A White Rose

The usually crisp air in Stormwind was heavy with the pungent scent of the Crown Chemical Co.’s newest entrepreneurial debut. Red and pink hearts were strewn across the city’s stone faces, adding what some would consider festive color.

Varian Wrynn found most of it sickening. Literally.

The aromas overwhelmed his naturally heightened sense of smell; the garish pink and red decor gave him a headache; and the increase in public displays of affection was enough to make him vomit. It was a useless reminder of revelry in the midst of constant war.

It was a yearly reminder of what he’d lost.

He had fled the castle’s increasingly claustrophobic walls, and subsequently his guards, walking along a rarely used alley to make his way toward the city’s cemetery. The area had avoided disturbance from the holiday. The king vaguely wondered if it was due to negligence or respect, then silently scolded himself.

His already down-turned lips twitched in further consternation as he noted that the scolding voice sounded much like his son’s.

Varian’s boots thudded against the cobblestone before slowly coming to a stop.

Blue eyes looked down at the slab, the warm words inscribed incapable of matching the ardent spirit of the person they represented. What would have been good enough to encapsulate all that she was.

Nothing.

He kneeled and simply stared for a while, gaze haunted and vacant, his mind busy elsewhere.

An explosive scream and subsequent bang shocked him from his reverie. His hand went to his sword, gripping it tight as his body tensed in a manner befitting more gladiator than king. He growled as the firework sparkled, turning his eyes a momentary golden with its reflection.

Then he sighed, a large, shaking hand reached up to rub at his eyes with something akin to annoyance.

“You were the only thing that made this holiday tolerable.” He muttered, low and gravelly, the normally gruff tone softened with a soft chuckle.

“I remember,” he went on, “You gave me a frog once.” He couldn’t resist a laugh. “You said if I kissed it, I might turn into a charming prince.”

He rubbed at his face again. “I reminded you I was king and then tried to kiss you, like an idiot.”

A low snort of laughter rang against the stone. “You just lifted up that frog instead and I was sick for a week.”

He smiled through blurred sight. “But you were there after…” He smiled, feeling wetness run down his cheek. “You mocked me for getting sick. Then…” The king closed his eyes, almost picturing her blushing, stubborn face framed by all that golden hair. “Then you apologized, reluctantly, of course.”

Wind tossed his ponytail as he wiped his face, refusing to call them tears even in his mind. A trait she would have deemed, “virile compensation.”

The thought made him smile again. Oh how she would’ve hated what he’d become. The smile slid away, overtaken with the shadow of himself.

Clinking armor and the shushing of mail alerted him to the presence of a guard as he ran toward him. Varian sighed and stood.

The guard panted for breath and didn’t bother asking why the king had left their sight. Varian was grateful for that. The warrior in him made a note to ask why the guard was so out of shape later.

Later.

His hair swung over his shoulder as he bent down and set a single, yellow rose against the cool stone. Varian smiled. In his mind it softened and lit the grave site, pulling him into a safer, comforting time.

“Don’t you ever give me a red rose.”

A younger Varian stared at the blonde woman across from him with raised eyebrows, “What’s so wrong with red roses?”

She snorted, “I just think they’re… boring. Give me yellow. It’s brighter and more fun.” A slight blush tinted her pale face, “They mean friendship. I’d rather have that than empty declarations of love any day.”

Varian smiled, “Are you saying we can be friends?”

She raised her chin and gave him an appraising look, smirking, “Maybe. Then someday, I might let you give me a white rose.”

Varian raised his eyebrows again, “And what do those mean?”

Tiffin leaned her cheek on her hand and smiled almost slyly, “New beginnings, real love, honor, reverence, remembrance… marriage…”

Varian could feel himself blushing, and her smile turned victorious.

The blush was a memory, warmth bathed in grief.

Varian closed his eyes, brushed a hand over the name engraved there: Tiffin Ellerian Wrynn

As the king walked away, a cloud shifted and the sun bathed the graveyard.

The light glittered off the petals of a white rose, laid close to the yellow.

“They also mean remembrance.”