#rosesinwinter

[rosemarydanielis]

“Stillness is the flower of Winter All hope waits beneath a blanket of white.” ~ anonymous . https://www.rosemarydanielis.com

(rights reserved, leave credits * please reblog but not to nsfw 18+)

[organicgardendreams]

My roses are pruned and deleaved and these were the last ones that I cut and brought in to enjoy in the house. They reminded me why I love growing my own roses so much. The variety is called ‘Bewitched’ and it is one of my very best Hybrid Tea roses. The blooms are humongous and so, so fragrant, and the form is always perfection. I can’t wait until my roses will be blooming again! Are you also eagerly looking forward to that? . . . #rose #roses #pink #pinkroses #romantic #romanticroses #roselover #roselove #beautiful #beautifulroses #growyourown #organicgardendreams #winter #winterroses #rosesinwinter #hybridtea #hybridtearose #hybridtearoses #bewitched #bewitchedrose #rosabewitched #cutroses #freshcutroses #roseposy (at San Diego, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/BsvoOtmlwOA/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1x0xn0lyv20xe

[herxtiic]

roses in winter I rené and annette

It wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to say that he hated winter –René had never been much at ease with the cold. Thin skin, his father used to call it, which was usually indicative of poor breeding, but his father, as Duke of Aumont, would never so foolishly turn an insult upon himself. Disappointing as his father might have been by his temperament, there was never any doubt what family he belonged to – the stamp of the Aumonts showed clearly in his features and in his bearing – as well as his love for wild places. His father, Henri, Marshal of France as he was, hated being sequestered in cities, and there were some rumours that he had joined the army not to outperform his own father, but because he was desperate to see more of the country.

René himself seemed to have inherited that underlying restlessness, the streams, green fields and endless woods of the place that they called home sparking a natural wildness that could have been either channeled into ambition or elsewhere.  He had run free once, over the gleaming snow, child of winter bundled away from the cold, he had never hated winter then, but this Parisian winter – dirty, dreary, seemed to symbolise all of what he could see as a reason to despise the season.

The last of the flowers that had valiantly survived from autumn were quickly perishing, and with the knowledge of an income stream drying up, the flower sellers of Paris had switched to selling cuttings of roses. These were to last until spring, and it was an excess, but for once, the musketeer paid heed to their entreaties and purchased one, carrying it back with him to the garrison on what was essentially a whim. There, they sat on his desk among his weaponry and his papers like a promise, although he never fully knew what he intended to do with them, and never discarded them. It was only after a few more days at Tuileries when an idea struck him, quite suddenly, a pensiveness perhaps born out of equal isolation.

He never much approached Annette – if he wasn’t drowned in guilt by the mere proximity of her, he was certain to be aware of the impropriety of the action. While he had to be cautious with Alexandre, the fact remained was that he was his soldier, directly under his command, and that bought certain leeway. The Queen, far removed from the Guard, had not many things in common with him, and thus, there were far fewer opportunities to apologise to her, in the best way that he knew how.

He had not created the situation they were both in, and it seemed his curse to accidentally further break a heart for every one he healed. He didn’t pity her, but he did understand the consequences of his actions, and would try to improve things between them, in his own clumsy way. Whilst Alexandre might have not loved her as a wife, he still loved her. As far as René was concerned, he believed deeply that every woman deserved to be loved, and privately, he hoped that one day that she might find someone who would love her as a woman, not merely as a soul.

The Queen was – formidable up close – dark hair, and flashing eyes. First, René might have to contend with her handmaidens, which made him more than a little wary. Pretty as they were, he’d never be fond of giggling.

“Your Grace,” he murmured quietly, hoping she’d recognise him without his uniform. All of a sudden, he felt a little ashamed of his humble little basket with the rose cuttings, tucking it behind his leg. “You’re looking very…” Very what? Attractive? Regal? 

“...queenly, this afternoon.”

Well, you tried.

