by Lorena
(England, late 17th century)
The young scholar was at a loss as he crouched before his rosebush. “My roses are dying,” he muttered, reaching out and gingerly touching some of the pale, fragile blooms, which virtually crumbled at the lightest tap of his fingers against their lifeless petals. He watched some of them shiver in their branches and fall to the grass below, their petals separating as they tumbled down in an explosion of small velvet clusters. “I don’t understand it. I’ve been taking good care of them since the beginning.”
He sighed as his gaze roamed all over the plant, his eyes darkening with increasing sadness. He was the most brilliant student that Dr. Helmsworth, the renowned and much-respected physician, had ever had, after all. Everything he did was always critically scrutinized and ferociously picked apart, but it was all for his greater good, especially if he had hopes in succeeding in his chosen path. He’d always felt the pressure, therefore, of constantly being the best in what he did, and nothing short of perfect defined practically every waking hour.
For the present, he’d been caring for an unusual breed of roses—one on which he’d placed high hopes in securing a name in the annals of medical science as a new source of disease resistance. But with all his careful planning and dogged watchfulness, he was still astonished at finding his experiment decline in a rapid spiral. None of the remedies he’d thought would work did anything for the ailing plant, and today marked his final resignation in doing anything more for his beloved roses.
With a dejected sigh, he stood up, cradling his massive pile of notes and antiquated journal against his chest as he brushed dirt off his knees.
“There you are,” a familiar voice called out, breaking the dour silence in the garden.
The scholar glanced up, startled, and brightened at the sight of another young man sauntering up to him.
“My roses aren’t doing too well,” he said as he walked toward the newcomer, a self-conscious smile lighting up his face. “I’m afraid I’ll have to let them go.”
“Really. That’s too bad.” The newcomer fell silent for a brief moment, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on him. There was a bit of grimness in his manner that seemed to strike the other boy, and the latter prodded him.
“You seem tense, Sa-ji,” he said, his eyes softening. “Is there anything wrong?”
A moment’s hesitation. Then…
“I’m engaged.”
The scholar blinked, uncomprehending for a second or two. “Engaged,” he echoed absently.
“To Miss Noventa.”
“I don’t understand. I thought…”
“I’m in love with her. I don’t think that’s anything to puzzle over.”
The scholar, now pale, fumbled for words. “What—when? Just now?”
“This morning.”
Silence.
“We’ve set our wedding for April.”
“Are—are you sure about this? I mean—you don’t really know—each other that—that long.”
Sa-ji nodded, a hint of impatience in his manner now. “Yes, I’m sure. I don’t commit myself to anything or anyone without knowing what I’m getting myself into, Triton. I came here out of respect for our friendship…”
“Friendship…”
“Yes, friendship, to tell you that I’m going to be the happiest man in a few months’ time. The last thing I want is for my decision to be questioned by my own best friend.”
The scholar named Triton flushed a deep red, and he nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry. I was just caught off-guard, that’s all.” He offered a wan smile. “Congratulations.”
His friend inclined his head in a stiff bow and thanked him quietly. And before he left, he made sure to squeeze a promise from Triton that the boy would be present at the wedding. Triton gave his promise readily enough, but as to whether or not the other boy noticed the sadness with which he’d given his oath was up in the air, being much too intent on leaving the premises in order to be at his fiancée’s side.
The young scholar watched his friend go—and with him his hopes. He’d pined away in silence for some time now, and this devastating turn of events had just effectively killed what little chance he thought he’d had. In spite of the occasional touch of a hand or a fleeting, chaste kiss—his friend had never truly returned his affections. And as to whether or not his decision to propose to a girl he’d met a mere six months before was dictated by necessity or fear of what he was, Triton dared not guess.
All he knew at the moment was the searing ache that threatened to rip his heart apart as he stood in the middle of the garden, his failure in both his work and his love hovering above him like black specters while the moon shone brilliantly, unhindered by clouds.
>From the branch of a nearby tree a little gold-colored nightingale sat, watching the whole thing and feeling his little heart burst in his chest. It hurt him to see the boy so devastated, so devoid of hope. He hated seeing those eyes lose their forest brilliance. He hated watching the otherwise tall, regal figure droop dejectedly, a picture of shattered dreams and a future of loneliness and failure.
“I can’t have him live the rest of his life regretting this moment,” the little bird mused. “If I can’t bring love back to him, I can certainly provide him with a better future with his work.”
So he shook himself and opened his beak to sing his sweet nocturne, to which Triton listened with a little smile of comfort. He turned toward the tree, where the bird sat, and saluted the creature with a nod.
