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It was something about how the rose dangled weakly in his hand-drooping far down-, how the thorns pressed into the folds of his hand with sinking pain-the way the petals encircled around the core that enticed him.
Even as the blood drooled down the side of his hand he feared the day he'd let the flower go. Aether doesn't understand the pain that he felt-how could he?- The rose that dug crevices into his palm was so comforting- so loving to him ,so why must he let it go?
He asks himself the same question every single night, yet the shadows' embrace would cocoon him to a deep lulled rest before he ever thought of the answer.
His heart yearned for the rose yet every time he picked it up his hands were prickled by guarded thorns. Soon he became numb to the pain. Soon he saw behind the constricting beauty of the rose. And saw all it did was play deaf his suffering. But by that time it would’ve been all too late.
Soon the rose would kill him,- just like the rose would do to any other that held it- its addictive rush would turn to bitter clash and he fears when that happens he could never trust himself to hold another rose again.
(this isn’t about roses btw)