[tamarasstylesuite]

“The world is a rose, smell it, and pass it to your friends.” – Persian Proverb #persianproverb #smelltheroses🌹 #sharewithfriends #rosesinwinter #whiteroses🌹 #pinkcabbageroses #pinkgardenroses #sharingiscaring💕 #tamarasstylesuite #igersoftoronto #danforth #eastyork #torontojewellerygirl #torontojewelryshop #leasidelife #broadviewdanforth #papevillage (at East York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CKMEmnulJNB/?igshid=138p5wpmq0d4h

[wolfe837422]

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15855507/chapters/36932547

Summary: Emmett had never thought much of Angela Weber until he was paired with her for a history assignment in class. She had always been just another one of Bella’s friends, someone whom he looked out for because Bella did. But then one day he learned that the girl who always seemed so silent was the one person who was screaming the loudest, and what kind of protector would he be to ignore the cries of an innocent in pain?

Roses in Winter

By WhisperingWolf

 Book One: Shattering Glass

 Prologue

Giles Corey

    January 10, 2009

 Alice came to me last night, her visions troubling her. There is something on the horizon. Something is changing, but she can’t see what it is. She can’t feel it, either. My daughter relies on her visions, as much as Edward relies on his talent for reading thoughts, to protect our family. Alice told me that her visions have been blurred, out of focus, for the past several days. She can’t tell whether what is coming is dangerous, or not, and in her efforts to search for an answer, my daughter has strained herself to the point of exhaustion. Or, as close as one of our kind can come to such a state.

 She sat next to me on the couch in my office, and I sang to her for almost an hour until she relaxed. I know it worries her not to be able to see, but I find myself curious. What is this change? What will it mean for my family?

 Carlisle’s brows drew together as he set aside his pen, staring at the words he’d written in the handcrafted leather journal. Something was coming, that was all Alice had told him, the three words she’d repeated to him over and over again as she’d sat curled in a ball on the couch next to him. Something was changing but what?

 Pursing his lips as he slipped the silk ribbon between the pages, he folded the journal closed, wrapping the rough leather tie around the book thrice before tucking the end of it inside, and returning the journal to the shelf he kept it on. Wherever and whatever those answers might be, they wouldn’t be coming any time soon, and as much as he wanted to know more, he knew the only thing he could do was wait. After all, patience was a virtue, or so they said.

   ~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

   Her eyes stung, her brow furrowing as she looked down at the book in front of her, shaking her head – the movement barely perceptible – as she stared at the picture in her textbook. He was just an old man who wouldn’t bend to the hysteria around him, and for that, he had been tortured and killed. The image of the townsfolk standing around, some cheering, others who looked so angry, their faces twisted and pinched. How could they do that? How could they watch their neighbor – their friend – be slowly suffocated, his bones breaking from the weight that was piled upon him, and not say anything?

 That huge plank of wood–-it was larger than the door of the classroom she was seated in, she thought as she glanced up at the front of the room-–had to have been terribly heavy in its own right, but then to have been forced to lay there while boulder after boulder was piled on top of him? What did they expect him to say? The people lifting the stone depicted in the image-–it took two huge-looking men to move it. How could they demand answers of someone who likely couldn’t even draw in the air he needed to breathe, let alone speak? How could anyone justify those actions? How could someone-–anyone-–do that to another human being and call it righteous and lawful?

 Edward frowned as he looked at Angela from the corner of his eye. He narrowed his eyes as he watched her stare down at the history textbook lying open on her desk, wincing as he pursed his lips. She had always been such a shy girl, quiet and unobtrusive, her thoughts the most selfless and compassionate he had ever known, and for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he hated the way the topic of their class upset her. Part of him wanted to rip the book away, tear it to shreds as though it posed some kind of threat to her, and as irrational as he knew the desire was, he couldn’t silence it, either.

