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Rose Hathford

"Magic is the folly of those who don't want to believe in reason."

0 · 410 views · located in Earth

a character in “Spheres of the Aether”, as played by Nephthys

Description

Image
"Good laws have their origins in bad morals."
—Ambrosius Macrobius



Full NameImage
"Primrose Evangeline Hathford-Willis. Is that enough, or should I go into the titles I should technically have inherited? What about extended family names? Traditional inheritances? No, don't answer that. It's called sarcasm."

Since her parents divorced, she goes only by Primrose Evangeline Hathford.


Aliases
"Rose will do. It's formal enough."

    [+] Rose
    [+] Prim (Familial)
    [+] Prissy (Childish)
    [+] Prinsley (Familial)
    [+] Rosie (Diminutive)

Age
"Twenty-two. Young? Yes. Too young? Certainly not."

    [+] 15 (Age at high school equivalency graduation)
    [+] 17 (Age at entrance into college.)
    [+] 19.5 (Age at completion of American Bachelor's Degree.)
    [+] 22.5 (Current age.)


Gender
"One would think it's obvious that I'm female. Do I come across as masculine to you?"




Sphere [&] Abilities
"Sphere? What sphere? Is there some information you haven't cared to enlighten me of at this moment? Do, tell."

    [+] A girl's best friend is her law book. Though young, Rose has graduated law school with flying colors. She's currently taking work as a paid intern at one of the most prestigious law firms in Australia. The story of her coming to her current position is a long one, but it can be summarized somewhat succinctly: with lots of study. Rose worked hard to get where she is. Though doubtless a child prodigy, it took her no less effort than the average law student to gain admission to her law school of choice— admittedly, not the crùme de la crùme— and to keep an edge over all the other students. She hasn't taken life's easy route by any consideration.

    [+] I play by the rules. Having studied, studied, and studied throughout college, Rose knows law, international and otherwise, inside and out. The fruits of her countless hours in the library have already begun to grow ripe, as she's constantly finding legal loopholes in the technicalities and the wordings of the laws she spent so many hours studying. In order to gain an edge over the other, highly competitive law students, Rose memorized entire passages, word-for-word, and played them at face value— exactly at face value. She takes the law, and all other rules, by the letter and nothing more, bending the meaning to fit her will in a way that's sure to leave an airtight conclusion.

    [+] Oh, the things you'll learn. Rose has the uncanny ability to memorize nearly anything word-for-word, no matter the length, given the right amount of time. She has an extremely elastic memory and has the willpower of a bull. With those two skills combined, she's memorized entire epic poems at various points in her life. She does tend to forget all but the most striking of passages, though, over the course of time.

    [+] Hell hath no fury. Rose is extremely sharp-tongued and has no problem tearing apart those who oppose her. She does her research before meeting anyone, making use of many of her father's connections to earn leverage she herself wouldn't normally have. That said, Rose can use almost anything to roast an opponent, from sheer force to a well-structured counterargument.
Tools [&] Weapons

    [+] Bookworm. Throughout her childhood, teenage years, and her somewhat brief college years, Rose has always been reading. The pursuit of academic knowledge has always seemed lucrative. As such, Rose, with her uncanny memory, can act like a walking encyclopedia at times. She looks at everything through the lens of technicalities and little-known facts, using this, as well as anything else, to gain whatever edge she can in life.

    [+] Daddy, daddy. Having just recently moved off her father's property, Rose is still extremely close to the man who made her what she is. A South African making his fortune in old money and blood money alike, he's extremely supported of his twin daughters, especially the more academically successful Primrose, who takes after him more than he's comfortable admitting. He's a very powerful man who's extremely devoted to his children. Most don't want to mess with Rose's family even if they can.

    [+] The one I'll never let go. Though it's not as good as her rifle, Rose is never without her .22 handgun.
Strengths [&] Weaknesses

    [+] Sweet Naïveté. Though well-read, Rose has experienced little in her life, so she can be a bit naïve at times. Because of this, she sometimes has trouble discerning the emotions of others and can be insensitive, cruel, and act without regard for the people she should care about. It should be noted that this isn't intentional, but it is a large flaw in her personality that she's lost to more than she'd like.

    [+] The call me old-fashioned. While she hardly stands up for stereotyped gender roles at all, Rose has a very old-fashioned sense of manners. She always does her hardest to be polite, and though she hardly goes out of her way to help others, she believes that she's entitled to the same amount of 'respect' she dishes out to others. She feels entitled to a lot of things, however, and she doesn't handle not getting what she wants very well.