“I’m glad to see you still with me, my friend,” he said before turning and walking back indoors.
The nightingale waited for the scholar’s bedroom to glow with soft candlelight before he stopped and flew down from his perch to stand by the ailing rosebush.
“What can I do to help?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
The rosebush shivered, sighing. “Nothing, dear bird,” it said. “I’m simply not meant to be.”
“Oh, but surely you are!” the nightingale cried, hopping forward. He couldn’t stand hearing something so beautiful say such belittling things about itself.
“Nothing but science and philosophy and facts run through my veins,” the rosebush replied sadly. “I’m not fed and nurtured in the manner that all other plants are fed and nurtured.”
“Ah, but that’s because Triton’s a scientist—a scholar.”
“He doesn’t know how to love, and it shows.” The rosebush wept now. “I will die along with my pale flowers.”
“But that would mean that he would have nothing left!”
The plant fell silent, and the nightingale was horrified.
“I can’t have him fail twice!” he insisted. “Surely there must be something I can do to help!”
“I can’t ask it of anyone. For me to live, you have to pierce your heart against my largest thorn and let your blood flow through me. You must sing to me of love and moonlight till your last breath. My dear bird, you’d be killing yourself for me to live as you want me to live.”
The nightingale pondered this. Then he shook his little head. “I don’t care,” he replied. “I’ve lived long enough to know how wonderful life is. I’ve seen what I needed to see. And I’ve also seen what man is capable of doing, and I want to make sure that Triton doesn’t lose any of it because of all his disappointments.” Here the little bird spread his wings and fluttered them a little. “I’m only a bird. I’m not capable of love the way Triton is capable of feeling it. My life is a small sacrifice to his losing his ability to feel for anyone.”
The rosebush didn’t want to see its friend die, and it argued vainly with the stubborn bird till it was forced to accept the nightingale’s offer with more tears.
“I shall miss you,” it wept. “I’ve always enjoyed your singing every night.”
“I sing for him. And I shall sing for him again tonight.”
The rosebush continued to weep bitterly for its friend, but the bird was resolute, and he was soon searching the bush for the largest thorn he could find. He presently found one near the roots, where the thorns and branches had grown firm and thick.
“Goodbye, dear friend,” the nightingale said. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again someday.”
“Perhaps.”
“Promise me that you’ll be giving Triton the best roses you can bloom. His heart’s broken. He needs comfort—needs to know that failure in one thing doesn’t mean failure in everything else.”
“I promise.”
“Perhaps I shall see him again.”
“I hope so.”
The nightingale then took a deep breath and stepped forward, pressing his little chest against the thorn and piercing himself with it, burying it deep. The pain was great, but he persevered, knowing for whom it was he was making this sacrifice. Once he felt the thorn wedged inside, he opened his beak and began to sing his final romance, filling the night air with pretty strains not of heartbreak and despair, but of new life and hope and especially of love.
As the blood flowed out of him and into the rosebush, his rapidly dimming eyes watched with satisfaction the brilliant shade of red that began to creep through every flower, infusing it with warmth and life and the nurturing kind of love that it had long been deprived. He saw the thin, wilting petals fill up and curl into soft, velvet clusters, flushing with pink before deepening into a rich red shade. He continued to sing one song after another as the time wore on, his energy draining out of him as his life flowed out of his body and into the now enriched rosebush.
“Your heart,” the rosebush said. “Dear friend, your heart.”
The nightingale understood, and he pushed further against the thorn, feeling his heart pierced by its dagger-like point, and his blood flowed much faster. He struggled against his weakness, singing jubilantly of love found and nurtured into passion, his voice rising with every dwindling throb of his shattered heart. But his thoughts were filled with nothing but his scholar, and he felt nothing but joy at the final reassurance that the lonely young man would at least find his rosebush thriving, securing his name as he’d always hoped in the pages of medical science.
His energy waned along with the hours, and by the time the sun rose in the distance, the nightingale was lying dead by the lush rosebush, his eyes open and unseeing and fixed on the scholar’s window above.
Triton presently emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he stumbled into his garden, his books and notes once again in his arms. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of his thriving roses.
“What—what happened?” he sputtered, his eyes widening. Then he ran toward his creation, inspecting the flowers and the leaves, stunned at the richness that assailed his senses. Even the early morning air was filled with the wonderful aroma of newly bloomed flowers.
“It’s a miracle,” he breathed, stepping back. Something caught his attention from the corner of his eyes, and he turned to find the dead nightingale on the grass.
