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The first moments of his existence were the strangest. A tug, a pull, a great darkness—then a sensation of vastness, of spilling forward into a world so much greater than himself. There was something soft and wet and green under his roots—no, his skin. He had skin.
He traced over it with shaking hands—the slight roughness to his chin, the bulb of his throat, hardly believing it true. His chest was strange and tight—pressing a hand to the pain revealed a strange pressure pulsing in waves throughout his body, a pumping muscle stitched beneath the surface.
He remembered gasping for air, again and again. Swelling his new lungs, feeding his new heart. He’d been breathing too fast—voracious, lightheaded. He had to teach himself to slow down.
Now, there is a kind of certainty that comes with his new life. He grew into using his limbs, learned to talk and joke and flatter his way into appearing human. The joy of truly living was like no other—pulsing through him with every second, an unending fountain from which he drank relentlessly, endlessly sweet. In that first hour he had delighted at having eyelashes! Eyelashes! What a perfectly mundane thing, so beneath the lives of ordinary humans, yet to him it became a miracle.
And the miracles did not stop—for now he could see the forms of his fellow flowers, human-like as he was. They had once spent their days together in rigid glass casings, huddled in a dark room, in a quiet solace indescribable to human minds—forming a kind of kinship although their roots could not connect, although they could do nothing but drift in an imitation of consciousness.
And now, and now—Aqua a bright and naive child, playful to the ends of the earth. Seth, who delighted in knowledge and endeavored to know all there was to know, reading all the books Asgore left with vigor. Yellow, a cowboy and a justice at last; side-by-side with Blue, free to dance and spin gold with his words. Orange, with courage far greater than her size; Green, who brought them all together with delicious food. Knowing each of them in turn, able to see their smiles and hear their laughter—it was joy greater than any Lightner could fathom.
But he wished—oh, he wished for something more. A lover to share his skin with, a companion to watch over, a caretaker to reach for. Sure, the flowers were his friends, but they had each other. He had—who did he have? Asgore, whose lies he lapped up gladly in order to sustain the illusion of peace? Asgore, who he had kissed and taken inside him and loved—loved in a misguided, unrequited effort? The bite on his lip throbbed in reminder.
It does not matter, he thought. None of it would matter, eventually. He would fight it, but deep down he knew this.
— — —
The delight coursing through his veins crashed hourly upon the jagged edges of his fear—the certainty, cold and unforgiving, that he would die. It grew the longer he remained in this world, watching the heroes pursue their quest despite his attempts. His heart crested as he saw the flowers’ valiant efforts to detain the heroes, then fell again when every obstacle was conquered. They did not have much longer.
When the heroes approached the staircase, he decided to have a private audience with Ralsei. Before the end of this story, he reasoned, he can at least plant the seeds to leave a lasting impact. Help out a companion. Free her from the chains of the Prophecy.
Perhaps that was a mistake. It revived some old hope within him, stoking the fire until it burned fiercely in his chest. It made him remember: they were flowers grown for a wedding bouquet, only meant to live a day. After that, after being kept alive for years, against all odds—how could he just lie down and give up?
He didn’t know if it had worked. He will never know, probably. But something, something shone in Ralsei’s eyes as they accused him of being a liar, lashed out at him with more venom than they had ever known. Surely, he had accomplished something. Surely, what he said was better than telling the truth—better than saying the difference between you and me is that I have nothing to lose.
— — —
Now, he waits. Behind him is a towering mass of vines, snaking up to pierce the darkening skies. Everything will end here.
He can feel his heartbeat in his throat—a new, uncomfortable sensation. His hands are shaking. Deep down, some corner of his mind calls out very, very quietly: I want to live.
No, he thinks immediately. Tries to crush the impulse, wild and slippery, between his palms. No. Do not. There’s no use—
I want to live.