    [+] Child of the light. Rose was born into a privileged family. Though she has had to work to get into college and to garner a position at the law firm, she isn't used to working in the more manual sense and can come across as bratty. One way or another, Rose has always seen her dreams come true, so she doesn't take well to failure and will do whatever it takes, expending whatever resources possible, to get what she wants. There's nothing Rose wouldn't do to get her way— except break the law.

    [+] Keeper of the peace. As a lawyer, Rose plays by the rules. That, however, doesn't mean she'll always do the right thing. Rose has an uncanny way with getting away with things, able to separate wording from actual meaning and use anything she can to her advantage. Rose will often find loopholes and missteps that rules have made and use that to 'break them—' and then argue her way out on the premise that she never actually did anything wrong.

    [+] Eyes and ears. Rose has access to large amounts of information the average person wouldn't normally be able to use. As such, she tends to know more about those she meets with than they do about her. Through her networks, she'll often find instances and mishaps she can use as leverage to get what she wants from a person. No one is truly an enigma, given enough time before the meeting.

Appearance

    Clean-cut, well-dressed, and with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, Rose is the very image of the young, serious businesswoman. Though there's still a hint of child in her face, she has a drawn-out, feminine figure with a narrow waist and hips that perfectly match her rather-average bust. Tall, standing at 5'7 even without her ubiquitous black heels, she can seem an imposing if not regal figure in any light. Sharp green eyes gaze out from behind slim, rectangular glasses perched atop a very European nose even though the rest of her features are hinted with a touch of African mixed somewhere in her discerning blood.

    Rose typically dresses only in womens' business suits, though she does own a few dresses for the more formal occasions she attends. She prefers not to wear skirts for the purposes of both practicality and equality— she's found that she tends to be taken more seriously when she wears pants, so she does. As a young woman, there are a lot of things she's able to get away with, but the only risk she takes is with her heels— always black, always high, but quite varying in style. From pumps to open toes, Rose likes to play with her shoes, sometimes straddling the line between what's professional and what's not but always covering it up with darkness and the bottoms of her pants.

    Tempering out the small risks taken with the shoes, Rose dresses professionally, otherwise, pulling her black hair black into a sleek bun that smooths out any of the slight waves she might have. Her bangs are thick but clean-cut, preserving her youthful appearance.
Personality

    Rose considers herself a proper lady. Tutored and held to a strict standard since birth, she accepts nothing short of perfection in all that she does. Having learned to read earlier than most, Rose can hardly remember a time when she wasn't studying or doing research. She never had time for fun. Rose is serious, studious, logical, and practical, with no desire to partake in frivolities like dating and video games.

    Some might say she has no social life, no hobbies, but that's certainly not true. Rose's hobbies include learning and playing the violin, which she, with her aptitude for learning the small details and committing them to that sterling memory of hers, happens to be a master of, technically. She no longer gives public performances anymore, but she still does occasionally ride on her bit of childhood fame gained from the instrument. Years of strict conditioning and practice have left her a very talented player, and, having played it since she could follow instructions, she takes to it naturally. It should be noted, however, that her musicality is put second to technique.

    Now that she's out of law school, Rose doesn't do much because she doesn't have much to study anymore. She would have taken up reading, but twenty years of reading has left her with few worthwhile books she hasn't read. Rose doesn't much care for fiction or sensationalized nonfiction. Sometimes, she rereads the works of the great philosophers, but she disagrees with them, so they sometimes annoy her.

    While it should be noted that Rose is naturally an intelligent girl, she is by no means 'extremely brilliant,' naturally. Years of intense practice have made her what she is. Rose is dedicated and will sit down and learn things no matter how unpleasant or how long she has to spend to do it. Because of this, Rose is somewhat underdeveloped emotionally and can come off as cold and cutting around others— she didn't have friends as a child, and it shows. She goes through the motions of social interactions like a robot. And she deadpans sarcasm like no other. Rose lacks a sense of humor and doesn't really laugh much.

    Because of her lack of understanding of her own and others' emotions, Rose had found much success in the world of law. She's cutthroat and intense, a girl who knows the books in and out who has spent the better part of her life being held to a standard too high above her head to see. For the moment, she doesn't much care that she has nothing to do in her free time when there's no more studying to be done (aside from memorizing more passages).