He knelt beside it and picked it up, noting with a sharp pang the wound at its breast. “My little friend,” he said. “Was that you singing in my dreams last night?”
The round, blue eyes remained wide and unseeing, and the scholar felt his heart well up. “I shall miss you and your songs,” he murmured. “Your company was the only thing that gave me comfort every day.”
And with a broken heart, Triton carried the nightingale to its final resting place before shutting himself away from all other things and immersing himself in his work. He eventually gained the renown of which he’d always dreamt (though not because of his roses), but his heart had now steeled itself from feeling love. His friend Sa-ji went off and married his sweetheart and raised a healthy, lively family. Triton received his accolades. And till his last breath, he wished that he could still sit by his window at night, listening to the nightingale’s songs drift toward him in the warm, gentle air, offering him—if only by a mere glimpse—of what love was capable.
(Paris, 1832)
“You foolish, foolish boy!”
The lad in question opened his eyes to stare dazedly at the figure that hovered above him. He barely cracked a smile.
“Bonjour, Ophélie. Vous êtes resplendissante.”
“Je ne peux en dire autant pour vous. Que pensiez-vous donc accomplir, Étienne?” [1]
Here the girl placed a damp rag on the boy’s feverish forehead, gently dabbing it to ease his discomfort. Her soft, pale eyes swam in tears, her face drawn and almost sagging from the weight of intense worry.
“It can’t be helped,” the boy replied, gritting his teeth as he winced from a searing stab of pain that tore through his shattered body. “You know I had to do it.”
“It’s utterly ridiculous and stupid,” the girl hissed. “How many friends have you lost now? How many more will die? You know you have absolutely no defense against the National Guard!”
“I do this for you,” her brother replied, his words halting and labored. He felt his strength slowly waning, and he knew that he’d lost too much blood.
“You do this for your ideals, not for me. Paris is a slaughterhouse. People are dying left and right—students, bakers, innkeepers, children—misguided fools, the whole lot of you.”
Étienne smiled wanly, a light of defiance in his eyes. “You wouldn’t be so free with your words had you been there. Perhaps we were foolish. But we tried to do something for ourselves in spite of the costs.”
A shadow of pain darkened his sister’s features, but she rallied quickly enough, her expression switching to one of grim serenity. “Revolutions are dead.”
“If you believe it.”
Ophélie scowled as she brought the rag back to the basin, dunking it into the water and wringing it almost furiously. “I can never understand you people,” she half-whispered. “You and your high-flying principles of oppression and freedom. If you want to save the people, teach them skills for them to earn money with, not drag them into your ridiculous revolutions.”
“You’ll never see.”
“No, I won’t. Ever.”
Étienne sighed, closing his eyes when the mists thickened. Silence fell on brother and sister for a few seconds.
“Arieru died in my arms,” he presently whispered, turning his face toward his sister as she gently dabbed the wounds under his shirt, lightly gasping at the severity of the damage. She raised her eyes and looked at him, stricken. “He was one of the first to fall.”
“He didn’t need to be with you,” she replied. “He was only a visitor to France.”
“He wanted to stay with us. He believed in what we believed in.” The injured boy swallowed, grimacing at a shot of pain that coursed through him when his sister inadvertently touched one of the more serious wounds near his abdomen.
“L’aimez-vous?”
“Oui, je l’ai aimé.”
“Il ne l’a jamais su, n’est-ce pas?”
“Il ne m’a jamais aimé comme je l’aimais.” [2]
Étienne took in a sharp, ragged breath before whispering, “At least I thought I loved him.”
Ophélie looked away, muttering a curse under her breath, her eyes brimming with tears as she continued to clean her brother’s ravaged body, looking all the more helpless in spite of her efforts to show otherwise.
“You’ll find someone, Étienne. I promise you. We need to get away from Paris. I want to take you somewhere far from here.”
“Maybe.”
“I will. I swear it.”
“La barricade tient-elle toujours ?”
Ophélie blinked the tears away. Then she shook her head. “Non. Elle est tombée. Il ne reste rien—il ne reste plus personne. Vos idéaux sont morts, Étienne.”
The boy shook his head, letting out another raspy breath through clenched teeth as his body shivered uncontrollably from the fever and the wounds that consumed him. “Ils vivront. Il est possible que nos rêves sont anéantis, pour le moment. Mais le peuple se soulèvera à nouveau, Ophélie, tant qu'il sera sous le joug. Je vous le promets.” [3]
The girl fell silent and leaned down to kiss her brother’s burning forehead, standing up and leaving the room with the basin of water and the rags, her footsteps heavy and dragging in the gloom of the siblings’ dingy home. The invalid lay on his bed, straining his ears to catch the faint sounds of unrest outside their windows, feeling his weary heart rise with the hope of the people’s success in spite of his sister’s news regarding the insurrection.
