The Roses

Syrus kneels in the dirt, his calloused hands working the soil with gentle care. Two distinct clusters of roses bloom around him. One cluster, with pale pink petals, comes from the wild roses he transplanted from the forest’s edge. Their stems are untamed and their thorns unruly, yet Syrus has coaxed them to flourish in a place they don’t truly belong. Right beside them stand deep red roses, lush and velvety, cultivated to perfection. Syrus carefully lifted them from a wealthy senator’s garden on a late-night excursion, captivated by their flawless beauty.

Over the past year, Syrus has shot up, though he still carries a lean frame. His tunic stretches across his broadening shoulders, now smudged with dirt. Streaks of soil mark his forearms and jawline. Even as he works in the garden, his thoughts stray to the reason behind these roses, one he hardly dares to name.

Footsteps stir the air, and Syrus looks up to see Annabeth approaching. Her curls, grown longer, frame a face that shows the first traces of womanhood. Her emerald eyes gleam as they land on the roses. Syrus feels his heart clench when she meets his gaze. A sensation of equal parts thrill and unease.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, a smile gracing her lips. She kneels beside him, fingertips brushing the petals of the wild roses.

“I thought you’d like them,” he answers quietly, striving to keep his tone even as warmth creeps up his neck.

Annabeth picks one of the wild roses, spinning it between her fingers. “These are from the woods, aren’t they? The ones we saw near the stream?”

He pauses, his hand halfway through pressing the soil. “I guess you could say that.”

She leans forward, examining the untamed cluster of blooms. “They’re beautiful,” she murmurs, tucking the rose behind her ear. Then her gaze drifts to the velvety red roses. “And these?”

Syrus hesitates, eyes dropping. “They’re from… a garden in the city,” he mumbles.

Annabeth arches a brow, her lips curving into an amused smile. “You stole them?”

He busies himself tying one of the red roses to a stake. “I borrowed them,” he says, though the flush on his cheeks tells another story. "Those roses would have been wasted had I left them there." Syrus had to bite his tongue, holding back that she was the reason he risked taking the garden roses.

She lets out a soft laugh, letting her hand linger on the crimson petals. “Well, they’re lovely too,” she says, but her attention soon returns to the wild roses. “Though these are my favourite.”

He glances at her, Sol’s light illuminating the curve of her profile. “Why?”

“They’re untamed,” she explains thoughtfully. Their growth doesn't require external guidance. They just… do.”

He feels a subtle ache in his chest. She reminds him of these wild roses, unpredictable, uncontained, and more captivating than words. Yet here he is, trying to shape a piece of her world, to keep some part of her near.

“They remind me of you,” he blurts, unable to stop himself.

She blinks, dark eyes flicking to him. “Me?”

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “The wild ones,” he clarifies, nodding to the pink blooms. “They’re not perfect, but they’re… alive. They grow how they want.”

A faint smile warms her features. “Alive, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.” She shifts closer to inspect the roses again, her curls skimming his shoulder. “And the red ones?”

“They’re… what everyone expects,” he glances at the cultivated blooms. “Perfect. Polished. Safe.”

She frowns a little, fingers brushing a thorn. “Perfect indeed, forever beautiful. What a terrible existence. So much pressure and expectations on the roses, where they grow, how they look. Unlike the wild ones,” she says, gesturing at the wild roses. "People look down upon them, but they're real, untamed, and still beautiful."

Annabeth stands, dusting her knees and readjusting the rose behind her ear. He gazes up at her, heart constricting.

“Father mentioned you yesterday,” she gives him a smile.

Syrus stiffens, his hands halting. “Your father?”

She nods, warmth settling in her eyes. “He said you’ve caught the notice of several in the Senate. Your strategy and training have impressed them. He’s proud of you, Syrus.”

The words strike him harder than he expects. He ducks his head, fiddling with a rose stem. “I only do what I must,” he whispers, cheeks hot.

Annabeth’s smile widens, but she refrains from teasing. “Still, it’s worth hearing. I wanted you to know.”

She walks toward the Cottage, and Syrus’s gaze follows the wild rose swaying behind her ear.