    ...well, and then there's Bec, too. Even cold, unfeeling Prim had a childhood crush, and, though she'll never admit it, she still has feelings for her eccentric islander best friend. Even she can see that he's everything she isn't: wild, free, raw, and unconstrained to her own, heavily cultured self. Most of their communication uses Skype, but they have met up when Bec was in town. The two can talk for ages. Bec's really the only person Rose will let her metaphorical hair down for (because obviously, she wouldn't let down her real hair). She's so out-of-touch with her own emotions, however, that she doesn't quite understand what she feels for him— only that she a) isn't going to say a word about it, b) she's going to keep him forever, and c) no one else is getting him anytime soon.
Likes [&] Dislikes

    [+] Violin.
    [+] Quiet.
    [+] Reading.
    [+] Philosophy.
    [+] Proper grammar.
    [+] Polished manners.
    [+] Shooting.
    [--] Accents.
    [--] Disorder and mess.
    [--] Physical work.
    [--] Losing her glasses.
    [--] Having to actually do something with her hair.
    [--] Fashion and dressing up.
    [--] Her sister.








History

    Born the second of two twins to a South African 'businessman' and an American model, Primrose and her sister, Violet, were sheltered from the day they were born. On their father's sprawling property on the seaside, they were kept indoors and tutored rather than being left outside to play in the sun. This, however, was just the first of a seemingly endless stream of nannies and tutors to raise her in the stead of the mother who wanted nothing to do with the children who'd ruined her perfect body with the remnants and scars of pregnancy.

    The twins themselves, however, were extremely close. They'd developed their own sign language before they were able to fully form spoken sentences— both precocious young girls, they did get themselves into a bit of trouble in the early years. At the age of three, it was decided that the girls would be raised separately. Rose's father knew all too well the dangers of becoming too emotionally attached in his harsh, blood-filled world. Rose, who was never much the talkative one, grew quieter, receding into her books to fill the void. She's never quite gotten over that feeling, though she doesn't remember that part of her life very well. At that age, she also began the violin and her ballet lessons.

    The girls were classically trained and raised from that age. From across the house, Rose could hear her identical self practicing the piano, and she would sometimes call back with a musical response of her own, but their parents did the best they could to keep them apart. Even at a young age, Rose lost herself in her studies, forming the habit that would later make up her entire life.

    Little happened between the ages of three and ten. Rose and Violet's parents' marriage was in the beginning stages of falling apart, but they kept it from the children as much as they kept themselves from them. Rose grew ever more distant from her sister, who was training herself to become a singer— opera, at first, able to pick among the highest notes with the ease of a dancer. Rose had given her first public performance at the age of seven and had given a few since, giving musical momentum to her own name, but she was torn between her academic and her musical studies. Continuing both, she found herself making something of a name for herself in the higher music circles. A few of her compositions, released when she was twelve, made some rounds, and she gave a few more performances before temporarily giving up the instrument at thirteen. At this age, she also met Bec through her parents, who were, unbeknownst to her, looking for possible men to prod their daughter to marry in later years.

    Rose finished the requirements for high school studies at fifteen. Too young to be accepted by most worthwhile universities, she continued her studies. Her sister, on the other hand, was accepted into a prestigious French musical conservatory for piano and classical voice. Violet was working on her first album, which was relatively successful but nothing notable.

    In the interim, Rose let up on her studies a bit more and took up the violin again while continuing her training in classical ballet. She auditioned for a number of national and international orchestras, and within a year's time she was called upon to travel. Knowing she couldn't tour on both schedules, Rose gave up the ballet opportunity to play with the international youth orchestra. While she continued to practice, a knee injury from hauling a cello prompted her to quit it altogether so she could focus on getting more to put on her college application. On arriving home, she found that her parents had gotten a divorce.

    College and law school were a blur of studying like mad, and somehow, Rose ended up where she is today. She isn't quite sure how.
Other
None.


Image

So begins...

Rose Hathford's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bec Hemingway Character Portrait: Rose Hathford
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Bec Hemingway [&] Rose Hathford



"Why is it that the most fascinating things in life never seem to be the beautiful little curses that play right into our waiting palms? It's like we're always watching, always waiting, for the one fluke of fate that'll never come."




"Bec, is there a reason you're sitting in a pile of clothes, or should I just leave you be and come back later?" 

It was the sort of question Rose had become all too used to asking over the course of the last few days as they hopped from one budget motel to the next. “Because if you’re telling me that you biggest revelation has something to do with plaid boxers and— and whatever all the rest of these things are,” she said, gesturing to the other, unidentifiable objects strewn among the various articles of clothing covering the floor underneath her friend, “I think I’ll have wasted the flight out here completely.”

