"Shhhh--whisper! The Roses Have Gone"
by Briar

adj 1: not to be placated or appeased or moved by entreaty;"grim determination"; "grim necessity"; "Russia's final hour, it seemed, approached with inexorable certainty"; "relentless persecution"; "the stern demands of parenthood [syn: grim, relentless, stern, unappeasable, unforgiving, unrelenting] 2: not capable of being swayed or diverted from a course; unsusceptible to persuasion; "he is adamant in his refusal to change his mind"; "Cynthia was inexorable; she would have none of him"- W.Churchill; "an intransigent conservative opposed to every liberal tendency

Darla dislikes Russia because the land is cold and hard and flat. The people taste dour; the outfits are uncomfortable, and nothing appears to have any weight or consequence beyond an ever-turning wheel of bad operas and stale flavor.

Princesses and czars seem to be falling every where, but what of it?

She wants new combs for her hair. Dru screams of green bees, occasionally.

She hums Spanish madrigals to herself while awaiting for Drusilla to abate in her five-part choruses dedicated to Siberian eggs.

On the way to market, a Cossack was leading a tiger by the chain. "Beautiful, " Spike had murmured, gazing into its eyes, as it had shied away like a frightened horse, except with a growl. That baring of teeth and exhibition of male temper almost matched the pride with which Angelus elbowed his way in front of the young and wiry bull, to stare at the large, big cat.

Darla believes that both of her boys would have liked to pet it. Drusilla believes that her visions allowed the tiger to melt into her Sire and her Childer, with Grandmum's face twitching like the giant cat's ass.

She wanted to peer into the hole. She wanted to poke it, and briefly wondered- but not with fairy tales, because they are sure to get it all wrong, the last time around-- if something might come out along the trees as such, perhaps not so much within her line of sigh. Dru thinks Grandmum should bray; it's better that way.

The ice is cold. Tastes almost like frost, and a bitter root.

She shrugs; Darla continues to bristle.


Drusilla doesn't pretend to understand it at all. Russia seems awfully cold; Daddy and sweet, baby Spike like to roll around in the snow at all hours of the moon- this seems a most terrible inconvenience.

She tries to claw Gran-mamma every once in a while, and only then when the moon is bloated and blue, but not so much with nasty petticoats and the pixies don't agree when the fur is coarse.

It is then that she slips away, into the woods where the rabbits are grown scarce, and the witches are much too shy.

Drusilla plays in the dark, woodsy, malcontent cherry forests-- ever alone, singing a sad happy song from her wrists through her heart... a fanciful dream, a harmony of eggs.


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