Both wild and cultivated, these roses have taken root here, though they don’t fully belong. He wonders if something so out of place can last, or if every wild thing must eventually return to where it started. As he adjusts one pink stem, a thought clings to him: perhaps it isn’t just the roses he hopes to keep. Perhaps it’s her.

Over the past year, Syrus has shot up, though he still carries a lean frame. His tunic stretches across his broadening shoulders, now smudged with dirt. Streaks of soil mark his forearms and jawline. Even as he works in the garden, his thoughts stray to the reason behind these roses, one he hardly dares to name.

Footsteps stir the air, and Syrus looks up to see Annabeth approaching. Her curls, grown longer, frame a face that shows the first traces of womanhood. Her emerald eyes gleam as they land on the roses. Syrus feels his heart clench when she meets his gaze. A sensation of equal parts thrill and unease.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, a smile gracing her lips. She kneels beside him, fingertips brushing the petals of the wild roses.

“I thought you’d like them,” he answers quietly, striving to keep his tone even as warmth creeps up his neck.

Annabeth picks one of the wild roses, spinning it between her fingers. “These are from the woods, aren’t they? The ones we saw near the stream?”

He pauses, his hand halfway through pressing the soil. “I guess you could say that.”

She leans forward, examining the untamed cluster of blooms. “They’re beautiful,” she murmurs, tucking the rose behind her ear. Then her gaze drifts to the velvety red roses. “And these?”

Syrus hesitates, eyes dropping. “They’re from… a garden in the city,” he mumbles.

Annabeth arches a brow, her lips curving into an amused smile. “You stole them?”

He busies himself tying one of the red roses to a stake. “I borrowed them,” he says, though the flush on his cheeks tells another story. "Those roses would have been wasted had I left them there." Syrus had to bite his tongue, holding back that she was the reason he risked taking the garden roses.

She lets out a soft laugh, letting her hand linger on the crimson petals. “Well, they’re lovely too,” she says, but her attention soon returns to the wild roses. “Though these are my favourite.”

He glances at her, Sol’s light illuminating the curve of her profile. “Why?”

“They’re untamed,” she explains thoughtfully. Their growth doesn't require external guidance. They just… do.”

He feels a subtle ache in his chest. She reminds him of these wild roses, unpredictable, uncontained, and more captivating than words. Yet here he is, trying to shape a piece of her world, to keep some part of her near.

“They remind me of you,” he blurts, unable to stop himself.

She blinks, dark eyes flicking to him. “Me?”

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “The wild ones,” he clarifies, nodding to the pink blooms. “They’re not perfect, but they’re… alive. They grow how they want.”

A faint smile warms her features. “Alive, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.” She shifts closer to inspect the roses again, her curls skimming his shoulder. “And the red ones?”

“They’re… what everyone expects,” he glances at the cultivated blooms. “Perfect. Polished. Safe.”

She frowns a little, fingers brushing a thorn. “Perfect indeed, forever beautiful. What a terrible existence. So much pressure and expectations on the roses, where they grow, how they look. Unlike the wild ones,” she says, gesturing at the wild roses. "People look down upon them, but they're real, untamed, and still beautiful."

Annabeth stands, dusting her knees and readjusting the rose behind her ear. He gazes up at her, heart constricting.

“Father mentioned you yesterday,” she gives him a smile.

Syrus stiffens, his hands halting. “Your father?”

She nods, warmth settling in her eyes. “He said you’ve caught the notice of several in the Senate. Your strategy and training have impressed them. He’s proud of you, Syrus.”

The words strike him harder than he expects. He ducks his head, fiddling with a rose stem. “I only do what I must,” he whispers, cheeks hot.

Annabeth’s smile widens, but she refrains from teasing. “Still, it’s worth hearing. I wanted you to know.”

She walks toward the Cottage, and Syrus’s gaze follows the wild rose swaying behind her ear.

Both wild and cultivated, these roses have taken root here, though they don’t fully belong. He wonders if something so out of place can last, or if every wild thing must eventually return to where it started. As he adjusts one pink stem, a thought clings to him: perhaps it isn’t just the roses he hopes to keep. Perhaps it’s her.