Bec muttered something in French that Rose couldn’t quite catch. With a sigh, she knelt down, carefully balanced in a pair of expensive black heels, and laid a hand on Bec’s shoulder. “Alright. Let’s get you dressed, and we’ll discuss this over breakfast, alright? Where’d you put your clothes? Go take a shower, and I’ll clean up. Alright? I hear there’s a nice cafĂ© down the street.” Bec nodded his assent and stood as Rose eyed the obscene mess of cloth and paper that seemed to cover the carpet.

“Il suffit de ne pas gĂącher le papier sur la commode,” he mumbled as though he were drunk. “I need them pour plus tard.” He had a terrible accent when he mixed his languages— something caught between West African and QuĂ©bĂ©cois with a slight hint of Rose's own cultured British thrown into the slurry. The Africanized syllables sounded strange on his tongue, as his voice was nowhere near as rich, deep, and guttural as the men it suited. For his height, Rose still found herself surprised how soft-spoken he was. It brought her back to the days when they'd both been thirteen. She'd been taller than him back then, and even now, she couldn't help thinking the arrangement had suited them better. She wasn't sure when he'd gotten so tall.

"Don't worry," she said, her own French more regal and practiced like her English— she'd taken it upon herself since the age of six to drop her native South African accent, picked up from the Afrikaans-laced babble of the nannies, for the more cultured British of her tutors. If she was going to speak a language, she might as well speak it well. "I'm not going to lay a hand on the papers on the dresser."

With that, she set to work tidying up the room. Her hands, somewhat unused to the thought of picking up, folding, and putting away. After an arrival an hour ago, she and Bec had each gone to their respective rooms. The places were a bit lacking in amenities, but she’d suspected that Bec had seen worse from the way almost started jumping up and down at the thought of a hot shower. Life without running water was almost unimaginable to Rose herself; here she was, now, picking up Bec’s clothes from where he’d dumped them in a pile on the floor, doing her best to remember how to fold a shirt. She’d found him there, reading, of all things, when she’d come in to check on why he’d left the door ajar. It was a strange sight, the pale man stripped down to a turtleneck and jeans reading some Hindi book in a pile of more turtlenecks and jeans.

Strange, yes, but oddly charming. Rose smiled to herself. Bec was a fascinating fellow. She couldn’t wait to hear what he’d asked her to fly all the way out to the United States to see.

***

Bec traced symbols on the shower door, lost in thought in the steam. The water was hot enough to scald his skin to some extent, but he didn’t mind— he was used to being hot, and the small pinpricks of pain felt only like a series of tiny fingers drumming across his back. He was still lost in thought after Rose had barged in and torn him from his book, saying something in English about cleaning up and cafĂ©s. Which was odd, seeing as Rose wasn’t much one to frequent either. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard her right. His English was always bad when he read in a language he wasn’t familiar with. New languages he translated back to his native French before he was fluent, so she’d caught him at a bad time. Thinking in three languages at once wasn’t exactly easy.

But even if she had said something about cafĂ©s, cleaning, or the both of them at once, she was in an oddly good mood— another oddity, knowing the pleasantly stuffy Rose of yore. He’d expected her to balk at the offer of a bargain motel, knowing she was used to the grounds of her father’s multi-million dollar estate and the too-elegant apartment she’d moved into in Australia. Until college, he himself had lived in similar circumstances. The first few months in the tsunami’s wake were torture, after all. No electricity. No computers. While Rose’s transition was hardly as extreme, he’d thought he’d know her pain.

With a downward stroke of finality, Bec drew the twelfth symbol onto the fogged glass and smiled to himself. Now, he carried a generator with him everywhere he went.

He was tempted to call forth a small field of heat around his body, to boil away the water before it touched his skin. He knew not to electrify it; after the first few experiments, also taking place as he thought in the shower, he’d been shocked enough times to have been trained like a dog not to do such things.

But still. Curiosity always got the better of him— and it was curiosity, that feeling of wonder as it laid untouched in the heart of the wonderer, that killed the cat. A little experimentation never hurt if it quelled a curious mind. As he rinsed the lather from his hair, Bec mentally pulled at the strange, invisible force. It felt like squinting into the distance, trying to focus the eyes on something blurred and unseen too far away to have a distinct form. He felt a tugging in his chest as the power came forth. He knew that imagining the feeling of falling let the power lift off his skin to create barriers and that if he pushed the barriers out fast enough he could create explosions. He knew, to some extent, how to create hot but not how to create cold. But, perhaps, if he felt as though he was falling backwards...

