She is a distant princess in her ivory tower, leaning precariously from one narrow window to kiss her hand to the world. Her name is Victory and that is the greatest irony of all. She is Victory, Victoire, not victorious. She is not a fighter but a dreamer, a woman born out of her time, wrapped in the serenity of the ages and cursed with the blind eyes of a seer. Not a victor, never a conqueror, merely a living memorial to battles fought long ago.
But she is her, and he is him, and together they are them. It is enough. It is everything. Together they are something different, something new. This was hoped for and plotted and planned and dreamed, because it is perfection; it is the sighing of cerulean seas, it is endless brilliant skies without a whisper of cloud, it is a pillowing of two heads in rippling fields of lavender. It is the golden glimmer of sunrise throwing the world into relief.
They live and they love and they are themselves.
He watches her, as he has always watched her; watched out for her, watched her grow, watched her metamorphose from sister to friend to love. He watches as she becomes everything, and finally lives true to her name. Victory.
When it comes down to it, she has always loved him, and he has always loved her.
A name; such a small thing and merely the spectral imprint of a passing star. It is a calling card, a porcelain mould, an iron band choking a slim white neck. It is encroaching ivy hiding a thatched white cottage from sight. Her name is all she has, it is all the things she is and is not.
He has never noticed her, for what is a freckled faded flower beside a glorious goddess? Her name is Rose, not Victory, and it matters not if she smells as sweet. She is beige brown walls beside a gleaming golden flame, milk white tea beside chalice of richest wine. But time passes; she sheds her wrappings, stretches to the sun and suddenly bursts into bloom. Before anyone knows she is playing this game, her name has become victory and she has won the war.
One day he watches her and one day wonders why he has never done so before. He watches her because he cannot do any less, though it brings the pillars of his structured world crashing down around him. He watches her even though it leaves a princess weeping in her ivory tower, fingering a velvety rose and waiting for her knight errant to return. He watches her because it does not matter if she is Victory, or if she is Rose, but because she is her, and he is him, and together, they could be them. That is enough. That is everything.
When it comes down to it, she has always loved him, and he has always loved her. Some loves just last longer than others.
A.N: rather awful, but (again) to claim a banner, will probably be extensively rewritten then. Freelance attempt at the 500 words challenge every man and his kneazle have entered. Do let me know what you liked/didn't! As always, I own nothing you recognise