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It was deeply bothersome to be disallowed speech.
Or so Barok van Zieks’s disciple thought, at least.
It hadn't bothered him as much before. Ever since he met his new master, however, he yearned and burned to speak his mind again.
He made do with what he had. He signed with his hands. He held his master’s hand and wrote into his palm with his fingertip. He mouthed the words he wished to say, praying that he'd gotten his point across. It was indeed very cumbersome to do so every time he needed to communicate, but it was, for a while, doable. (Having a legitimate excuse to to hold the lord's hand wasn't half bad, for one.)
However…
There were things he couldn't put into a few simple mouthed words, things he couldn't possibly pantomime to get across. There were things that plagued his mind for days on end before he let them go. This time, it had kept him up at night for a full week.
In the midst of that, he stumbled upon a book.
Encyclopedia of Botany.
Treatises on the natural sciences had never interested him. And yet, this large tome caught his eyes like none other book had.
He picked it up and opened it carefully. The book smelled of dust, the cover faded, the spine all creased. Within were page after yellowed pages filled to the brim with flower names and descriptions side by side with beautiful colored illustrations – as well as where to find them, what they would mean to a seasoned florist.
In the blink of an eye, it seemed he had found himself a solution.
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And so, the disciple diligently studied every flower in the book alongside their meaning. He was determined to learn them all, so as to…
Speak, silently, the language of flowers.
It had seemed rather silly when he first thought of itz. It would be quite unwieldy to put together a bouquet every time he had something he could not say. But it was leagues better than writing limited notes or rudimentary hand signs. The more he thought of it, the more he found it viable.
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“Bells of Ireland?” Barok tilted his head, curiously eyeing the basket of vibrant green blooms on his desk.
The disciple nodded.
“You mean to give it to… me? Is there an occasion I'm not aware of?” He seemed to be in disbelief still, even as he turned the basket around to admire the flowers.
The disciple waved his hands in a vain attempt to answer both questions at once.
Bells of Ireland were a symbol of good luck. It was his wish to Barok, wishing him well for the case to come.
Barok couldn't help but feel a little tickled – who would have known this mysterious-looking masked disciple of his was such an earnest young man? He set a hand atop the disciple’s head, the corner of his lips curling up ever so lightly.
“Thank you, then.”
Even as Barok turned away, the disciple remained there, dumbfounded, swept away by such a gentle response.
The language of flowers… was very compelling indeed.
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From that day on, Barok’s office became adorned with colors. The disciple brought in a different type of flowers every day, bringing some much needed life into the oft-gloomy office. It wasn't mere good luck wishes that the disciple conveyed through the daily bouquets, though. Sometimes, he would leave flowers as a gentle reminder.
Barok was a man who took his duties more seriously than most. There were times when he would work night and day without break, without any rest at all. As his protégé, the disciple had seen it all, and wouldn't stand for it.
Barok was also nothing if not an obstinate man. Even if the disciple was capable of bringing up the subject, he was quite sure that Barok simply wouldn't listen to his own student telling him to rest.
This was where the flowers came in.
On that late evening, darkness had well settled outside when Barok still remained in his office, at his desk, diligently working through his mountain of documents. The disciple stepped towards him, slowly set a stack of filled forms and reports on his desk.
Without looking up at him, Barok nodded his acknowledgement and said: “You may go home first.”
The disciple didn't budge. He stood right where he was, staring intently at his master. It was a long moment before Barok lifted his eyes from the papers and looked at him.
His gaze then shifted to the stack of paper on the desk.
Atop the stack was a lovely bouquet of soft pink flowers with layered petals, small and delicate. Barok set his pen down, and took the bouquet in his hand. The flowers gave off a gentle, sweet scent, quite enjoyable. He relaxed a little.
“Azaleas? You would like me to take better care of myself?” Barok asked, drumming his fingers against the desk. He lifted the bouquet, his eyes on his student.
“Are you trying to give me an order, apprentice?”
The disciple nodded and then shook his head, and then nodded again. His gaze never wavered. Although he never said a word, the message was clear. If you insist on denying yourself rest, my lord, then you would give me no choice. I shall not hold back.
Before such determination, Barok could only sigh. Incredibly, he relented, putting his documents away.
“Alright, I suppose you have a point. It is past time I took a break.”
The disciple smiled in utter satisfaction as he followed Barok out into the yard, watching as he held the bouquet of azalea to his chest and stepped into the carriage.
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The more time he spent by Barok’s side, the more ardent his feelings towards him became. Adoration, then desire, took root in his heart, his very soul. Before long, the disciple was startled to realize…
He was in love.
His love blossomed, silent yet bright and brilliant and impossible to hide. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold back. He wishes to make his feelings known. At the same time, he was afraid.
He had no memories; he had never loved anyone the way he loved the lord. He couldn't know what he would do with himself if Barok were to look upon his bared heart with scorn. Such a rejection would thoroughly crush him.
And yet, keeping all those feelings in was driving him mad.
Before the disciple knew it, he turned towards the flowers again, pouring his feelings into bouquet after bouquet, day after day. He brought in a different type of flower every day for the vase in the corner, subtly putting his heart on display.
Pure white gardenias, its gentle scent wafting across the room, symbolizing the secret love buried in his chest.
Velvety, crimson roses, for his burning love and desire to claim the heart of the man he loves.