He felt a gust of air as the water falling onto him from above was shifted forward, suddenly, jetted forward onto the wall by what seemed to be raw kinetic energy. Fascinating. He’d have to write that one down. The ensuing seconds were a rush of washing the rest of the bubbly lather from his hair and making sure he’d washed off all the soap. It was a nightmare of Bec’s, finding a patch of soap still left on the skin and having to be out and about with the sticky feeling for the rest of the day. When he complained about it to Rose on his three-month trek through the jungle with those peculiar soap films, she just hadn’t understood his misery. He’d told her they should get out more, invited her to join him to go to Costa Rica to study the birds there for the self-aware navigation prototypes, and then he must have pissed her off because she stopped talking to him all of a sudden. She blamed the Internet connection, but he didn’t believe her. He’d set up that connection himself, and it didn’t fail. It just couldn’t. At least, as far as he knew. He wrapped himself up in a towel, kicking his old clothes into a corner to ignore later.

Speaking of Rose: there she was, cross-legged on the bed with his book like a cultivated lotus with her hand over her mouth. At first, due to the fact that he couldn’t actually see her because he wasn’t wearing his glasses, she thought she was shocked— but at what? He squinted around the room and gave her a quizzical look. What was so shocking she was making a dramatic gesture like that? Rose wasn’t a terribly expressive woman, and Bec, who’d known her for ten years, knew that all too well. He squinted harder at her. The action did nothing for him, and he was left in the dark until he picked up on the little noises she was making.

She was giggling. Rose, sitting there, thumbing through a book she couldn’t read on a bug-infested excuse for a mattress in a cheap hotel. Giggling. Was this Rose? She was acting weird around him, lately. He’d never understood the enigmatic Rose Hathford, and now the Lotus was even more confusing. Normally, he would have relished confusing, but when it came to Rose, erratic behavior just worried him. In Rose, erratic behavior was part of the erraticism in itself. She never slipped up with her routine. Never just took time off. Was there something she wasn’t telling him? Did she have a brain tumor?

Oh, God, it was a brain tumor, wasn’t it? Rose had a brain tumor, and she’d wanted to tell him in person. Was she still giggling? Or was she crying? He couldn’t tell. It’d been such a tiny noise. Was she choking on her own blood, then? Was she dying of a brain tumor, right there in front of him? He fumbled for the wire-framed things on the bedside table and put them on one-handed, the other kept full with the handful of towel he clutched to his chest.

Nope. She was still giggling. When her features at last came into focus, there was one of the few smiles he’d ever seen on her that extended fully to her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether or not it suited her. But it was certainly strange.

“What? What is it?” he asked in English this time. Rose didn’t laugh again, but she was still staring, incredulity splashed across her features. He spoke his father’s British underlaid with his mother’s lilting Arabic tones.

Rose’s smile cracked. “Bec, do you know how to use a blow-dryer?”

Bec put a hand to his hair, his fingers coming to a stop well before he reached his scalp. Each hair stood on end, gravitating away from his head to form something of a fuzzy ball. Static electricity, he thought. Definitely one for the books.

***

A few minutes after Rose had excused herself to let Bec back at his clothes knowing he had no qualms about nudity— another of the items on Rose’s long list of capital sins that she wouldn’t stand to see. He didn’t have qualms about many things, having lived alone on the island most of his life. Comparatively, Rose was nothing but qualms.

Rose stood outside the door on one foot, leaning against the wall and picking invisible specks of mud from her shoes as she waited for her friend to change. It had been embarrassing, how she’d let herself slip earlier and broken down giggling, but she had to admit that the ordeal had caught her off-guard. It was strange how they tempered each other out. She hated the unexpected, but somehow it wasn’t so bad. Though Bec had looked something a touch more than shocked when he caught her laughing. Worried? It was out of the ordinary, but she couldn’t wrap her head around his being worried, of all things.

She supposed that was what old friends were for.

Rose straightened her jacket out, smoothing the once-stiff creases that had deteriorated into nothing more than wrinkles in the Florida heat. The white blouse she wore underneath felt as though it was a layer of tissue paper glued to her skin. The ruffles had gone limp, and it was likely her hair would have, too, if it wasn’t pinned back in a bun.