 If I were alive during those times, Angela thought and Edward found himself unable to silence the quiet growl rolling in the back of his throat, my father would be one of those preachers. He wouldn’t even think twice about doing something like this. She closed her eyes, swallowing hard as she shook her head, her heart skipping a beat. He even calls archaeology and anthropology blasphemous. For all the traveling he’s done, and he still thinks . . . She shook her head, and Edward straightened in his seat, wincing at the feel of her mentally closing the door on her thoughts as though guarding herself from some kind of monster. Why is it so hard for some people to accept other cultures and let them be?

 “Miss Weber.” Edward growled when the clipped tone of the teacher’s voice made Angela jump, the sound too soft to be heard by anyone other than his vampire siblings. “Mister Cullen,” the teacher continued as he looked up from the clipboard in his hand, dropping the edge of the paper he’d been holding up back in place as he looked up, taking off his plastic-rimmed glasses as he scanned the room. “Emmett Cullen,” he specified as he pointed to Emmett with his glasses before slipping them back on.

 Well, Emmett’s thoughts echoed in Edward’s mind, the sound of his brother’s voice breaking his concentration away from Angela. At least, I got paired with Weber. She’s not so bad.

 “You two will be partners for the next week,” the teacher said as the whispers and low tones of the students turned into a dull roar, the clock counting down to the end of the day. “Now, for those teams I’ve assigned with even numbers . . . People, please stop talking and listen!” The teacher looked across the room at his restless students and sighed. “For those teams with even numbers, please raise your hands,” he requested and waited as half the class raised their hands. “You will be working in defense of the actions taken by the townspeople of Salem, up to and including the deaths of all the victims of the Salem Witch Trials.”

 What’s with you, Edward? Alice directed her thoughts to him and Edward cast her a sidelong glance without turning his head. I don’t know if it was just an errant thought or not, but I had a split-second vision of you destroying Angela’s textbook. You know that would have scared the living hell out of her, right? And it’s not like you could have explained it to her, either. Edward sighed inwardly as he rolled his eyes, knowing Alice could see what he intended to say in response, her visions allowing her an almost subtle form of telepathy when they conversed. I know that’s why you stopped yourself and I wasn’t trying to harass you.

 Edward turned his head, fisting his hands against an incessant ringing in his ears. He knew it wasn’t from him, there wasn’t any sound he was hearing that could be causing it, but he could still hear it; he just didn’t know where it was coming from.

 It’s got to be from Angela, Alice said, her alto tones soothing against the high-pitched burn. You’re still listening to her, I can tell. What is it about her today that’s got you so focused? Edward shook his head, the movement slight as he narrowed his eyes on the girl seated a few desks in front of him.

 “Miss Weber.” Edward watched Angela look up when the teacher called her name. “You and Emmett Cullen will be acting as defense council for Giles Corey. And remember, the laws we have today didn’t exist back then. You’ll need to research the laws in the historical record from that time period.”

 I wonder what it’s like to be loved.

 Edward blinked at the thought that whispered through the girl’s mind, following her line of sight when he noticed her distraction. His lips turned up at one corner when he realized she was watching the gym teacher and school nurse standing in the quad outside, their body language speaking of a young couple in love. Edward frowned, his eyes narrowing as her thought whispered through his memory. Loved? She was dating Ben; he knew she was, so why didn’t she feel loved. And why did her thoughts sound so very . . . lonely?

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~        ~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

There is only a portion of the prologue that is shown here as the completed rewrite of the chapter has been donated as a compilation piece to the Babies at the Border Fiction Compilation. For a donation of $10 or more to the ACLU, Kids in Need of Defense (KIND), or a few other agencies that can be found by the address below, you can receive a copy of the entire compilation that includes works of 119 other authors of Twilight, other fandoms, as well as original works.

Twifandom News: https://twifandomnews.com/?p=2574

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[kerstiewalthall]

Can't believe we've still got roses blooming 😄🌹 . . . #rosesinwinter #rosebloom #tinypinkrose

[redbrush77]

Another rose. #flowersofinstagram #followforfollow #blooms #gardenlife #rosesinwinter

[redbrush77]

Winter Rose Bud. #followforfollow #flowersofinstagram #blooms #gardenlife #rosesinwinter