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As he grew up in Pherae, Roy witnessed the world through flowers.
If he closed his eyes, his earliest memories were easily at hand: the crisp odor of wildflowers, the sunlight reflecting off dewy grass, the nimble grace of his mother's fingers as she weaved vibrant, ornate flower crowns. Marigolds, poppies, violets, daisies; she laced an entire rainbow into her wreaths. Perhaps Pherae's position on the continent had something to do with her beautiful floral work – near the southern seas, they always saw mild, verdant Aprils – but Roy always thought it was the magic of his mother's hands that gave her flower crowns their life.
So most days in the spring, and whenever she felt well enough, Roy's mother would lead him out of the castle and into the meadow. She'd take him by the hand and walk with him until she knelt down in the spot with the most color, setting Roy cross-legged in front of her, overgrown grass tickling his elbows. Then, she proceeded to daintily pick her flowers from the foliage surrounding them, meticulously tying them at the stems to form elaborate chains.
Roy attempted to imitate, but his fingers were still a tad too small, a tad too pudgy for such fine tasks. Dejectedly, he squinted down at his useless hands laying in his lap. "Mama," he asked quietly, "why do we always come here?"
Before she answered, Ninian tied off her crown and let it fall softly upon her son's head, rustling his unruly, ginger hair as gently as a breeze upon the grasses. "I love the flowers of this world," she said, her sweet voice chiming in the air. She leaned forward, silky cerulean hair falling on Roy's face as she wrapped her arms around his small body. "And I love you, little one."
Roy was then subject to a warm kiss on the cheek, to which he squirmed and pulled away, giggling all the while. In response, his mother kissed him again on the cheek, the nose, the forehead, until Roy accepted his fate. Even though he hated kisses – he was the strong, noble heir to Pherae – he preferred seeing his mother like this, genial and loving. When around the nobility, she was taciturn and nearly glued to his father. And when she was bedridden, as she was for much of the time after that one day in the meadow, she was even quieter, on top of appearing permanently forlorn with heavy, wistful eyes and weak attempts to smile.
Hating to see his mother in such a state, Roy sought to bring warmth back to her pallid expression after the healers confined her to indefinite bed rest. Every day, he toddled out to the meadow, scooped up a fistful of flowers, and carried them back to Ninian's room in the castle, just as Sir Marcus told him his father had done for her once, before Roy was born. He attempted to reach up and place them in the vase on the nightstand, but his arms were still too short to reach – his mother had to take them from him and drop them in the glass herself.
She leaned over the bed, extending her arm to her son. "Come up here," she said, and helped pull Roy up as he climbed onto the mattress, into his mother's lap.
"Mama, I brought you the flowers you like," Roy said, beaming at her.
She smiled in return; a glimpse of the woman Roy knew from the meadow, a glow of pale sunlight in the dim, sterile sickroom. "Thank you, Roy. I love them."
Nestled in his mother's embrace, Roy became enveloped in the clean scent of linens and mellow tones of her voice as she hummed an ancient tune, a song no one could ever hear otherwise in Lycia or anywhere else on the continent. He liked it – for as long as he knew, this had been his lullaby; a steady, reassuring rhythm in a language he didn't understand.
However, Roy was four and not easily lulled to sleep anymore. He fidgeted slightly in Ninian's lap, picking up her hands and toying with the rings that adorned her slender fingers. There were five in total: four decorated with ornate inscriptions and gemstones, then the plain silver wedding band on her ring finger.
Running his small fingertips over a smooth, viridian jewel, Roy found himself transfixed by the peculiar, magic air the rings exuded. "Mama," he said, not looking up. "Today, Papa gave me a toy sword to play with!"
"Oh, that's wonderful. Do you like it?"
"Mm-hm. Me and Wolt played knights outside with it. Do you like swords, Mama? You can play with us."
"I'm not too fond of them. I much prefer these rings," she replied, spreading her fingers in Roy's grasp. "Before you were born, I used them to help your father and our friends."
Roy paused. "When you fought the bad guys?"
"Yes."
"But... how?" His brow furrowed.
Her voice rising slightly in excitement, Ninian answered. "I would dance. These rings are embedded with magic – I wore them during the war so when I danced for others, it gave them strength."
Roy was awestruck. He didn't quite understand war yet, and never considered his mother a part of one, having always imagined her being a duchess to be rescued from her captors. She was elegant and fragile, a wisp of a woman – yet she had the fortitude to fight alongside his father. Perhaps not with blades or lances, but by supporting others – Roy certainly understood this quality of his mother.
"I wanna – Can I see you dance, Mama?" he pleaded.
"Oh... I'm not too sure. The doctor wants me to stay in bed, to see if I get better."
"Please?"
Ninian sighed and scooted Roy from her lap to the bed. "Alright then. I have missed dancing, and I think I do feel well enough..."
Fascinated, Roy observed his mother as she got to her feet and stepped away from the bed. He couldn't recall seeing her dance before – there were vague memories of his parents waltzing together at Pherean festivals, but little more. This would be the first time he witnessed her dance by herself, the way she danced years ago.
A smile crossed Ninian's face as she took a deep breath.
Suddenly, she was in motion.
Roy couldn't tell if her movements were that slow and graceful, or if time really did slow down for his mother to dance. Her silk gown billowed around her tiny, spinning body in the sunlight filtering through lace curtains, the rings glittering like stars. He followed them as her arms extended and retracted, flowing as a river in the air, telling tales of beauty and heroism and love. Her movements were harmonic and thoughtful; each one perfectly executed, one after another, incessant as the flow of time.