His eyes, heavy with sweat and blood, fell on a familiar figure sitting on the window-sill, watching him silently. His face broke out in a tired grin.
“Allo, mon petit ami,” he said, and the small bird, almost in answer, shook itself, fluffing its feathers. “Je vois que tu es revenu me tenir compagnie.”
The bird twittered but remained where it sat.
“N’as-tu pas une ritournelle pour moi, aujourd’hui? J’ai besoin d’oublier ma souffrance pour un moment.” [4]
The bird, as though comprehending his meaning, broke out into a lively string of melodious chirping—formless and perhaps erratic, but the notes that flew out of its small throat were a welcome balm to the boy’s spirits. And as he struggled to stay awake, fighting off the torturous pain that racked his body and the effects of the strains of battle and of blood loss, his thoughts touched on a vague idea that seemed to lurk for some time in the back of his mind, luring it out of its dormancy and infusing him with an odd sensation he’d never known before.
He frowned at the little bird as it continued to warble for him.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” the boy asked. Then he paused, suddenly feeling silly, sighing as he continued, “Ah, well. A bird is a bird is a bird, I suppose. I’m sure I’ve seen several of your kind around Paris.”
The bird continued to sing awkwardly for him as he finally allowed himself to succumb to the pressures under which his broken body had been laboring, a small smile turning the corners of his lips as his breaths grew fainter.
“Vive la France,” he whispered, and his eyes shut.
The bird stopped his singing when he saw the boy close his eyes, and he flew to the bed, perching on the pillow, his eyes scanning the invalid’s face for signs of life. He spread his wings and flew up to hover above the pale and sad face that was drenched in sweat and dirt.
“I can sing for you still if you wish,” he said, but the boy didn’t hear him. “If it’s any comfort to you. I’m only sorry that my voice isn’t very good for what you need.”
The bird cocked his head at the sight of sweat that had broken out on the boy’s forehead. “You’re hot, I see. I’ll do what I can to make you feel better. Then when you’re well, you can play your flute again, and I can listen—maybe sing along. You’re a very good musician.”
Hope surged in his little heart as he started to fan the boy’s face with his wings, twittering cheerfully as he did. He watched the delicate strands of brown hair flutter almost imperceptibly from the soft breeze he was creating, and he took heart. His young student would be better. He’d get well, and he’d play his music for him again.
The boy didn’t stir, though, and the little golden bird was beginning to tire of his efforts. And when he felt as though he couldn’t move another muscle, he heard footsteps nearing the bedroom door, and with a little startled cry, he flew up and away, shooting out of the window and into the sunlight.
It wouldn’t be till the following day when he’d be allowed by his brethren to return to Étienne’s bedroom, and he perched once again on the window-sill, expecting to spend the day sharing some of the new songs he’d picked up from his flock with the stricken boy.
“I’m back,” he said gaily, noting with some surprise that the boy had been cleaned and was lying peacefully in his bed, the covers carefully cocooning him to his chest, his hands clasped neatly on his stomach. In the gloom of the bedroom, Étienne’s face seemed to glow, the serenity of his countenance lending him an otherworldly beauty that dazzled the little bird.
Ophélie was sitting on a chair at the foot of the bed, and she was clad in black, her head bowed as she wept quietly into a handkerchief.
“Cheer up,” the little bird said, but his words simply came out as bright chirpings to the girl’s ears. “He’ll be fine. He just needs to sleep things off. I always sing to him, and it usually helps. At least he hasn’t thrown his shoes at me yet.”
And with that, the bird sat on the window-sill and began to sing to his friend, his voice raised in celebration of life and love and the promises of youth and boundless ideals.
(North America, present day)
Trowa smiled as he watched the happy couple mingle with their friends, his sister absolutely radiant with unrestrained joy as she half-dragged her husband around, introducing him to everyone. Offering a quiet, self-conscious smile, Heero saluted his guests with characteristic brevity of speech, allowing his bride to do the talking. Catherine had enough energy for the both of them, after all.
The band continued to play background music for everyone congregated on the massive lawn of the Winner estate, while people simply did what they wished, and Trowa spotted Duo and Hilde dancing under the pavilion, their voices raised in laughter, while near the buffet table stood Wufei and Dorothy, engaged in what seemed to be a tenuous conversation. Several times in the course of his observation, Trowa thought that he saw the couple erupt in a brief yet intense argument, which would be gone just as quickly as it had started. His other friends and colleagues were scattered just about everywhere, but he was just too tired to search for them.