At last, Bec was finished changing. She didn’t notice him until he was standing in front of her, eyes covered by the ubiquitous pair of dark sunglasses, face obscured by what could pass for a woman’s headwrap draped over the neck of his shirt. Save for his height, he could pass for female if he had a worthwhile falsetto. Rose peeled herself off the wall hoping she didn’t smell too badly of sweat. She could feel it, and the stickiness was nearing unbearable. While she stood still, she was able to ignore it, but now that her skin was moving again it felt like a sticky weight she couldn’t quite manage to escape.

“Did you say we were going somewhere?” Bec asked, “I wasn’t sure I heard you right the first time, so I don’t want to assume anything.”

Rose nodded. “There’s a cafĂ© a few blocks down according to, well,” she paused, “Google. Sounded worth a try. I did come all the way here so you could show me something, after all. What is this that’s so important? I usually put in extra hours on the weekends, and I don’t like to be wasting valuable time with which I could be networking hanging around in a motel room.” She didn’t mention the couples that had drifted in and out of the room next door. She didn’t mention the dead-eyed women passing by her doorstep hanging on the arms of men who filled them with promise of life in the land of the free and the brave. She didn’t mention how she seemed to instinctively avoid the darker-skinned ones as they passed her by in the hallways wanting for nothing more than hope and forgiveness as though they’d dirty her clothing with their very presence.

“Well, then. Let’s get going,” Bec replied with a smile.

It was astonishing how blind he could be, sometimes.

***

Bec sunk his teeth into his croissant, tearing into the thing with no mercy after the long flight from Denver. Starving, he’d coated it with artificial sugar, first, claiming he liked the taste, then slathered it in tart jam to take the edge off the sweetness. Rose, on the other hand, picked at a more polite helping of a strawberry tart. She’d been given a salad fork and a butter knife, and neither of the two had proved useful in anything other than crumbling the sweet. She was hesitant to pick up the crumbs, not wanting to risk ruining the already sweat-drenched blouse with the sticky red filling clinging to the plate.

“So,” Bec said through a mouthful of crumbs— how could he do that without looking like a complete pig?— “About the, ah, thing I brought you here to see.”

Rose leaned closer, folding her arms on the table in front of her.

Bec fumbled for some sugar and ended up squinting hard at the salt shaker for a few seconds before reaching into his bag and pulling out a stack of papers. He seemed to be at a loss for words. “You see,” he said, holding up a pair of x-rays. He spread them out on the table. Rose sipped casually at her tea before peering up over at the images. But it was only the calm before the storm.

She couldn’t help dropping the tea. It covered her blouse, shattering on the floor, drawing stares. Drawing pain from her skin. But her body had shut down. Gone numb.

“Bec,” she breathed. “You’re dying.”




[Rose Hathford]

Please don't stand so close to me
I'm having trouble breathing
I'm afraid of what you'll see right now.
[Bec Hemingway]

Send us a blindfold, send us a blade
Tell the survivors help is on the way
I was a blindfold, never complained.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Bec Hemingway Character Portrait: Rose Hathford
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Bec Hemingway [&] Rose Hathford



”The lotus flower is fragile and finicky; once rid of its protective tuber, its petals as well as its roots become too delicate to travel far.”




People were staring, but Bec Hemingway was hardly the type of person to notice.

What he did notice, however, was that Rose was staring. Rose, her face stonier than he’d ever seen it— though, admittedly, he hadn’t spoken to her much face-to-face, as he’d spent half his time halfway around the world from her— Rose, eyes like a pair of emeralds turned sharp as diamonds, was staring him down, not even bothering to to clean up the tea she’d spilled over the table, the floor, and most shockingly, her blouse.

Bec squinted at the blurs that dotted the table and seized the nearest thing that even vaguely resembled a napkin, then leaned over the cafĂ© table to dab at her shirt because she’d frozen still as stone. He spent a few moments silently patting her with a napkin before realizing it was one of the more worn pieces of paper from the folder he’d brought with him to the cafĂ©. He made a face and tried wiping it off on his own shirt, but from what he could make out, all he’d managed to do was smudge the ink even more. Oh well. Hopefully, it wasn’t the one he’d bought in Morocco. Just to be sure, he raised it to his faced and inhaled through his nose. Sure enough, all it smelled of was tea and what he presumed was Rose’s shampoo— or whatever else it was that women wore to make themselves smell nice. He was slightly disappointed that she smelled like lilacs and sweat instead of roses.

