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As was her habit, Raine woke at first light. She took a careful, deep breath, almost a yawn, and stretched her back and shoulders, realizing with sleep-hazed excitement that there was something in her hand. She curled back up, loose fist by her her face.
Soft petals brushed her lower lip, and when she pressed it closer she caught a soft woodsy scent, almost musty. Floral tones were there, but only in the background. On smell alone she might have guessed it was a violet, but no, the stem was thick and sturdy, the petals large. An iris, then.
With some struggle, she opened her eyes, and there it was: three yellow blooms on a long stem.
The Yellow Flag Iris was a perennial, known for being invasive. Its preferred habitat was at least semi-aquatic. Despite their classification as an invasive species, they were useful to combat natural erosion and often took up residence at the edges of ponds and along streams. They bloomed in the late months of spring into early summer, and while not typically remontant, instead withering under the pressure of high temperatures, Raine could not help but wonder that if a climate were mild enough they might be inclined to be.
Someday, she would like to have the leisure to test that theory. She had only had the pleasure of observing it in Iselia, as it grew around the pond close to her house. Or rather, she thought, what used to be her house.
She didn’t bother to blink the sleep away, instead closing her eyes again to let herself drift a little in the quiet morning. For a moment she was a child again, her mother’s hands twisting carefully in her long hair, braiding sweet violets into it as she went. It took forever. She’d been so impatient, then, fidgeting all the while. Looking back, she wished she’d let herself enjoy it. She could never have it again, after all: time with her mother or that blessed ignorance of youth. Those years had not lasted very long.
But there was no use dwelling on things that could not be helped or changed. She sat up, the iris in hand, and reached for her bag.
This was the fourteenth instance of a flower appearing in her hand overnight. It did not happen every day, or even every week, but it still felt like an emerging pattern.
That alone made it a very intriguing mystery, or at least a puzzle worthy of being solved.
She found her journal easily, and opened it to the next set of blank pages. It wasn’t perfect, nor was it ideal for archival purposes, but it would have to do for now. She pressed the flower there, noting the similarities between it and the others she had received. They were always cut so neatly. Whoever was doing this was being very deliberate about it.
She carefully closed the pages over the iris and tied the book with twine to ensure the pages would not open inside her bag.
She couldn’t imagine who was responsible.
Not that it mattered. Not that she had time to care.
She reached for a comb and ran it through her hair, arranging it afterward with her fingers to make sure it covered her ears. Everyone already knew what she was, but it was habit. Not anxiety, not fear, she told herself. Just habit. And habits were hard to break.
The next flower was a daffodil. White petals and a soft yellow center, though they were oftentimes seen in a solid, bright yellow as well. Another perennial, sometimes referred to by their genus: Narcissus. They bloomed in the spring to herald the end of winter. For many cultures, they symbolized rebirth or starting anew.
But for all of Raine’s love of symbolism, particularly the history of it, she could not shake the knowledge that a flower was only a flower. They could carry meanings but they were still only what they appeared to be. A flower could not deceive. It was what it was.
Something she had never been able to be. Or free to be, she supposed. A sobering thought.
The world was not a friendly place—either world. It was hard not to despair at the weight of it, she mused, pressing this new acquisition into her book. Too often, she felt trapped by her heritage, powerless in her own body. Last night had been like that.
And she’d woken from her restless dreams to this.
She tied the twine ‘round the journal again.
Maybe there was a pattern after all.
Dog violets. Perennial. Another spring find, usually in meadows or forested areas. Basal. Bilaterally symmetrical. They tended to vary from blue to purple. Unscented. Important to the ecosystem nonetheless.
These were purple and held together with a soft pink ribbon. The stems, as always, were neatly cut.
In the Language of Flowers it was often thought that they meant…
No, that was not something to think about. She shook her head adamantly, reaching under her head as she sat up for her bag.
They were simply another spring flower, a cheerful splash of color on the forest floor. It was certainly no deeper than that.
But someone had seen them and thought of her, cut the stems tidily, and took a great amount of care to tie them with a ribbon. Violet stems were fragile and could not withstand much abuse: whoever had done this had a gentle and patient hand. And after all that work, they’d laid them in her loose fist while she slept.
