We are one of the only traditions, if not the only, that can create where others only manipulate. We draw from the natural world in all things, and roses are - a fitting symbol, one that many of us reach for, figuratively and practically.

( she turns her hand palm-up, draws the sharp edge of her pinky-nail across it, a red line following-- her head tilts, eyes closed, and a rose - a true rose, not a blood simulacrum like those that buried themselves in him to heal his flesh - rises and unfurls, slowly, from within her. she curves her fist around it when it has enough of a stem, and uses her other hand to break it off; a little blood drips between her clenched fingers, but her palm is smooth and unbroken when her hand releases. )

We find beauty where we look for it. In, sometimes, the ugliest of places.

( a memory- she lets it alone. )