The Dying Rose

Chapter Two

Vincent looked around the gardens, feeling the bark on the trees and the petals from the variety of flowers. The Royal Garden was once in horrible condition: wilting roses, molding trees, but Vincent had come out there every night just to try and regrow everything to save them. Some of the roses didn't need replanting and only needed a little extra water. Vincent began to spend more time in the gardens than inside the Royal Castle. There were too many dead ends like a maze, and too many rooms to even begin to memorize where everything is. The guest corners surrounded the entire castle, which was one of the only things Vincent managed to remember. His own bedroom was just around the guest corners that he knew the hallways in the area by heart. His father's room was down a long hallway toward the center of the castle. It was up a staircase from the ballroom and up a little ramp. Vincent hardly visited his father. He hardly ever even talked to him ever since his mother died.

At first it was almost like a game. Towns people would come and mock the crown for selfish reasons. Vincent nearly laughed at some of them, but others caught him off guard because of the reality with them. It took months for them to even show a silly weapon in the castle. Some had little knives, others that handguns, but the guards took them away before anything had happened. After that, it seemed like a waiting game until the next thing happened. Vincent expected a parade next with loud horns and trumpets, but that wasn't the case.

A few nights after the show off of their weapons, an assassination took place. Vincent was locked inside of his room and his bodyguard wouldn't let him out. Vincent tried every excuse to get out, like to see his mom or get a little snack from the head chef, but whatever he said to the guard meant nothing.

"Stay in your room and stop making excuses," the guard said stubbornly before bolting his door shut. Vincent just gave up and slid his back on his door, settling himself on the floor. He had no power, and probably never would.

The king was with the queen, trying his best to protect her with the help of some of the citizens, though he trusted no one. The guards were locking the passageways and the entrances, but the king knew they were too late. Somewhere in the crowd was a bloodthirsty criminal, about to take what they thought was rightfully there's. The king tried to seem on top of everything with a worry free smile and a few failed attempts at jokes. He didn't give up, though, and that was what frustrated the killer even more.

The queen sat herself on her throne, next to the king's empty one. She watched him talk to his citizens, acting almost like a father to the orphans and a friend toward the homeless. The queen clenched her jaw, focusing on one of the men in the crowd. His eyes were darting left and right, trying all his might to see what was happening in every corner.  The queen was convinced it was him, but he didn't move from his spot. Instead, he wrapped his arms around a girl and didn't let go. The queen sunk back, bringing her attention back toward the king who was still talking to the citizens. Something in her snapped the moment she felt a hand tighten around her mouth. She tried to fight it off, to scream, but not even a peep escaped before a knife was lodged in the side of her neck. She felt the tip of it at first, then the knife pushed through the flesh barrier, and then she was suffering. She looked down from the king and toppled out of her throne, letting a small lake of blood fall with her.

The king screamed, not focusing on the woman running from behind the throne. His eyes were glued on his dying bride, who was curled into a ball by her throne. Her blood was pooling underneath her and soon her eyes rolled behind, leaving nothing but pure white eyes for him to look at. He felt like he needed to scream again, but nothing escaped his throat. Instead, he fell to his knees and wailed into his tightly done up fists, making sure his cries weren't too loud.

All of that while Vincent was locked in his room, guarded from the outside world. He glanced toward the window before standing and walking closer to it. Below him was a garden, trying so desperately to stay alive, but so badly failing. Vincent swallowed, looking at the piled roses that were all dead looking. The branches of the trees looked tired and droopy, which made him feel the same way. Sunflowers and daisies were all around the roses, but they too were old and grey looking. Vincent began to feel sad, but the feeling was short lived when there was a knock on the door.

"Your Highness," the guard said, forgetting to bow. Vincent squinted, but he felt the hair on his arms stand. "Your mother has been assassinated."

Vincent shook the memory away, looking at his bedroom window from the garden. He gulped before he clenched his jaw. It was beginning to get late out and his guard would question why he was not in his room. His guard had been asking questions for days whenever he saw Vincent, but Vincent would only give him half the truth. He knew all too well that a guard would report everything they learnt or heard to the king, and Vincent didn't trust the king, and never would.

With a little sigh, Vincent gripped onto the rope ladder he swung out of his bedroom window just to get down to the garden. He squinted up, knowing it would take him a bit to get up there fully, considering the unbalanced ladder. He rolled his eyes before he began the short journey back toward his room, knowing his guard would be standing by the door waiting for the triple knock on the door to let him know that Vincent was going to bed. The wind blew against him gently, swaying the rope ladder. Vincent held on though and eventually made it over his open window and quickly pulled the ladder into his room before he shut the window entirely. Then he walked toward his door after prying off his shoes and knocked three times lightly.

"Goodnight, Your Highness," the guard said tiredly, hiding very little emotion. "Sleep well."

And sleep well he tried.