FC: Rose | Blanche
1: "You were carved from stone but your heart is just sand in the wind" | - Bright Eyes
2: Every movement she makes is pure music. Music that can only be heard echoing within the deepest cages of the mind; it inspires a feeling that grows in the pit of your stomach until it becomes so large that it pushes on your heart until it bursts, painting your cheeks with the reddest rouge. Her hair is the most vibrant brown of autumn, tinted by dark nights and golden mornings. She is delicate, but not frail. She is the definition of beauty, her lucid skin shimmering in a cloud white dress; corseted bodice, soft bell skirt just covering her knees...she is not wearing shoes. | Her appearances are rare and particular. There has been talk for centuries; beware the white woman and white roses and black heart, for any mortal who may be captivated shall never find peace... For years, the little village of Amaline has rolled slowly on next to time and space with only the dancing yellow meadows and weary hands of hard work to keep it company. But the mold was broken one day as it had not been done for as long as any of the old memories could recall. Old woman wrinkled their foreheads and massaged their temples; “Oh but no,” they said. “I have never heard of such an incredible story!” The story of Pépin they speak of, the boy’s name foreign on their thin lips. He is the boy who Mirabelle chose; she beckoned for him as he walked home from a long day at the market bakery, his hair and blue wrinkled shirt dusted with flour. He did not watch the road, was not prepared for her. His eyes were glued to the leather-bound book he held gently in his calloused hands. She calls his name. How does she know my name? he asks. But he does not care when he sees her face. He follows her
3: as she dances before him, dances under the watchful eye of the setting sun until the pair reach a white wooden house with a creaky front porch and peeling paint. But the paint is peeling perfectly. The pair dance together next to a vase of white roses on an oak table. But she must leave; her mother lives in the forest she says. Please come back and visit me, Pépin... Okay, if this is not making any sense, here’s the general idea: Mirabelle is a ghost of sorts; in her real life, her husband cheated on her with another woman, who gave birth to an illegitimate child. Out of anger, she accidently knocks over a candle stick and sets her old family home on fire. Only the rose garden at the back of the property survived, and all the roses were white. In order to redeem herself, Mirabelle’s restless soul is constantly seeking a loyal lover who she will never be able to have, considering all the men she goes after are mortal humans. She disregards this, however, believing that she will somehow find peace in the men she haunts. Every man that she captures is doomed to die though, for the house always burns after the seventh day. The men always disown her before their fiery death, and thus her guilt and anger always continues. In this story, she captivates the heart of a mortal man, Pépin. Pépin is suspicious. Her shadow is too faint, her skin is too clear. But she is utterly beautiful, and he cannot help but dance with her on warm the summer evenings, passing time in that beautiful old house. After seven days, Mirabelle does not wait for him after work. Pépin goes to the house anyway, and finds her sitting on her porch steps, a white rose in her hand. She is crying, her tears like raindrops. Pépin tries to comfort her, but she looks up at him with glassy eyes, and the rose begins to burn. Pépin backs away in terror as her snowy hands are engulfed in flames, yet she does not burn. The fire outlines her delicate frame, and slowly the flames lap at
4: the porch steps. Pépin cannot see any way to escape, for she is blocking the doorway and the fire is quickly growing. He is about to yell, to scream at her for her insanity, her treachery. But the desperation in her eyes prevents him from doing so. He walks slowly towards her, her body glowing like a candle flame. A single tear graces his cheek. “It’s okay. I love you,” he says. He wraps his arms around her burning body, and together, the two die, evaporating into a white peaceful forever. Pépin has broken the spell, and the two live happily ever after.