more. Behind Her lurked a shadow, undulating with sparks of silver light. Shock crossed the face of the Bard as He recognized this shadow–His own brother, Twilight. And what of His Selene? Ah, Selene stood there with sparkling eyes and gentle smiles, inhaling so that Her wondrous bosom was brought within view. But it was the shadow that received Her gaze, not Him. Demeter had spoken true . . . Twilight had indeed captured Selene's heart.

As Twilight romanced Selene, Scarlatti walked out of the Garden of the Gods. Into the mortal realm He wandered, traveling to each of the forest to seek His Muses. Each Muse only smiled at her Lord when He confided in them, all of them knowing that they could not help Him. The God of Art came to His final Muse, Erato. Alas, His pleas fell on deaf ears, though Erato took Him into her arms for comfort. The soft weeping of the Bard could be heard through the realm, and one young man in particular took up His cry. But that is another story, and shall be told another time.

Somewhere within the woods, another pair of ears heard the weeping of Scarlatti. Standing at the edge of Erato's grove, watching Her brother, stood Demeter. The Goddess of the Earth looked on Her brother, and tears came to Her gray eyes as She observed His sorrow. Demeter watched the God of Art for hours, until His tears had almost halted. Then She stepped into the grove, resting Her hand on His shoulder and rubbing it comfortingly. Her gray eyes reflected compassion as She knelt beside Him, wrapping Her arm around His shoulders.

"Oh Scarlatti, why did I have to tell You?" she whispered, holding Him close as He rested His head against Her shoulder. "Let Me help You, brother. Surely together we can win Her heart!" Scarlatti raised His head to look at His sister, hope dawning in His sky-blue eyes. His cracked lips parted, voice shaking as He responded, "Do You truly . . . wish to help Me?"

Demeter glanced up at the sky, seeking guidance from the stars. When Her gaze lowered She nodded at her brother, a soft smile playing over Her lips. "Yes." She whispered. "Yes, Scarlatti. I will help You win Your love."

Scarlatti flashed Demeter a joyous smile, the trouble lifting from His heart. Words filled with a lilting melody He replied, "Together, then, sister of Mine. If Our realms were combined in a single item, a gift to Her, perhaps I could win Her affection."

Demeter glanced at Her brother and nodded. Releasing Him from Her embrace She sat cross-legged on the earth, pressing Her palms to the ground and closing Her gray eyes. The Goddess of Earth began to hum in an ancient language, Her willowy frame swaying with the wind as She connected to Her realm. Drops of crystalline water cascaded from the sky in a glimmering shower, turning the ground dark and fertile. Green light coalesced around Demeter as She moved, the land itself rising up to embrace Her.

Scarlatti rose to His feet, staring at the damp ground beneath Him. The wind picked up speed, blowing through the trees to create a breathy harmony. Ivory pipes came up to Scarlatti's lips and He began to play, slowly dancing around the grove, His eyes fixed on Demeter. The music of the Bard reached out in glistening golden notes, coalescing around Demeter's green aura and combining with Her energy.

Demeter's lips parted as Her alto slowly rose from Her frame, soaring through the sky with the song of a thousand birds. Scarlatti began to dance faster, turning and leaping around His sister, His song melding with Hers into a single joyous hail to Demeter's green earth. The pace continued to grow as They both gave over to the music, wild melodies spinning and twirling through the grove for the remainder of the night.

Eventually Scarlatti collapsed to the ground, exhausted from His playing. Demeter opened Her eyes to look at Her brother, the magical shower abating as They both panted for breath. In the center of the grove grew a single, pearlescent rose. Blue eyes met gray as the Gods considered Their work, looking at the beautiful flower that grew between Them. Then the Goddess of Nature rose to Her feet in a single graceful motion, nodding at Her brother. With a gleam of silver light She disappeared, leaving Scarlatti alone with the product of Their realms.

The Lord Bard raised His head, staring at the single rose in the center of the grove. A smile curved His lips as He regarded this new creation, picturing Selene's joy on receiving this gift. He moved closer to the rose, pondering it. The petals came up into a perfect swirl, barely beginning to open. The stem was long and perfect, and smooth with darker green leaves. But the petals, ah yes, the petals. They were the shade of Ta'surkerian pearls hidden beneath the water, glimmering pink and yellow beneath a cream surface. As the dawn streaked the sky with shades of purple and orange, the rose reflected the hues of the dawn. It was, indeed, perfect.

The gentle sound of Scarlatti's pipes rose into the air, blending with the dawn in a song of hope. As He played, a crystal bubble enclosed around the rose, preserving it in its perfection. He lowered His pipes and took the globe into His hands, staring at the rose within before wrapping it beneath His cloak.

Dreamy blue eyes closed as Scarlatti pictured His love, and wind whipped around His body as He was transported once more to the Garden He had forsaken. There stood Selene, Her head tilted back to watch Mithraea's sun rise. The God of Art stopped at the edge of the Garden, looking upon the Goddess of Love. Selene felt His eyes on Her and She turned to look at Him, smiling in welcome. Her voice reached His ears in a soft, heady whisper, exploding in His mind with a thousand rainbows as She said, "Greetings, My lord. I hope today finds You well?"

Scarlatti reached beneath His cloak, pulling out the crystalline globe. He held it out to Selene with trembling hands, the glass disappearing from around the rose as He looked as His love. Selene's eyes widened as She saw the beautiful flower, Her lips parting in astonishment. Scarlatti simply said, "For You, my Lady." He trailed the bud of the rose over Her cheek before dropping it into Her hands, a shy smile crossing His lips.

