Breathing hard, Cyrus braced himself. The heavy crystal vessel had hit the rug, sustaining most of the blow even as long-stemmed roses scattered like arrows. He watched with feverish eyes as orphaned water searched his room for a home, rivulets grasping in vain for a body that might hold them. By horrible inches Cyrus slumped to the ground. There was no rug beneath him to dull the blow, no beauty in his surrender. His knees knocked painfully against the cold marble floors and, there, he stayed.