His sister and his best friend were finally married. It was an odd pairing off in everyone’s eyes, but at a certain level—one that people understood implicitly and yet to which they were unable to give clear voice—the connection was there in spite of their age difference. Or perhaps it was because of their age difference. At any rate, Heero’s proposal to his sister had taken him completely by surprise, but for their sake, he offered no resistance—in spite of the vague, lingering sense of betrayal that had haunted him for some time afterward.
But he’d had enough time to ponder his own reaction to the news—as well as his relationship with his best friend. And he’d concluded that his feelings of affection for Heero had never really been anything more than a passing fancy, nurtured by a loneliness that plagued him through his adolescence, one that was born of a painful self-consciousness of his own identity.
He didn’t have to worry about that now, though. Matters had taken on a different turn—one that was completely unexpected though most certainly not unwelcome, and for the first time in his life, he knew where he was headed, knew where his dreams and ambitions lay.
Trowa raised his wine glass in a silent toast to his sister and brother-in-law’s health before turning around and walking off, detaching himself from the crowd to follow a gentle stirring in his heart.
He ambled down the pristine, grassy lawn, rounding the corner to find himself at another side of the estate—the one that had always been Quatre’s favorite sanctuary from the world. Trowa took in deep, refreshing breaths as he let his system be infused with the welcome silence that the area afforded, his small, wistful smile broadening at the sight of a familiar figure that bent over a rosebush not far off from where he stood.
He walked toward the other boy, who was dressed in a tuxedo like he was but had doffed his jacket, tossing it to the ground rather unceremoniously and shedding both his cummerbund and tie as well. At this point, all he had on were his shirt and his slacks and the shiniest pair of black patent leather shoes on which Trowa had ever laid eyes.
As he approached, he heard a sigh.
“What’s wrong, Quatre?”
The other boy looked up, momentarily startled. Then a sheepish little smile broke across his face. He shrugged, waving at the rosebush. “It’s not doing too well,” he said. “I’ve tried everything that I can, but it’s still—I don’t know—ill. The flowers aren’t as full as they should be, the colors are faded, and the leaves aren’t firm.”
Trowa stared at the ailing rosebush for a brief moment. “I heard that music would do wonders for plants. Have you ever tried playing Mozart to it?”
Quatre stared blankly at the plant for several seconds at first that Trowa thought the boy didn’t hear him. Then he burst out laughing, his voice ringing clearly in the calm silence around them.
“Of course!” he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead, his shoulders shaking. “God, how stupid I can be! I didn’t even think about that!”
“Sometimes the simplest or the most obvious solutions are the ones we don’t see.”
Quatre turned to grin at him. “I know,” he replied, his laughter dying out. “I’ve been guilty of that one too many times now, myself. I suppose it’s just one of those lessons that takes you a lifetime to learn, right?”
Trowa regarded him quietly, cocking his head to the side, a ghost of a smile lighting up his face. “Sometimes several—sometimes an eternity,” he said. He watched his friend’s expression shift subtly—from one of open friendliness to one of mild anticipation, his mouth partially opening as though to speak but immediately clamping shut when the words died in his throat. Realization slowly dawned, marking its progress in the way Quatre’s eyes widened just a little, his eyebrows rising in mute inquiry, an odd air of curiosity and dread pervading his manner.
“So ask me then,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Trowa smiled, and he asked his question, and eternity seemed to enfold them in her cloak.
Notes:
The significance of the ivy in the title is that it symbolizes friendship and immortality, and the first scene was partially inspired by Oscar Wilde’s “The Nightingale and the Rose.” I love that man, yes, I do. ^_^ And many, many thanks to Manon for her help in the French translations.
[1] “Good morning, Ophelie. You look wonderful.”
“I can’t say the same for you. What did you think you would accomplish, Étienne?”
[2] “Do you love him?”
“Yes, I did love him.”
“He never knew, did he?”
“He never loved me the way I loved him.”
[3] “Is the barricade still standing?”
“No. It’s been leveled. Nothing’s left—no one’s left. Your ideals are dead, Étienne.”
“They’ll live on. Perhaps for now our dreams are crushed. But the people will rise up again, Ophelie, so long as they’re oppressed. I promise you that.”
[4] “Hello, my little friend…I see you’ve come back to keep me company again.”
“Any songs for me today? I need to forget my pain for a moment.”