Roses.

RC8 - Mixing.

‘Mama, does a rose depict a good or bad omen?’

‘A good one. A rose only becomes bad when it mixes. The life of the White Rose bleeds onto the death of the Red Rose. Anytime there is a mix, death abounds. ’

Roses; Chapter 8.

•

Hell was freezing over at the White Estate.

"I will hear no such thing!"

"Oh, but you will Father"

"You have taken leave of your mind. She had bewitched you, yes? Stinking Red Roses coupling wort the devil to steal my son from me! She has her claws in you, no child of mine would ever speak such blasphemy while in control of his mind!"

"But you wouldn't know Father, for I am your only child. How would you know what it is for a child to take leave of his mind if you have just one?"

The great White Rose glared at him with death in his eyes. Harry was not a bit alarmed, he knew his Father and that man would have his only son dead than mix blood with a Red.

"Harry," his mother started softly. "You might believe yourself in love with that, that...red girl, but—" her mouth twisted in disgust as if the mere idea of thinking a Red anything more than a monster was a sin against God himself.

"Amelia. Her bloody name is Amelia Lancaster."

"I shall not hear that name in my house!" His father exploded.

"Then I shall be your son no longer. Because that name— Amelia Lancaster— shall never leave my lips even in death."

"Go on then, get out!"

"Harry!" His mother called frantically, "Apologize to your father this instant!"

"I shall do no such thing mother. I have always been apologetic towards everything, I have always been sorry for being born, for breathing, for everything. But I shall never feel ashamed for meeting Amelia Lancaster—"

His father inhaled sharply at the name, his face turning purple.

"—She is the rope that anchored me throughout my dark life. I would rather die, Father, than live without her."

"Then die you shall. Let it be known Harry of York, if you leave this building in pursuit of a pipe dream, you shall be nothing to me and you know—" his father gave him a malicious smile.

"—White Roses do not leave loose ends. If you leave this house, you shall face death at the hands of your kinsman."

Harry looked at his father steadily. 

For the past nineteen years of his life, he was living a dead man. He was not living, life was nothing more than a chore he wished to escape from.

Except for that one day when things had changed. He had returned from Oxford, yet to be consumed by the poison that the Roses fed each other and something as mundane as wine spilling on the beautiful Amelia Lancaster corseted dress and he lending her his jacket, did his heart truly begin to beat in life.

Despite the danger and secrecy, five years after that incident, Harry York had something— someone to live for. And he would not give it up for anything, including death.

He sighed. "So be it, Father. And remember, if I die, you would be left without a direct heir to your line"

The White's face was drained of blood. The man had forgotten that he learned the art of politics from the best. Sir Bacchus York.

"Go on then, Harry with no title. Ride to your death for a love that could never be."

He intended to do just that.