Black Rose

the Lady

I used to love to make the boys fight over me. I would have them duel, for the honour of accompanying me into the village, for the privilege of escorting me to a ball, or simply for my own amusement. I would watch them and laugh as they bloodied and blistered each other for my sake. I was the Black Rose, the darling of my family and the jewel of the House. Any of the other girls would have killed to be me, and the boys would have - and nearly did - kill to have me. I adored and disdained them, every one of my devotees, but I could never respect them, these men I made break themselves. How could I? Those groveling creatures, so desperate for my attention.

My wedding day was glorious. I was in such a fine mood that I was even able to find some pleasure with the groom. That day was the pinnacle of the first stage of my life, and the beginning of the next. It was the triumph of all my girlish games, all the people I had always controlled, congregated to witness my success; it was also my breath of promise, allowing them a glimpse at the future. I moved, that day, from a world of little toys to a realm of real power. Some people view marriage as a bond, but to me it was the ultimate freedom. From this new world, I could drink and drain all I needed to satisfy the thirst within me, for power, for passion, for possession.

~~*~~

the Husband

I always fought for her. More often than not, it did me very little good, and usually my only reward was her mocking laughter. I accepted it, though. Her scorn was better than her cold disregard. At least it meant she was watching, and I knew of no higher prize than to have her dazzling black eyes on me. She would, of course, throw me favours from time to time, to keep me strung along. Not that she ever needed to. I lapped at her heels like a dog, and she treated me accordingly. If it came as any shock to her that I won, in the end, she never let on. She accepted her fate with all the dignity expected of a pureblood woman.

When we danced on our wedding day, that was when I realised it fully: she was mine, my Bella, my Black Rose, added to the Lestrange garden. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or the wine, or the glory she felt reveling in this, her day of days, but she smiled at me, while we were dancing, without hint of ridicule or disdain. It didn't last, but I never expected it to. I knew she wouldn't love me, and I learned to content myself with passion. The woman has never done anything without passion. I knew, as well, that I was not the only one so blessed - but then, that was Bella. I endured.

~~*~~

the Rival

She never asked me to fight for her. I flatter myself that she would not have known how to react had I trounced all comers. If I had been her champion, the winner of all the tournaments she made the others play at, I might have held claim to some part of her soul. By keeping me out of the competitions, she kept a degree of control over me. It was small, hardly significant, but then she never could relinquish even the frailest hint of power once it rested in her palm. Our relationship had been a battle for dominance since childhood; I never shied away from the Black Rose's thorns, and that both annoyed and intrigued her.

I danced with her at her wedding, and she was hilariously merry. Not because of her new husband, but because it was her day, forever, hers to own. A normal woman would have realised then that the games would have to stop, that she could no longer play at being the Incomparable, that coercing men to duel over her was no longer appropriate. But she was never normal, and that is why they all loved her. She told me that night that whatever her last name had become, she would never stop being Bella, and to her credit, she has held true on that promise. Bella always did keep her promises.

~~*~~

the Lord

She fought for me, this woman, this tiny-framed girl who did not reach my shoulder and yet stood so far above all of her peers. I remember being startled by the sheer intensity of her, all the fire and rage and power locked behind those flashing dark eyes. I knew in an instant that there would never been another woman like her, such a terrible blend of beauty and fatality, my Black Rose. Her independent spirit was both her greatest strength and her ultimate undoing, but I would never fault her for that. It bred her loyalty to me, her willingness to suffer for me, perhaps in a sort of penance for the pain she had all her life inflicted on those others who were loyal to her in turn.

Lestrange had the keeping of her, but I had the control. To no man had she ever submitted, not father nor husband nor friend, but to me. When she danced on her wedding day, I could sense her jubilation, her joyful abandonment, the fervent lust for life that so defined her. She knew what that day meant. Not shackles, but opportunity. Why worry about being chained to a husband, when her soul already belonged to someone else? That day was but a mere formality, granting her full access to a larger world, one she could pluck and exploit to her wild heart's content. And I knew she would do it, at my command and for her own pleasure.