Letters On Petals of Black Roses

The setting sun cast a blood red light on her black. Black silk dress, loose and flowy around her marble white skin. Black leaes of dried up roses. Black petals of dead flower wreaths clinging to the front of an abandoned mansion. Black as soot was her domain against the ageing grey marble that was the main house of the abandoned estate. Beyond her realm, was nothing. No other faerie for miles and miles: just the frosted peaks of mountains and the sun's lazy eye shutting between them.
She frowned, her rust-coloured hair twinkling in the half-light. Something troubled her, and she stirred. High she was perched, right in the middle of a south-facing rose, bundled up, curled comfortably and with her legs elegantly bent beside her: amidst dark petals. Her wings tickled the inside of the flower, their flowing curves framing her small body. Faerie of the Black Rose. Yet her Rose was Black no more.
That very morning, a tiny bud had opened. As was her habit, she tended to him kindly; the shock came when she noticed that in the small new orb two identically small gold petals had appeared.

"That cannot be."

The rose was facing - almost pointing - South, and so had she all morning, perched on a black baby-thorn. Something out there sung to her, and she longed to leave the black, grim prison of her flowers. She wanted to shake off the shadow off the dying house that pressed upon her back. Her thorny cage she was sick of; eating ashes in reward for her care had turned so horribly quotidien she choked on the bush's offer. No more kissing black petals, no more tossing dead leaves, no more smoothing thorns. She wanted to be rid of the responsibility of keeping alive something that was not destined to live. Frustration flamed in her onyx eyes: she was the Black Rose, and the Rose was her. They were one and the same, living through and with her. Should she leave the decrepit bush, it would die.

But what use was life to either one?

Still, she had not the courage to answer the voices of the twilight song. Her rose bed would do for now - it had been enough for her since the beginning of time.

There is something South. South.
Why care now?