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The Rose Collector

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Story Rating   5  with 8 vote(s)
By UrbanPsychopath Send DollMail
Created: 2011-06-17 20:56:06 All stories by UrbanPsychopath
AN: New story. Not the one I dreamed and posted about earlier, but one nonetheless. The main concept of death in this, however, WAS something I dreamed up. I’ve been meaning to right a story with this element in it for ages and only just thought of something. Hope you enjoy it.

PS. It WILL be slash as in malexmale goodness :]




“My power, my pleasure, my pain.” Kiss from A Rose, Seal.


His first encounter with a Rose Collector occurred when he was nine. He had heard all about them before, of course, it was mandatory learning in all schools across the world, but even that had not prepared him for the chilling tingle that ran down his spine like an electric current.

He had been on his way home from the park alone, his friends having already parted ways. The light was dimming into an orange dusk, shadows stretching over the pavement and the last, dying rays of the sun spaying their warmth over the perfectly constructed four bedroom houses. The trees swayed a little in milder weather than the season called for, birds – small, fluttering black shadows – sang evening lullabies, hidden in the foliage, still lush and green despite the winter chill.

If he had grown up in other place other than the Inner City, he would’ve been wary. Wandering the darkened streets of the slums and even a few spots in the Outer City where the pollution from the slums bled a little closer to home, was a dangerous past time and not many would last the night. Even the most clever of criminals had, and would continue to, meet their death at the hands of some desperate street urchin. But here, in the ‘Sanctum’ – as if was often called, rather mockingly and bitterly by those lesser commoners dwelling outside – it was as safe as your own home.

He had had his head down, staring at his shoes as he passed – black, patent leather abominations that were mandatory. They were a little scuffed from a rough game of kick ball and his shirt was marked with long lines of green from various skids across the grass in a desperate bid to get the ball away from an opponent. His mother would not be pleased, and it had been that he had been thinking of, thoughtfully fingering a stain before stumbling across the scene.

There had been a large crowd of people a few lengths in front of him, the hum of muttering whispers audible even at that distance. He frowned, he remembers, annoyed at the blockage. He had skirted forward, staring up at the backs of men and women alike, catching a few snatches of the gossip as he pushed and wove his way through the masses of well dressed snoopers.

/“... horrible, so horrible.”/

/“...still breathing? Do you think...”/

/“...Happened? He is such a lovely man!”/

/“ of those criminals from the Slums. You know the kind, preying on us hard working folk. It’s sickening really...”/

When he had gotten to the front, he had been shocked and disgusted. There were medical men there, fussing and commanding over the prone body of a man in his late thirties. They were rushing like ants and there was a woman off to the side being cradled by who he assumed was a family member, sobbing pitifully. His eyes had slid back to the man then, to the blood pooling around him and congealing in the winter air.

It wasn’t rare for murders to occur in the Sanctum but it also wasn’t terribly common – usually, the Slum Dwellers strayed only so far into the Outer City (or, if one was to use slang the ‘Shell’) rather than risk the venture into this place. But some criminals thought the perks greatly outweighed the dangers and so some slipped through into the seemingly protected and privileged bubble of the Sanctum.

The medics were working furiously trying to stem the bleeding, to correct the damage and save his life. But then a wail from the woman made every one pause, and turn in the direction she was staring.

And it was then that he saw the first Rose Collector of his life. The Collector seemed to have come from the very shadows themselves, a strange, entrancing creature that appeared to be quite sexless and yet held hints of both.

And it was /beautiful/. It was tall, taller than any human by a good few inches, with skin as black as sin stretching comfortably over a thin, willowy frame. Fine, raven black hair spilled over its shoulders like a snow storm, falling to its waist and looking as though it had never been cut. It wore all white, white trousers, white boots, white shirt and a long white coat that brushed his ankles.

As it approached the victim, he recalls how the Collectors’ eyes were fiery amber blazing across the whites and hugging the pupils. its high cheek bones, thin lips, undefined jaw made him appear so regal feminine and yet there was a roughness there that made one believe he could be male – like a fae prince or something equally as fanciful.