It had been another bad night. She’d retired early, desperate to hide her heartache and simmering rage from the others. The fault was her own; one insignificant comment from a stranger would not have normally affected her so keenly, but her tendency to bottle up every little thing left her feeling overwhelmed and defenseless.
Surely nobody else had noticed that, though.
She paused in arranging the violets on the blank journal page. Well, if these flowers were part of a pattern, maybe someone had.
Her heart fluttered a little.
She couldn’t place the feeling, or perhaps refused to. It’s not that deep, she reminded herself. Flowers were just flowers, not everyone knew the silly meanings or the symbolism, and even fewer people cared to use them. Surely this was just someone being kind.
But that thought did nothing to subdue the fluttering. If anything, it fed it.
She pressed the book closed.
The next weeks brought more flowers to her sleeping hand, each one the softest reminder that someone was paying attention.
Petunia, a tender perennial. Heat tolerant. There were a wide variety of colors, though she had been gifted one of soft pink. The ancient Balacruf Dynasty believed the strong, sweet scent could ward off monsters and bad spirits. As a gift, they most often symbolized comfort.
Pansy. Biennial. A symbol of remembrance, the name was derived from an ancient word for thought. It possessed a fairly unique morphology: two large petals at the top, two smaller side petals, and one large heart-shaped petal across the bottom. She had grown these in Iselia in purple and white, but the one left to her was a striking shade of orange.
Goldenrod. A fascinating plant that worked well to add nitrogen back into the soil. Most often found in meadows or prairies. Forgiving to a high degree, they were able to tolerate poor soil and drought, and bloomed summer through autumn. Truly fascinating was the ability some species possessed to spread by the division of underground rhizomes.
Smooth Aster, a powdery blue perennial that seemed to need little to thrive. They could grow in farmland and along the worn roads no matter how dry or rocky the soil, no matter how bright the sun. Asters were most often associated with wisdom, though other varieties and colors tended to change that meaning.
She could not begin to guess the perpetrator, though as the weeks passed, she felt more assured of who it was not than anything. It did not seem like something Presea would do, Genis would simply give them to her outright, and Lloyd lacked the patience to gather flowers so tenderly.
Not that anyone else made a lot of sense either.
She decided not to worry about it. It didn’t matter. Whoever was doing it didn’t want the attention anyway, or they wouldn’t have taken such care to be secretive. That made it easier to leave well enough alone regarding their identity, though it did little to quell the rush of excitement she felt each time she woke to find another flower in her hand.
And it did nothing at all to quiet the dizzy little flip of her heart each morning she opened her eyes to see each flower for herself. The color and presentation were always a surprise: everything from a bright blue to a soft red, a ribbon to hold them together, serrated leaves trimmed, and once, stems braided together as if woven by a craftsman.
Though she knew it was silly and indulgent to let her mind linger on any of it, she couldn’t help but feel touched. She had not often been allowed to feel special in any gentle way, let alone wanted. And these tiny, quiet gestures felt much bigger in the absence of that.
The journey to regenerate the worlds without sacrificing any more than was necessary was proving to be long and arduous. She couldn’t help but feel less optimistic each evening, her body sagging with exhaustion, her mind struggling to keep above the proverbial waters. She was the smart one, after all; she was the teacher, the researcher, the voice of reason. Too often, it felt like everything fell back on her, even if only in some small way.
It was up to her to know, and sometimes also to predict, what lay ahead on the path.
It had been another long, particularly tiring, day, but while her body wanted nothing more than to rest, her mind would not allow it. It spun in circles like a wagon wheel in the mud: no traction, no hope. Useless.
But she couldn’t very well worry the others with problems that were of her own making, so she closed her eyes and listened to the evening wind down. Before too long, only Lloyd and Regal remained awake, talking quietly to one another by the fire. She couldn’t make out much over the crackling of the flames, so she tuned it out, let herself get lost in her own thoughts again.
From the very beginning, nothing had gone right. She’d forced herself to restructure their plans, over and over again, but every new twist and turn made that exponentially harder.
Of course she wanted to save everyone—even Kratos, though by this point that was almost entirely for Lloyd’s sake. But wanting wasn’t always realistic, wasn’t always possible. The most important thing was to see their end goals reached, and if that meant sacrificing someone, even an ally, even a friend, she would do it.