Then, Ninian wobbled.
It was her knee that buckled first, then the rest of her body followed it, tumbling to the floor as she emitted a startled shriek. In the white nightgown, she resembled a dove falling undaintily from the sky, collapsing in a heap on the cold stone floor.
"Mama... Mama, I'm sorry!" Roy cried frantically as he leaped off the bed and ran to his fallen mother's side. With teary eyes, he knelt beside her and attempted to lift her up again, pulling at her arms. It was to no avail. He was still much too small, much too weak to help her.
Ninian smiled feebly. "It's okay, it's okay," she consoled. "It's not your fault, Roy. Mother just isn't very strong anymore."
"Mama..." Roy whimpered and broke into helpless sobs, fat, salty tears flooding his eyes.
He didn't think to call for help before the sound of familiar footsteps approached.
"Ninian!"
Choking back tears, Roy looked up to see his father enter the room. In his eyes, Eliwood was a grand figure, the personification of composure and nobility – but as soon as he crossed the threshold, all color drained from his face. He immediately raced across the room in a panic and crouched down beside his wife, pulling her limp body into his arms and pressing her forehead to his cheek.
"What happened?" he asked with wide, anxious eyes. "I heard Roy cry out..."
Before Roy could try and explain, Ninian spoke. "I... I thought I could dance," she answered though shallow, shaky breaths.
Eliwood pulled her closer, resting her head on his shoulder. His deep, blue eyes bore into Roy. "Go call on a healer, Roy," he directed, and scooped Ninian up off the floor.
Unable to face his guilt – he did this, he was the reason Mama fell – Roy ran off without a word while his father lay her trembling body back on the bed.
He heard them speaking in hushed, gentle voices as he left.
"Eliwood, I never will get any better."
A sniffle. "I know."
The dancing incident long past, Roy still brought his mother flowers every day, even when the seasons shifted out of spring – he would simply pick up whatever pleasing foliage he could find, even if just dandelions and clovers. But even weeds didn't stick around in winter, and by November, all Roy could do for Ninian was visit, snuggling up next to her in the bed for hours on end.
He tried to keep her company, telling all about he was doing and learning, asking if she thought it would snow this year, but as time progressed, his mother grew quieter and quieter. She spoke and ate little, much to the dismay of Eliwood and the clerics. A permanent heaviness sat in her dark, maroon eyes, ever when Roy crawled upon the bed and greeted her with cheers and hugs – though her lips smiled, her eyes didn't. Her already pale face grew duller, and the glow she was once known to have was forgotten.
In late December, Lycia's first snows blew in from the north.
"Mama, look!" Roy exclaimed, pointing out the window.
She said nothing, but smiled slightly. Her gaze rested on the accumulation outside, endlessly watching the snowflakes as they stuck to the window pane and piled upon the earth, suffocating it.
It wasn't a week later that Roy entered her room as usual, only to find his father leaning over her body, crying, kissing her pallid cheeks and begging for her to return.
Mama loved the flowers of this world.
Perhaps, if Roy found the flowers, he'd find her.
He ran out of the castle, into his mother's field. Nowadays, it wasn't much of a meadow, however – snow covered the ground as far as the eye could see.
Where was she?
Roy plopped down in the slush and dug through it. The flowers ought to have been hidden in there somewhere – they couldn't just disappear. How else did they return every year?
The cold seeped into Roy's bones as he became entrenched in mounds of snow to his neck. But even though wet snowflakes clung to his eyelashes and his teeth chattered incessantly, he continued shoveling.
There were no flowers.
Roy clawed at the spot of earth he'd uncovered, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails. He wanted to find flowers – his mother's flowers – but all he found was sticky mud and dead grass and snow and snow and snow and snow. It piled up around him, swaddling his shivering body like a blanket; all that was visible of him was a splotch of bright red hair against the sea of white.
Perhaps that was what saved him.
"Roy!"
The child poked his head out of the snow to see his father emerge into the field, frantic and worrisome as that day, months ago, when Ninian collapsed. It was enough to make Roy's tears well up all over again.
Eliwood ran to his son and lifted his tiny body into his arms. "Roy, what are you doing?" he asked, the words manifesting as puffs of smoke in the frigid air.
Roy pressed his head against his father's chest, listening to the low tones of his voice resounding in his chest. Suddenly, the tears that stung his eyes overflowed, streaming down his cheeks and soaking into Eliwood's shirt. The salty taste made him feel sick.
"I... I need to get Mama's flowers..." Roy whimpered.
He felt his father rock him gently in his arms, shuffling slowly in the snow. "Roy... Roy, it's okay, it's okay," he mumbled into his hair as he brushed a hand through it.
Roy curled up against his father as he was carried back home, sniffling and sobbing. He didn't have to be told what happened – he felt it. There was an emptiness in the world now, an important piece suddenly missing from all life.
His mother was gone.
An innocent enough question, along with a lighthearted chuckle.
"Roy, why do you always wear those rings?" Lilina asked. "In battle, the extra jewelry isn't exactly practical..."
Roy smiled as he lifted his hand to look at them, running his fingers over the dazzling gems and ancient inscriptions. "They remind me of my mother," he replied. "She was a dancer."