The uncertainty of the Collectors gender was almost appealing, in an unearthly way.

It moved with grace that no human could possibly possess and stopped only when it reached the side of the obviously dying man. Those strange eyes took no note of its audience or the incessantly weeping from the woman to the side. Instead, it crouched over the man, one foot either side of the dying mans’ thighs with its knees bent.

The Collector regarded the man silently before leaning forward, the pads of its fingers on its right hand pressing into the gravel as it supported itself, its nose inches away from the dying mans’. Its head was titled to the left than to the right as it studied him, distantly and detachedly. There was no other emotion in that face other than a quiet curiosity, an expert observation.

The onyx black hair created a curtain between the Collector and the crowd which he was part of. Minutes passed before the bony fingers swept the hair behind a small ear and there seemed to be almost relief on the victims’ face as the Collector leaned forward once more and whispered something in the man’s ear.

There was a brief pause and then the Collector leaned back with a serene expression, brushing his fore and third finger down the mans’ face to close his eyes.

The woman screamed. The boy held his breath. He remembers leaning forward a bit, curious to the next part.

He didn’t have to wait long. After closing the man’s eyes whilst uttering some prayer of some kind in the velvet language of the Collectors, the creature eased open the mouth of the corpse (he wandered abstractly, that the body must still be so warm, like a living person only sleeping) and reached its first finger and thumb inside the mouth.

When it retracted its fingers, slowly, gently, it brought with it a rose – the physical manifestation of that man’s soul. It closed the mouth with its other hand before scrutinizing the rose. It appeared near perfect to him, no that the opinion of a small boy could change anything. There was a slight discolouration and a few weakly formed thorns, but nothing like the terrible wilted skeletons he had been told were drawn from murderers and bandits.

The victim, he concluded, had been a good man.

The Collector nodded its head before the creature melted into nothing, leaving silence, ashen-faced medics and weeping relative without so much as a glance.

That had been the first time he had encountered a Rose Collector – and only time he would encounter a black Rose Collector – but fates already conspired against him and it would not be his last.

Member Comments  

Zionsville, IN
All My Stories
Posted On: June 10, 2011
This is amazing. I love the idea of the rose collector. And, as always, I love your writing.


All My Stories
Posted On: June 10, 2011
I agree with everyone - especially Erin.

I feel like my writing is so... childish... in comparison. Bxtch. But I love you, dearly, and I may hurt you if you don't continue. And take away my love for you. Which is immense.

And yes! QUIZ! Or else.... nah. PLEASE? I really want to know right about now...

And I'm so in agreeance with Brutie. The Rose Collector is sexy.

Peggie. xox

Palo Cedro, CA
All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011
This concept was interesting all on it's own, but your words seem to make it even more amazing. I'd like to read more of this sometime.

All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011
Oh gosh, Toni, you make me feel so dreadfully inferior. But in a good way, of course, because every word you write is sheer perfection.


All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011
The quiz would be cool.

Toni, this is freaking beautiful and brilliant. The whole concept of someone taking a rose as a soul is It blew my mind. YOU are amazing.


All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011

I'd like that quiz. (:

Keep me posted. ^^


All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011

United Kingdom
All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011
OH MY GOSH! I love this whole concept! The Rose Collector is so amazing... And weirdly sexy to me... That doesn't make me sound so good, does it?

I'm intrigued by the *black* Rose Collector, by which I mean I am intrigued by the colouring thing and how others will appear. And what that implies for a Rose Collector, is it just a race or something more?

In case you haven't noticed, I have a BAZILLION questions. xD I loved this chapter though. It was really brilliant. Please update me when more comes out. 83


All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011
Lol! I should, a quiz to find out the condition of the rose and just what garden you'd be placed in

All My Stories
Posted On: June 9, 2011

I wonder what coloured rose I'd have. You should make a quiz, so I can find out.

Peggie. xox
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