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Tommy had always thought that his death would be peaceful. Working in the flower shop he’d taken over from his family, he expected to finally succumb to an illness, at worst an accident. He had even dared to hope he would die of old age. Not a dream that seemed too unachievable, at the time. But no matter what, he would have surely been surrounded by his friends and family when he took his final breath. Loved.
Tommy had always expected to be allowed his last goodbyes.
And he had been, in a way, the wilting forget-me-nots in his pocket bearing witness to Niki’s desperate hug before they walked onto the battlefield. His sister had once chosen the flowers for him, he’d been told. When he’d only just been born she’d seen the patches of blue outside and decided they looked just like Tommy’s eyes.
They didn't, really, his irises much darker in color, bordering on a dirty green if the light hit them the wrong way. Yet still she could not have been more correct in her choice of flower, and he wouldn’t ever let anyone question the decision.
When the news had first been announced, Niki had been the one to cry, holding him tight as she whispered she'd protect him, she'd keep him safe, Niki had promised.
She had always been there for him, taking his side in dozens of arguments against their parents, helping him with homework or even just letting him curse out his teachers and classmates and the tasks and the way school was structured. She’d always listened.
When he’d taken over the flower shop, Niki had done everything she could and more just to make sure he was comfortable, all while building up her own bakery. And yet now, when he truly needed it, Tommy was alone.
He’d always thought his death would be peaceful, and in a twisted way it was, his vision fading quickly as he couldn’t see much further than the ground right in front of his face, so his solitude was only broken by the occasional muddy boot walking too close. All the surrounding sounds were mixing to form a disturbing chorus, fading into the background as he focused on his own, stuttering breaths. He was tired, too tired to even yell for his sister, barely croaking out her name.
He’d always thought his death would be peaceful.
The both of them had read the conscription notice together, shared twin looks of horror as they realized they fell into the criteria of those summoned.
It had taken barely a second for Niki to understand that she would lose either herself, or her little brother.
It had taken Tommy weeks to come to term with the same fact.
He had been apprehensive, yes, much rather working on his bouquets than sharpening a blade, but he was young. This was a chance to protect his kingdom. When they answered the summons, packed bags at the army camp’s entrance, he’d been buzzing with excitement. Hoping, even expecting –as any young fighter wanting to prove themselves– to be a hero. How ironic, now, that he’d rather be anything but.
He remembered Niki praying by the fire at night, remembered telling her how unnecessary it was, that they’d surely win. A wannabe hero who had been handed a real sword, not understanding that what his sister was asking for wasn’t help, it was forgiveness, rue for acts they both would be forced to commit.
The days before the battle had been made of silence, the sorrow of those who had experienced war before, of those who knew what it was they were expecting. And yet, the quiet was broken, over and over again, by the chatter of the young ones. How glad Tommy had been that Tubbo had also been chosen, that he had a friend with him in training. They had seen themselves as a duo, fighting in sync, protecting each other, winning .
He had lost his friend within the first few minutes of the fight.
How glad he was, now, that the memory issues had deemed Ranboo unfit for combat, how lucky that he’d left Niki’s assistant a bouquet of allium, rosemary and daisies. Good fortune, like they were the one to need it, staying at home and safe. But Ranboo had always liked the purple blossoms, and who was he to deny his friend.
But rosemary stood for remembrance. It was nearly too perfect. How he hadn’t chosen the flowers for their meaning, hadn’t even considered the memory loss until Ranboo had looked at them and started laughing. And how now it was the only hope he had left. That he wouldn’t be one of the things his friend just forgot.
So Tommy had said his goodbyes, and as he had first joined the ranks of marching soldiers, moving to meet the enemy head on, sword suddenly seeming feeble at his side, he knew he had been wrong. There wasn’t a single moment left to consider peace as he understood that the battlefield would be his grave.
If there was one thing for him to mourn as he shook on the ground, trying to keep as still as possible to stop the shooting pain every twitch of his muscles caused, it would be that the flowers growing around him were all stomped dead, covered in blood and dirt. What had once been a beautiful field of irises, now muddy and charred. At the very least, they were dying with him. He wasn’t truly alone.
His hand moved slowly towards his pocket, and Tommy flinched as pain shot through his arm, yet his fingers slowly grazed fragile petals of forget-me-not blue, and he hoped it was a promise, that Niki would survive if only to keep it, to keep his memory. He had nothing, no flower or trinket to remind him of Tubbo or Ranboo, but he didn’t need those to know that he was happy for them to be the last people he thought about.
As his vision wavered Tommy’s eyes focused on a small speck of blue in front of him, finding solace in the lone petal who’s color prevailed. He coughed, shaking as he squeezed his eyes shut. When he forced them open again, intent on having the last thing he’s see be hope, he couldn’t find it anymore among the dirt, but the ground was splattered with fresh blood.
No one was there to hear the boy’s whispered last words.
If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to care, it’s the flowers that will bury the corpse.
It takes no less than a few years for the battleground to become flower field again, no memorial is made for the fallen as it returns to its former glory. Instead that duty falls on the shimmering sun on poppies glinting blood. To serve as a reminder.
Decades from now, a child will giggle as it holds up a bone, keeping it in a collection of knick-knacks believing it to be merely that of an animal. Decades from now, no one will recount the story of lives lost.
And yet, no poppies bloom over the body of a boy, no irises or alliums or patches of sky in forget-me-not petals. Instead, when a person stumbles onto the field, desperation painted across their face in black dahlia, they run right towards a darkened patch breaking away from the rest. The prince stumbles, shirt stained with blood as he keeps running, collapsing into a bed of red and black.
Because where Tommy whispered his last words, a patch of flowers has started to spread, and prince Wilbur barely flinches as the wither roses brush against his body.
The man is gasping for breath, face twisted in what must be agony at the touch of this many of the flowers, not to mention the multitude of still bleeding wounds his back is sprouting. And still, he doesn’t move, only looking up at the sound of voices getting closer. He withdraws further into the flower patch, watching closely as soldiers emerge from the trees.
“Your highness, you are to return to the castle.” one of them speaks as they approach.
He shakes his head, not trusting that he can open his mouth without having to scream. Swords are raised at him and the guards trudge closer, but they flinch away at the sight of the roses. Wilbur is slowly withering away, but all he cares about is that they can’t come closer. He’s not going back to the castle no matter what they try, they’ve injured him enough that he would have been dead anyways, so he’s going to at least die free among the flowers.
Maybe if he wasn’t so hurt he wouldn’t have been this resolute, wouldn’t have accepted his death so easily. If they hadn’t decided to shoot at him with arrows, sure, he might have gotten away, but at least they wouldn’t have been in the current situation either. Counting on his parent’s common sense had been an error of judgment on his part.
Wilbur’s hands absently pick flowers even as they begin to wither away, weaving them together blindly with eyes still struggling to stay on the men through the pain. He can literally feel the back of his body burning up, breaking apart at the seams at the rose’s touch. It’s agony, and still he would always pick this over succumbing to his wounds in the castle. At least now he is free.
If the soldiers are still trying to get to him, he can’t tell. Their voices make no sense to him anymore, and trying to focus on them is too much work, so he raises his gaze to the sky instead, blinking at the bright blue. It's a beautiful day. Dying here, in the field of flowers, Wilbur is at peace for the first time in as long as he could remember.
A crown of wither roses and red anemone rests on his chest.
A crown of silver and jewels bloody and discarded in the woods.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to cry for it, it's the flowers that will grieve.