Legend LXXXVI – The Rose-Born from the Mist

More about Legend LXXXVI – The Rose-Born from the Mist

In the valleys beyond the known paths, where the mist doesn't rise but rests, the elders tell of a being that was not born but grew. They call her the Rose-Born, for her origin lies not in a body, but in a garden that should never have been entered. This garden exists between breaths, on floating islands of stone and moss, entwined with thorns that do not wound but remind. There, roses once bloomed, so dark and heavy with fragrance that even the wind avoided them. From their petals, no dew seeped, but time, slow and shimmering, and from this time, one day, a form took shape. The Rose-Born rose silently from the mist, her body slender and strange, with a beauty that does not comfort but disturbs, as if reminding one of something that should never have been. Her skin shimmered like mother-of-pearl underwater, crisscrossed with fine lines reminiscent of roots or veins, and from her back grew wings, large and taut, as if made of glass and thorns at once. Within them, the light refracted in every color, as if the roses had preserved their very essence within them. Every movement produced a soft tinkling sound, inaudible to ears, but to memories. Her face was smooth and still, ageless, expressionless, and yet her eyes held a knowledge older than the gardens themselves. The Rose-born did not wander like other beings. She hovered, barely touching the ground, and wherever she lingered, thorns began to grow, forming themselves into roses, heavy and dark, as if absorbing the thoughts of passersby. Those who encountered her felt not fear, but a stirring, as if something lost within were being touched. Some followed her into the mist and never returned. Others saw her only from afar and henceforth carried dreams of colors that do not exist. It is said that the Rose-born is neither fairy nor demon, but a balance, born from the world's desire to preserve something beautiful without possessing it. She does not gather souls, but she takes memories to herself, those that have grown too heavy to bear. In the thorns of her wings, these memories hang like dewdrops, and sometimes they detach themselves and fall as new roses into the mist. When the Rose-born one day fades, the ancients say, the garden will fade with her, and the world will be poorer for a beauty that was never meant for it. Until then, however, she continues to wander among the floating stones, silent, watchful, and unreachable, a living parable of the fact that not everything that grows wants to be saved.