Bec peered up at Rose again over the paper, about to comment on his latest scent-related findings, when he remembered that she was staring at him. While he couldn’t make out her face, he could make out her eyes, and they were trained right on him. Her lips were formed into a pencil-straight line. Was that an improvement over the slight, disapproving frown she always seemed to carry with her? He wasn’t sure. It was odd, the way her face-blob seemed to change shape when the corners of her mouth-blob weren’t turned down in her strange little Rose expression. It wasn’t exactly a frown; in fact, he’d grown to know Rose as just having that that face all the time. It was hard to imagine what she looked like without it.

His fingers searched for his glasses on the table. Had he even brought them? Hopefully, he wasn’t sitting on them. He’d bought a shatter-proof pair before he’d left for the Middle East, and the things could probably survive the nuclear apocalypse, but at the first whisper of the wind they were ready to bend themselves into a pretzel he’d spend the next half hour trying to straighten out. It didn’t help that he needed his glasses just to tell whether or not his frames were straight.

The sugar tin toppled, and Bec moved to clean it up, but Rose stopped him, resting her own hand on his. Her skin was cold and oddly smooth, unlike Bec’s own, which, though small and feminine, was covered in scars, scabs, and the odd callous he’d managed to rub into his forefinger by rubbing a coin against the inside of his hand for a week and a half straight as he walked. As Bec moved to take it away, Rose’s grip tightened enough to make him wince a bit. With that, it loosened, but not by much.

“Bec,” she started, the words coming slowly, as though she was searching for them through murky waters, “Bec. Please tell me what that is a picture of.” Her voice was all ice, but something about it was off. He could have sworn it sounded as though her throat had gone tight. Was she having an allergic reaction to the strawberries? No, it couldn’t be. Rose loved strawberries. Then again, he had no reason to believe she wasn’t allergic. Bec moved his other hand to continue searching for his glasses so he could take a glance down her throat. Perhaps she didn’t know— Rose wasn’t stupid, after all. She wouldn’t eat strawberries if she knew she had an allergy. Rose’s voice, however, cut him off again. “Bec!”

“Mm?” Bec’s eyes found hers as they found purchase in reality once again. “Yes. Ah. What picture?”

“The scans of your chest. The ones you just showed me. Would you care to tell me what those are supposed to mean?” She was over-enunciating her words, now, and Bec, for the life of him, couldn’t tell why. She sounded so funny with that accent of hers. He’d liked her old one much better.

“Ahm, the x-rays? Yes. If’ you’d care to hand me a—“

Before he could even finish his sentence, there was a napkin in his face, which was a good thing, as he couldn’t even begin to remember the English word for the thing with all the languages that had begun racing around inside his head. He began wiping the x-rays off. What had the nurses said? Of the few languages he had absolutely no proficiency in, Japanese was the least decipherable. Something about a solid yet energy-absorbent mass. Or maybe he was just making that up. That was what he’d seen when he’d looked at them. Bec repeated that to Rose, but doing so only earned him an even more confusing stare.

After a short moment of silence, she shook her head and said, “I believe it would benefit us both if you just spoke in English for the meantime.”

Now, he was just getting annoyed. How many times did he have to repeat himself? He’d already gone through the words once in his head and once orally. Again? “It’s an energy-attractive mass, presumably impermeable and nonporous, possibly crystalline, that’s formed within the past few years in the center of a cyst. Presumably, it’s a near-perfect sphere or an ovoid. There’s neither swelling nor any fibrous tissue outside the cystic formations.”

Rose’s gripped loosened a bit, and Bec was able to start drumming his fingers on the tabletop. It was something of a nervous habit of his, and clearly it annoyed Rose because within moments she’d clamped her hand back town harder than before.

“That. Does not. Explain. Anything,” she practically snarled. This time, Bec caught something of a crack in her voice. Her reaction was irritating. Certainly, it explained enough. He’d just described the thing to the best of his ability. What more did she want?

“Well, then what do you want to know? I’m doing the best I can, and I don’t know why you’re acting the way you are,” he snapped. Immediately, he wished he could take it back. At exactly that moment, a small, perky waitress clutching a mop popped up only to retreat back a few steps like a tiny rabbit in the face of an oncoming lawnmower at the sound of Bec’s words.

“Excuse me, you don’t mind if I—“

The waitress was cut short by the sudden grating of Rose’s chair followed by the sound of her heels clattering away over the patio and then out the door. Bec shot an apologetic glance toward the waitress and slipped a few Euros from his pocket onto the table. He had no idea how much a cup was supposed to cost, and he hated just letting his money go, but what else was he supposed to do? His hands finally found the glasses case Rose’s hand had prevented him from finding, and he was on his feet in a second, suddenly towering over the petite woman with the mop. He tried to smile, but the expression he made came out more of a grimace than something friendly enough to pass for a smile. In a moment’s time, however, he was past the poor woman and heading for the door. His hands had just enough time to reach out automatically for the things he’d know he’d need: his coat, his scarf, and his sunglasses. He stood for a second outside the door throwing the three on, which garnered him a couple stares from the passerby dressed more appropriately for approaching midday heat.

