"Humans are beautiful, beautiful flowers," he says, holding up a small red rose and taking my right hand. It's tiny next to his rough one, a child's hand in a teacher's. "They can get close to you and help you, make you think that they love and care about you." He brushes my long black hair away from my face, then puts the rose flat on my palm and waves his hand at it. The base of its stem expands, twisting out, growing longer as it awakens from the dormancy he'd put it in. I flinch, but do not drop it. In the darkness of my small room, Ereniar's piercing green eyes are bright, making sure that I pay attention.
"They'll do so many things for you, little Key," he murmurs gently, "and you'll think that you owe them, that they've just made big sacrifices for you, when there is almost no one who will actually do something meaningful for you."
I am quiet, knowing that I am a human. Does this mean that I will also do empty things? I look over at Angel, who is busy exploring my dark room, her white dress sticking out like the rose from my hand. Even though she is young like me, she is vibrant and kind, my opposite. If there is not love behind her actions, then what is there?
A sharp pain races through me, and I glance down, startled to see that the rose's thorny stem has wrapped itself around my hand. Small droplets of blood, red and shiny like the now-full petals of the rose, slide down my fingers and below my palm, stray ones disappearing into my black dress. What does he have in mind?
"Humans are like these roses, impossibly charming, beyond beautiful," Ereniar tells me softly. "But my child, I will warn you. If you allow someone to get too close, if you allow their roots to take hold..."
The flower is upright now, supporting itself with its painful anchors. It's climbing higher and higher, reaching for something that I can't, and drops of my blood dive towards the floor in protest. With a single motion, Ereniar grasps the flower and tears it off, angry gashes splitting open on my hand. I inhale sharply, not prepared for the burning pain, staggering back a little. Jagged petals drift down slowly, darker patches stained red with blood. I stare at my hand, at the many slices across my skin that weep crimson the way my eyes let go of tears now, the red liquid pooling quickly in my small palm.
"Whether it is you or they who chooses to leave first, it will be extremely painful," he tells me, the flower wilting away into ash in his hand. "And believe me, neither of you will come out undamaged."