Green salvia, for the way his mind was filled with Barok’s figure at all times.
Violets, the color of his beloved’s hair, to represent his own oath of loyalty.
So, so many little confessions in those delicate blooms, that he sent out without hope for reciprocation – without even thinking that Barok would understand the meaning.
For a nameless man such as him, merely being by Barok’s side alone was already his great honor and joy.
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After the trial, Barok returned to his office.
The room still smelled faintly of the lavenders that his disciple brought over the other day. The man himself was no longer there.
Even from before the trial, Barok had already had his suspicions over his student’s true identity. The incident just now in court only confirmed it as well as his connection to the tragedy of ten years ago. Everything had fallen into place, perfect mosaics coming together into one somber painting.
It was too late now, for whatever he might have in mind. And he, in fact, did not have anything concrete in mind. He didn't know what to do anymore.
The room seemed a lot dimmer, as grey as the future that lied ahead of them. He walked across the gloom, and placed a carefully wrapped bouquet of his own on the disciple’s low desk.
Iris and sweet-pea.
Perhaps the young man would understand his feelings. That was… if he ever deigned to pick up this bouquet at all.
The scent of lavender still dogging his every step, Barok lowered his eyes and quickly stepped away, as though running away from his past. The doors heavily slid shut, locking behind them the scent of flowers and the memories of him.
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All the world was a stage. And all he was, was a nameless little role. He was doomed from the start.
He could feel it – his existence nearing its end. If only… If only he could see Barok one last time…
No. He must see Barok one last time.
The sharp pain continued to throb in his temples, like mad hounds tearing at the edges of his mind. That other self of his, that Asogi Kazuma, was right there at the doorstep of his consciousness, ready to snatch back control over this body.
The nameless, masked disciple truly did not have much time left.
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The night was moonless, dark and cold as Barok’s heart. He lied wide awake on his bed, his eyes on the ceiling, his mind a maelstrom.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
A shadow glided towards his bedside, a silhouette he knew more than he'd ever known any other.
“Have you come to take my life?” Barok coolly said, his tone entirely nonchalant despite the weight of his words.
Perhaps he had always been ready for such a moment.
Barok tugged on his shirt collar, putting the fragile column of his neck partly on display.
“Do hurry, then. Best avoid arrest so you could enjoy the sweetness of vengeance, don't you think?” He let out a self-deprecating laugh.
The dark cloaked man remained silent. He removed his twin swords, set it aside, then pulled out a cloth to cover Barok’s eyes.
“That isn't it,” he murmurs. “I'm not here to kill you.”
He spoke. For the first time and the last, he finally addressed Barok with his own voice.
“Nor would I ever hurt you.”
He had much to tell Barok still.
Barok’s eyes widened behind the cloth. In his astonishment, somehow his eyes felt hot.
“Please forgive my rudeness,” says the disciple, as he climbed into bed and atop Barok.
Finally, he could speak his mind – or rather, his heart.
“I’ve harbored these feelings for you for a long time, Barok. Somehow… I dare to be in love with you, dare to disrespect you with my coveting.”
The disciple spoke slowly, steadily, unwavering. He spoke as a sinner in a church, reverent and repentant, confessing every of his transgressions.
Ah… He finally said it. He could finally say it now. No longer did he need the flowers as a middleman; no longer did he need to scramble for subtle ways to convey his feelings.
He was finally able to tell Barok that he loved him.
The face behind the porcelain mask twisted up. His heart seized, throbbing painfully.
Why did it take so long? Why, oh why, could he only say it now? It was all so utterly unfair. At the brink of losing everything he'd ever had – his master, his own existence – he felt greedier than he'd ever been.
He wanted Barok’s heart, wanted his love. Wanted him.
But it was too late. It was time to go.
“Regrettably, my time is almost up,” he murmurs. “May I spend this one last night by your side?”
Barok didn't reply. The turmoil of the heart had so drained his strength that he could scarcely speak. He merely nodded, near imperceptibly, his eyes fluttering shut behind the cloth.
“You may.”
The disciple bent down, placed a kiss upon his lips. He held Barok fast as he fell asleep.
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Barok awoke to the light of morning. Slowly, he tugged the tear-drenched blindfold from his face. His bedroom was as quiet and empty as it ever was. As he had ever felt.
It was his fault, everything was.
If only Barok was more honest with himself about his own feelings…
Of course he had always noticed his student’s preoccupations. He’d made it quite clear, not merely with the flower but through his gesture, his care. Barok was grateful for it, yet was too cowardly to acknowledge his feelings for what they were.
He didn't deserve the disciple’s regards. That was what he told himself, as he pretended not to realize his love. Now, he felt truly despicable.
One mistake led to another. Everything was over now. The disciple was in the past, as was his love. Not a shred of it could be salvaged any longer. Even a hint of his warmth was gone.
Like everyone else Barok had held dear in his life, he was gone. There wasn't a single person left. One by one, they all left him behind.
Perhaps this was his punishment. A divine retribution that he must suffer, for his sins.
Barok turned to his nightstand. There lied an old encyclopedia, a truly ancient-looking book. On top of it was a heliotrope, a striped carnation, and a forget-me-not.
Tears welled up in his eyes again. It rolled down his cheek, and landed on a delicate blue petal, like a drop of morning dew.
-End-