The Goddess of Art looked up at Scarlatti, smiling at Him before curtsying. "Thank You, Scarlatti." She said, Her soft intonation striking Him to His very heart. "I shall treasure it always." With this, Selene glanced down at the rose, staring at the petals smoother than even Her skin, the pearl-like gleam of color more pristine than Her own porcelain complexion. A slight frown marred Her features but Scarlatti did not see it, so set was He to believe She would love this gift.

Selene bowed to Scarlatti, Her grace eminent in the delicate movement. The Garden seemed to glow as the Goddess walked through it, the grass itself seemingly greener where She stood. In a slow mockery of a waltz Selene moved toward Her home, glancing back at Scarlatti with a false yet charming smile and opening the door.

The Goddess of Love stepped within Her palace, closing the crystal door behind Her. A comfortable chair provided haven for Selene as She sat, staring at the rose. She spun the stem of the rose between Her fingers, watching the petals swirl and smelling the perfect, light scent. Again Selene frowned, not quite realizing what bothered Her. She stood and placed the rose on the mantle above the fire. Then She left the room, returning once more to the Garden.

As Selene stood within the Garden, darkness hovered around Her. The surroundings mirrored Her discomfort as She thought of the gift. Surely, She was fond of Scarlatti and the sonnets He prepared in hail of Her beauty. But this rose . . . it was not a normal gift. Something about it was not right, and the more Selene pondered on it, the more She realized that She didn't like it. With a false smile Selene cast the rose from Her mind, turning back to Her normal play in the Garden.

Once Mithraea set upon the world, Selene returned to Her castle. With a benign smile She dismissed Her servants to return to their own homes, sipping at a glass of manna as She contemplated the day. Twilight had brought Her a nightmare, spun from His essence and bridled for only Her hand. That memory brought a smile over Selene's fair features, a smile that was quickly erased as Her eyes settled on the rose. While Selene had been flirting in the Garden, the rose had opened its petals to embrace the eternal warmth of the hearth. Petals once the gentle shades of pearls were now the fiery orange of the setting sun, and Selene stared at the renewed beauty with jealousy.

"It is a plant." Selene told Herself. "A plant. It cannot approach My beauty."

But as Selene stared at the perfect rose, She knew that was not true. Indeed, the flower far surpassed Her form and feature; it made Her seem plain. Scarlatti must have known this, She thought. He must have known this flower was fairer than She, and He gave it out of malice! Selene stared at the rose, and with each passing moment Her thoughts grew more paranoid. Finally the Goddess rose to Her feet, violently grasping the rose in Her delicate white hand. The rose, being far more than an ordinary flower, reacted to protect itself. Thorns as sharp and pointed as the Goddess' hatred extended from the green stem, piercing Selene's hand when She reach for it.

With a cry of pain, Selene dropped the rose and knelt to the floor. From Her hand a single drop of blood fell, then the wound closed. Now it must be told that the blood of a God has very special properties. In this case, when the droplet hit the petals of the flower, it forever stained them deep red. Selene watched Her blood stain the rose, and with a cry of frustration at the renewed beauty, She picked the flower up again, careful to avoid the dagger-like thorns. Seeing no other way to be rid of the blossom, Selene tossed it from the highest tower of Her palace.

That night, as Selene lay in Her bed, Vastar saw the rose laying within the Garden. His interest peaked, the Sky lord sent out a tendril of wind to pick up the flower. He took it in His ethereal hands, regarding the rose closely. But without Mithraea's light, He could not see the beauty of this blossom. Forgetting His curiosity, Vastar blew out a steady stream of air that lifted the rose from His hands and cast it forever out of the garden.

When Selene awoke, She returned to the Garden as She had every day for centuries. And, as always, Scarlatti watched Her. But unbeknownst to the pair, somewhere far off, the rose lay in rich soil. The next spring, with Demeter's help, the rose grew into a bush. One day a young man from Cyrene wandered through the hills near the city, and he found the rosebush. Each flower was tinted ruby red with Selene's blood, every blossom as beautiful as the original flower. The young man reached out to pick one, only to pierce his finger on a thorn.

The man frowned, sucking on his finger, then looked closer at the bush. With a bit more care he managed to secure a single flower for his own, though he was left to wonder why such a beautiful thing was also capable of giving so much pain. In Cyrene that night, as the young man slept peacefully, he was visited by Demeter. She told him the story of the rose, of how She and Scarlatti had created the blossom out of love for Selene, and how the other Goddess, jealous, had cast it away. Demeter carefully explained that the flower must be planted, and cared for. It was now the duty of this man to care for the roses, and his children would do the same.

When the man awoke, he remembered his dream, and the commands given to him by the Goddess. He dedicated his life to building a garden in the center of Cyrene. There he crafted a golden statue of the God of Art, and stone statues of each of His Muses. Trimming the garden were beautiful rows of red rosebushes, each carefully trimmed and tended. To this day that garden still stands, and the great-grandchildren of that first young man care for them.

Each spring young suitors from all over the city will come to the garden, and search amongst the roses. It is legend there that each year a single pearl rose will grow, with no thorns or blemishes. Only the man with the truest love will find this rose, and it can only be given to the fairest woman in all the lands. The majority of the suitors return home empty handed, as none will touch the red roses. For myth does indeed keep a grain of the truth, and each little boy is told on his father's knee of Scarlatti's rose, and how Selene's bitterness edged the stem with thorns.