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In the vast jungles of Golmore, flowers unlike he’s yet seen in Eorzea bloom big and riotous, red as fresh blood, shimmering gold, blue as sapphires. Giant lilies float beneath the waterfalls, pale and luminous, their petals unfurling invitingly over the dark lagoons as the moon rises to touch them, open them up. Sprawling orchids in jeweled tones - from deep violet to glowing amber, from carmine to midnight black - run wild through the jungle paths, some the size of a fist. The hanging vines dotted with tiny flowers sway in the rain, scattering their fragrant blossoms before his feet. He gathers jasmine and cannas, he fills a basket with natal lilies the color of sunsets, the flower favored by the one who always waits for him so patiently.
Today, he visits the village after long moons gone, and his sisters will be cross if he’s neglected any of their demands. For his daughter, he undertakes a quest, climbing an old kapok to pluck a delicate, bell-shaped flower that only blooms at the height of the tree its vines use for support. The petals shine opalescent, glittering like a diamond as they catch the sun that peeks through the canopy, and some say they sing a chorus for anyone with ears sensitive enough to listen. For this reason they are called clarion flowers, and to harvest them requires a gentle and patient hand. He’s careful not to handle the blooms too harshly, lest the fragile petals break apart in his rough fingers, and he takes only a few, only enough to braid into his daughter’s hair.
When he arrives at the village, they’ll all call his name, gather close. He’ll be unkempt, hair loose and damp with sweat, his palms smeared with pollen and soil. He’s scraped his arm against some thorny bark, red lines running thin down his brown skin. They’ll reach for him, all the same; they’ll press medicine to the wound, they’ll fix his braids and wash his face. Together, they’ll sit by the fire, the flowers in their hair vibrant against the light cast by the open flame, the pot bubbling with the scent of meat and vegetables.
“Are you all right?” A low voice rasps in his ear, concerned.
He exhales.
He is not in the forest.
He is staring at a manicured garden, wisteria petals falling around him, settling in his hair; their hair; gathering at their feet.
She would have enjoyed these flowers that hang like perfumed veils, that cascade so elegantly from their vines. He had tried to remember the planes of her face, the cadence of her voice. He couldn’t do it.
“Just thinking about flowers,” he replies, vaguely. A non-answer, albeit technically the truth.
They offer more worries, concerns. They are not good at finding words for comfort, but he doesn’t need them to, doesn’t want them. That they even try baffles and disquiets him. He allows interruptions, shifts in the conversation. They’re teasing him now, tipsy with their laughter, grinning behind the mask.
He prefers this. He wants to be in this moment, even if he doesn’t understand it, even if it means nothing, that broad grin in their voice induced only by a strong drink. Better here than in his memory, than to sit near the window of his grief as it clatters open, sending a bitter wind gusting through his heart.
But he cannot, should not linger.
“You need to tend to those wounds,” they remark, as he turns to go. He nods, noncommittal. The blood runs black, pooling in the crook of his inner elbow, soaking also through the ripped fabric over his thigh.
He returns to his apartment.
They will not reach for him.
They will not call him by his name.
He sits in the candlelight, silent, and lets the black blood trickle cold down his skin. As he watches the candles flicker, he rubs a wisteria petal between his fingers, his claws shredding it to thin strips.