And then he was off. With his sight restored, he had to resist the impulse to start staring things down to make up for whatever beauty he might have lost while he was sitting in the cafĂ©. There were too many fascinating things around him, and if he let his mind drift off onto one, he’d be finding more in an instant. Instead, he looked to the masses of heads milling about the sidewalks and streets, sifting through the hairstyles for one resembling Rose’s. Surprisingly, most were wearing no more than shorts, tank tops, and flip flops, which was something of an odd sight after having spent two months trying to figure out who was who in which burqa. He hoped they’d all put on sunscreen.

There. He saw it. In an ocean of artificial curls gone limp in the heat and humidity, Rose’s smooth bun was visible in an instant. He set off after her.

***

Rose was on the verge of doing the unthinkable: losing her composure in public. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she was nearly stumbling in her in her heels. She knew she’d start to blister if she ran too much in peep-toes, so she slowed down— though not by much. She just wanted to get away from Bec for a moment. She couldn’t handle this. She wasn’t sure why he’d had to tell her about this in person when she was a girl who fit so much better behind the curtains of a computer screen and an ocean. If they’d done that, left her at home behind her monitor, she didn’t have to keep her face up. She could just disappear. She could get away from Bec and sort out her thoughts on her own.

As if thinking of the Devil could call him to her side, Bec’s hand was on her shoulder in an instant. She brushed it off and kept walking, but she slowed her pace to a totter. She wouldn’t stop, but if he wanted to follow her, that was fine.

“Rose,” Bec started, “Rose, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

No. She wasn’t okay at all. She wanted Bec to go away, but she wasn’t going to be rude and just tell him. Even if she’d wanted to, she knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him to just... leave. To just let her be.

Before she knew it, he’d caught up, the cloudlicker’s legs giving him no trouble in keeping up her pace. Rose resisted the urge to swat him away like the oversized fly he was.

“Rose!”

Rose turned sharply at the next corner, then turned again onto the nearest off-street. The colors in the shops had all morphed into one chaotic hue, a waltz of tumbling shades and shapeless forms drowning out her thoughts and her vision. She turned, then turned again as though she could lose the man beside her. Bec was saying things again, but she wouldn’t give him her attention. She’d become petty like that. Every little victory gave her mood a boost even though no amount of wins or tiny flutters of the heart could pull her out of the pit she’d retreated into.

Suddenly, Bec was in front of her, hands on her shoulders, stopping her where she stood. It didn’t work as intended; she’d noticed too late, and they collided. Rose wobbled slightly in her shoes, but she stayed where she was, frozen, before Bec took a step back and opened his goddamned mouth again. He wasn’t letting go this time. He knew she’d run away.

“Rose, you’re acting really stra—“

The resounding crack of her slap left an echo and a very shocked Bec frozen in her dust as she stormed back into the main street, disappearing into the roiling crowd that had formed just outside where they stood. She was done with him. She was done with meeting people in person. She was done with all of this. She was taking the next flight out of here and leaving before her emotions got the better of her.

And to think she’d actually cleaned earlier.

She huffed and pushed her way through the crowd. She couldn’t have cared less about the feet she stepped on. She just needed to sit down. Her body meshed with the sea of others and her mind melded with the noise. Vaguely, she registered clicking shutters. It smelled of sweat and desperation. Home sweet home. But it was too hot to contemplate, and in a moment’s time, she’d found herself a seat on a bench outside a revolving door. Wherever she was, it looked like a hotel. She felt somewhat out of place— though the reason surprised even Rose. It wasn’t because she was on the verge of tears or because she was the only one dressed like a proper human being; no, it was because she was the only one in the crowd not toting a camera.

In a half-hearted effort to blend in, Rose took out her cell phone and pretended to do something.

OOC: Bec’s just going to be left standing there in the hotel’s back alley all alone :( and he can’t see too much, either, seeing as he’s wearing sunglasses in the dark.





[Rose Hathford]

Please don't stand so close to me
I'm having trouble breathing
I'm afraid of what you'll see right now.
[Bec Hemingway]

Send us a blindfold, send us a blade
Tell the survivors help is on the way
I was a blindfold, never complained.