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The Dance of Roses
A grandfather clock chimes in the distance...
Gale-force winds rap silently to portico doors. Then louder and louder with each drone of that clock's chime. Fluttered ends of long, pale, lace curtains bask in the forced open doorways. Each, a wave of slighted fancy, to echo the slow creak of stone and chipping paint.
Once clasped, painted hands pull free one another. Richard, Duke of York, left holding his own head with right-hand curled tightly into that of his nemesis, King Henry VI. "A king without a kingdom," comes to mind but once, before the dance of Edward VI's mural springs across hillsides and battlefields spilling out the mire of blood and family feuding.
Those long and cathedral height murals, lay opposite the courtyard, bending around the room from headless Richard to Richard the beheader. War and tyranny breathed into their lifeless stone souls, swords clang, and hot breath seems to steam the very air, even as the fresh wind churns it from beneath the veils of lace curtains.
The portrait splits in two, twisted hands ripped free and their roses, both white and red, spill from the opening. From the dark recess of its hidden portal, the golden end of a cane stamps loudly upon the spansed dark marble floor, and crushes lightly those petals beneath it. A figure emerges from darkness and before the slow drone of clock chime. Between those parted hands, a twisted coppery smile bends to the will of his delighted grace.
 The War of the Roses, a seemingly simplistic and over-played war among the many in history, but so loved among the few by this demon. Cunning and guile, lies, treachery, death, deceit, love, honor and duty all meshed into one blood scene after another. Chaos in peace and peace in chaos. A game to be remembered, ah, how well Richard the III took his crooked part.
His step lands lightly to the smooth texture of floor. Wide and open the long ballroom lay before his graceful sweep of gaze and twist of mused smile. Those painted hands rejoin behind his back and the long winding dance of Edward, Margaret, Hastings, Buckingham, and Richard drifts along the painted walls as old memories come to life. The mural returning, as before, whole and touched with only that tinge of clasped irony. The clock chime halts.
A finger, slender and graceful, lifts back the untamed curl of soot bang from the smooth edges of creasless brow. A moment of crimson flashed in the dance of pitch pool eyes when he smiles but once and the keys slowly strum to life upon the burgandy grand piano set within the center of the room. Bach's Overture No. 2: Badinerie plays, light and cantered, to the slow off-hand sway of each curtain in the light of the evening's breeze. His steps won in the effortless motion of gait and twitter of ghostly flutes. Each timed with a silent rap of golden cane point to marble surface.
About and around him, the marble floor spans. Reflecting both the dance of Lancasters and Yorks and those of the ghostly heel-prints of things to come. A grand ballroom, touched in the spirit of history. As always, anticipating the thrill of history repeating itself.
The piano takes up where the clock chime stops. Its slow haunting refrain calling the slow swish of silk pants and soft grace of leather shoes to its wine colored beckoning. He sets himself slowly upon the protested creak of fine wood bench. The tails of velvet jacket swung back over its plush, cushioned edge. Slender fingers crack and in the slow recline of wind, flute, and lacey sway of curtain, he starts to play.
Soft and then careful, his fingers echo the heart-beating of an organ playing dark and carefree from behind the sorrid gaze of painted eyes, casted upon himself and any unwary venture of step and soul to the room. Portals of fire and smoke filter through the stone cracks and painted walls. Teasing and tasting, their tongues caress the marble and mural faces. His own features, mirrored in the drone of finger's playing Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. The organ echos from unseen hellish bowels to trace the light touch of grand keys beneath slender fingers.
Coppery smile twists and fades with the whisk of summer wind. Lanterns set to ceiling chandelers dim in the casual hush of tone and receeding snakes of smoke trails. His musical inspired portal seals behind the rap of golden cane point. The haunting tune of grand keys left like wisps of wind to remind those who would follow, it is only a short distance from here to eternity. A dance taken one step too far lends the devil his due.
Welcome to the ballroom.. Nemesis...
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