No hesitation, no matter what. They could not afford for her to be weak.
She hated the sinking and desperate fear that twisted her gut, that told her a time would come when she would have to make a difficult choice.
The soft clink of metal on metal brought her out of her thoughts, but she kept her eyes closed, body still. A minute passed, and then two, with only the sound of careful footsteps reaching her ears. Probably Lloyd, heading off to sleep. Surely they were all down for the night, now.
But before she could open her eyes, she felt a hand brush against hers, pressing something into her palm.
She couldn’t help herself: she jumped, startled, her free hand reaching out to blindly catch an arm. A strong arm that tensed immediately under her own touch. And there it was again: the sound of a metal chain.
“Regal.” She opened her eyes, heart pounding, though whether that was from the unexpected physical contact or the revelation of her mystery person she couldn’t be certain. She took a shaky breath. “You startled me.”
He hesitated a moment in the firelight, looking awkward. “My apologies,” he finally murmured. “I thought you were asleep.”
She’d nearly forgotten about her hand. She opened it to find a small bunch of white flowers there, tied neatly with a matching lace-edged ribbon. As always, the stems were cut neatly.
“So it was you,” she said, half to herself, and brought them closer to sniff. Musky, a very mild citrus behind which came…vanilla? Five petals. Slightly yellow center. “I don’t know this flower.”
“It’s a wild rose,” he offered, sounding almost shy. When she fixed him with an expectant gaze, he continued, softly, “Sometimes they are called pasture roses, or sweetbriar. They are usually pink, but at least two white varieties exist. They prefer full sun exposure, and bloom only a week or two each year.”
She smiled, her mind quieting. “Thank you,” she said, the words almost trembling. It was silly to feel so moved. It was just a flower, after all. She let go of his arm and let her own drop back to where it had been before, across her middle.
He studied her a moment, something tender in his eyes. She should feel nervous, she thought, but she didn’t. She could only feel peace.
“You’re welcome,” he said, and she did not stop him when he reached out again, fingertips brushing her hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. “Try to get some rest.”
“I will,” she managed to say, but her voice sounded breathless in her own ears.
Her ears. One of which was exposed now, hair tucked neatly behind it. Why hadn’t she stopped him? Maybe she didn’t care anymore, or maybe…she was just tired of hiding. Was it too much to ask for someone, anyone, to see her for who she really was? To see and care anyway? Please, just once, even if it only lasted a moment.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid of what would come next. A flower could be nothing else, it could only be what it was. She was not like that. She had never been free to just be herself. There had always been consequences for the reminder of what she was.
But not this time. And not with him.
“Raine?” Regal interrupted her thoughts. “Have I…overstepped?”
She blinked, took in his earnest and concerned expression, and felt a small surge of what might have been affection for him. His words may not have meant much to anyone else, but it the wake of her turbulent life, the fact that he cared enough to ask felt significant to her.
After a moment, she gave a slight shake of her head. “No,” she said, and meant it. “I’m just…tired.” And for once, it wasn’t a lie. The rose, his words…they had done nothing to quiet her heart, but her mind felt blissfully at peace for the first time in recent memory.
He lowered his voice again, leaning closer. “There is always a lot of pressure on you… Please do not think your efforts go unnoticed.”
She closed her eyes, head tipping slightly so that the rose in her hand brushed her cheek. Of course he’d been the one to see it. It all made sense now. He had always been quite astute; she ought to have expected him to observe a thing or two about her while he was at it.
“If you need anything,” he continued as the world around her finally started to fade, his voice as gentle as the petals against her skin, “please know that you need not shoulder it alone. You can rely on me.”
“I know.” She found that not only did she mean it, but she also felt secure in it. She could rely on him. And someday, perhaps soon, she would. When she next spoke, as he was getting to his feet, her voice was little more than a breath: “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
He stood there in silence. There was eventually the soft sound of his shackles as he moved, and then she felt both of his hands wrap around the one she’d left carelessly at her side. He squeezed as if afraid to hurt her, and it felt like a sort of reassurance.
It was as good an answer as any.