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“There’s a reason hibiscuses say ‘you’re perfect’.”
“And that is?”
“Because that’s what Vecara wanted to say to Sylvie, hoping the flowers would convey it in a way she understood.”
Moss pauses, and then laughs. “Bullshit.”
The two avians have been sitting in the study for the past hour, telling stories and working on experiments. It was an easy way to pass the time when things like these were so tedious, but neither really minded. It was nice, after all, to talk and listen to myths instead of be alone in the silence.
Bee rolls her eyes, a playful smile on her lips. Her fangs are barely noticeable in the dim lantern-light. “Aw, don’t spoil the fun, Moss. They did all that for her… isn’t it sweet?”
“Maybe it would be if it actually happened,” Moss replied, carefully swirling a flask of dark magenta liquid. “Vecara was a trickster. We all know that. How would they even be able to make flowers? That was Sylvie’s job.”
She sets the vial on its metal stand. “Bee, light it, please?”
The hiveling hums in acknowledgment, flicking two of her fingers against her thumb. A small flame ignites just above the two digits, and she moves to light the material beneath the potion her companion is making. As soon as it’s lit, she retracts her hand and waves the embers above her fingers away. “Yeah, sure, Vecara was a trickster, I’m not denying that. I mean, where do you think hivelings like me got our shapeshifting abilities from? What I’m saying is that Vecara loved her. And you know what they say…”
Moss turns towards Bee, who’s wearing a soft smirk. The wood avian notes how the fire makes the golden hues of Bee’s cat-like eyes swirl and shimmer, and how it makes her sunshine orange hair seemingly brighter. It’s a beautiful sight, but she pushes the thought to the wayside. “.. What? I don’t trust that smirk.”
“They say, ” she begins, infuriatingly drawing out her speech in just the right way to tease Moss, “that when you love someone, sometimes you do things that you normally never would. That’s what I think Vecara did for Sylvie.”
On an average day, Moss would refuse something like this. And maybe it’s the fire, maybe it’s the quiet, maybe it’s the air between her and Bee, but she allows herself to fall into the trap. “Fine. And what if, hypothetically, that was why?”
She can see the way Bee lights up and— gods, had she any less restraint, she may have just forgotten the experiment and kissed her then and there. She tucks her flecked brown wings in again, hoping to hide the tiger lily buds that might sprout under the soft down.
“Then I think Vecara would have tried their best to show them to Sylvie,” Bee continues, smiling wide. “A gift in her greenhouse, maybe. I’ve heard that Sylvie’s greenhouse carried all the flowers in Solcaela…”
“It does,” Moss answers. She’s seen it herself, a giant overgrown (and yet, neatly kept) greenhouse, accepting all kinds of new plants. Moss’ family had made it their job to keep it to the utmost care. She assumes, no matter far removed from the Goddess of Nature, it is still her duty to make sure it stays pristine, so she always made sure to visit.
It isn’t until now she realized how much she liked the tropical flowers that grew there. Interesting, knowing what the Enchanted Forest had to offer, and what most other wood avians loved. They stay in silence for a moment, and Moss tends to her potion. She can feel Bee’s gaze on her.
The hiveling’s voice is quiet, yet full of awe. “..Can I see it someday?”
Moss chokes, and Bee’s face immediately flares into shades of crimson, her sunshine orange and cinnamon feathers spreading into the air in an obvious fluster. “I mean-! You don’t have to let me, I just got curious, and I love the stories, but I know how much it means to the royals, and—“
Moss chuckles, and her companion goes quiet. The wood avian allows herself to relax, the buds of tiger lilies blooming and unfurling across her wings. “Bee… Of course I’ll show you. You’ll just have to come back another night, when we have more time.”
The hiveling continues to sit in awe, but finds herself silently nodding, a smile across her lips. “Right… I’ll make sure to be back when you’re ready to show me.”
And so, of course, they settle back into stories, softly exchanged in the study in the dead of night. Moss allows herself for a moment to fall into them, listening to tales of a trickster god and their opposite. The lilies spread, and for now, she doesn’t pluck them. Bee seems to like them, after all, golden eyes transfixed on the petals and the woman she was telling stories to.
There’s a reason hibiscuses say “you’re perfect.”
Moss thinks that maybe she’ll grow some in the garden, right for a sunshine-winged avian to see.