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Someone was humming.
The tune was unfamiliar but the voice was not, and Sylvain looked up from his book as his favorite lady floated into the common room. Mercedes was captivating even on her worst days, so it was only natural that his gaze followed her instead of the lines of text lying in his lap. He really couldn’t help it.
“Whatcha got there, Mercedes?”
The healer startled, nearly dropping her precious cargo. “Oh, Sylvain!” She laughed, her soft giggles floating like crystal in the air. “I didn’t see you there! You’re so quiet.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Unusual, I know.”
Mercedes set her bundle on the table—a small blue vase, filled with fresh flowers. “I’m sorry, did I disturb you? I can leave if you like. I just thought I’d tidy up a bit.”
Sylvain set his book aside, slipping the embroidered bookmark Bernadetta had given him between its pages. He was almost finished, though he’d only picked up the novel today. It had been a long time since he’d had a chance to read anything, and he was taking full advantage of the increasingly rare downtime.
“No, it’s fine,” he answered, and he rose from the couch with a languorous stretch. “I need a break anyway.” Sylvain could already feel the stiffness in his shoulders, the crick in his neck. His mother had always scolded him on his reading posture; he’d argued that the best way to get lost in a good story was to curl oneself around it, so the outside world couldn’t interfere. Maybe, he mused, he was getting too old to slump in armchairs and chase imaginary adventures.
…Nah.
With a wince and roll of his shoulders, Sylvain joined her at the table. The flowers were not picked, he realized, but re-potted: small bell-shaped blooms hung over the sides, their blade-like petals purest white. Sylvain smiled. It had been a long time since he’d seen snowdrops.
He traced one of the blooms with a finger. “I didn’t know these grew near the monastery.”
“Oh, yes!” she said, excited. “I spotted them while I was out gathering firewood with Cyril today. I thought they would be just lovely indoors—spruce up the place, you know? Spring is still a long way off.”
“Hm, they are lovely,” Sylvain agreed. He’d always been fond of them. Of course, that didn’t mean everyone felt the same. “Better not let Ashe see them, though,” he said. “He’s far too superstitious. Probably have a heart attack.”
“Oh?” Mercedes stood back to examine the tiny white bells. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? Aah, right, you’re not originally from Faerghus.” Sylvain scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I guess some people think they’re an ill omen. They say if you bring snowdrops into your house, misfortune is sure to follow—sometimes even death.”
Mercedes, eyes twinkling, covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my.”
“Yup. Real spooky stuff.” Sylvain shrugged. Ghost stories and folktales weren’t really his thing, but who was he to judge? “I guess the idea’s more common in the South, but they don’t bloom as often down there so maybe that’s got something to do with it.”
“You don’t sound like you believe it,” Mercedes offered. He shrugged.
“Nah, it’s just a dumb legend.”
“How do you know?”
“My life never needed their help being unlucky, did it?”
The words were out before he could stop them, and he grimaced. How was it that Mercedes could coax these things out of him without even trying? Even now she merely stared at him, not saying a word, her violet eyes soft with an emotion he couldn’t quite make out. It was… unsettling.
Sylvain cleared his throat.
“Anyway, it’s a bunch of nonsense. If anything, they’re a good omen,” he went on, his eyes drifting to the blooms again. “Gautier territory can get pretty nasty in the winter. Snowdrops mean it’s almost over.”
It wasn’t that Sylvain hated the snow. He had fond memories of it—snowball fights with his friends, kicking up white clouds like glittering smoke as he rode his horse around the yard, the peace of a long walk, the crunch of his boots the only sound. Snow reminded him of home. But it also reminded him of home—of days trapped indoors, where they knew all of his hiding places; of dashed hopes and bitter cold and isolation; of two days of pain and abject terror.
“A sign of warmth to come,” Mercedes intoned, voice like a prayer. Sylvain had no idea how she managed that. Maybe she’d been a goddess herself in another life.
Maybe even this one.
“Something like that,” he agreed, his forced smile hanging crooked from his lips. Mercedes smiled back, genuine and soft and sweet.
“Careful,” she teased, “that sounds a little like hope.”
“Me? Hope?” Sylvain chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
Mercedes hummed, considering. “Well, I think that’s beautiful, Sylvain.”
Sylvain cleared his throat. The room had just become uncomfortably warm. “It’s just a flower.”
“It’s okay to find solace in the ordinary. We’re allowed to have hope.”
Except that hope made you vulnerable. Hope opened you up to the pain of disappointment, of broken dreams and betrayal and—
Sylvain stomped down on those thoughts, pierced them through with a mental blade and shoved their corpses over the edge of the tallest cliff he could conjure. They’d be back, of course, reborn from the wounds deep in his heart that still hadn’t healed. But he was trying. Learning. Maybe one day he’d kill them for good.
“Yeah,” he said finally, “yeah, you’re right.” Sylvain smiled, reaching out once more to caress the flowers upon the table. “It’s too bad.”
“What’s too bad?”
“That life doesn’t give us snowdrops.”
Mercedes laid a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to herself. When she met his gaze, her eyes sparkled as if at some private joke. “Oh,” she said, “I think it does. You just have to know where to look.”