There’s no use, there’s nothing any of them could do. If he miraculously convinced the heroes to stop their quest, larger threats would loom on the horizon. He could feel the darkness rising beneath this town, he knew there was no chance for a happy ending. And even if, even if everything went right—they would eventually, inevitably wilt. Life was never meant for people—no, things like them.
I want to live!
But he cannot stop. That traitorous heart, having beat for not yet a day, rebels against his thoughts. He thinks of Aqua’s bright smile, Orange’s sure fists—Seth adjusting their glasses, Green’s kind wave, Blue’s giggle as he pulls down Yellow’s hat.
His despair surges, shifts, spilling over into something like jealousy. He thinks of the heroes, able to traverse in and out of the Dark World freely, as if it were nothing more than a fun adventure—who decides that you are real and I am not? he thinks. Why don’t we deserve to live and laugh and know our own smiles as you can?
Bitterness, he knows, won’t accomplish anything. Really, nothing he does will. So all he does is send off one final wish into the air, hoping something out there will take pity and listen: Have mercy on us flowers, please. If not for me, then for them. They deserve to live past this day.
He hears the heroes approach, and steels himself to fight.
— — —
The three heroes disappear past the doorway.
Everything is quiet. Underneath his feet is damp moss once more. The only sound is the labored breathing of the man behind him.
This is it, he thinks. He gave it his all, and he lost. He was not enough.
He turns, a painful pressure building in his throat. He must not have been pruned recently—for there are thorns encircling around his heart, squeezing viciously, digging into the soft flesh.
Asgore is kneeling, head bowed, a shadow cast over his eyes. He remembers how Asgore had rushed to Kris after their battle, how he had pushed him aside with fear in his eyes, scooping up his child in his arms. How he had comforted Kris, the reassurances and encouragements that came from family—real family, not the one-sided love he could not get rid of. All the while he was listening, berating himself for even trying—how could he have ever thought himself precious to Asgore when he had real connections in his life? How could he, a mere flower, ever be anything more than an object?
The sorrow cuts him apart. There must be some force in the universe which dictates his life like a sick game: that in his one day alive, he would experience the furthest extents of love and obsession, jealousy and despair.
He watches as Asgore huffs a tired breath, then—with a great, heaving effort—gets to his feet.
The sound tears out from his throat. “Wait!”
Asgore looks back at him, expression equal parts confusion and annoyance. Just when he thought his heart couldn’t break any further. “What is it?”
He cannot just stop. He hates himself for it, but he cannot stop.
“Please, my King, I’ll do anything—I’ll create the perfect world for you! Anything you want, we can make it happen! If you didn’t like what I did, I can change it, I can change—” His voice borders on hysteria—and yes, somewhere in the back of his head he knows how pathetic he looks; once-perfect hair frizzled, soaked in his own sweat, small and powerless and begging for mercy.
Asgore isn’t even looking at him. Asgore isn’t even looking at him.
His voice takes on an edge of venom. “I’ve seen how lonely you are!” The self-hatred that had consumed him boils over, wrenches outward. The words hurt as they leave his mouth. “Your wife left you, your kids hate you, so why won’t you just spend time with me? I’m perfect! I’m everything!”
He’s trembling. His vision is going blurry. “I could be—I could be your everything, if you wanted! You won’t need anyone else! No one will ever hurt you again!” His voice grows wet with sobs. “And—I know I’m useless, I know I’m just an object, I know I can never be your equal so why, why can’t I just have this? Why can’t I just do something?”
He is screaming like a man possessed. He hadn’t known he could cry, before this moment—but now he does, and he cannot stop. It is a truly alien feeling, tears welling up from his eyes and spilling out beyond his control. His throat aches terribly. “Just look at me! Why won’t you LOOK AT ME?”
Asgore finally speaks. “Flowery, listen—”
It is only now that his vision clears enough for him to see Asgore’s expression—skin pale, eyes wide, mouth agape. Fear, plain and visceral.
All his fight drains out of him in a second.
He collapses. His strength is gone. His hands fall harshly onto the moss below. By some miracle, his arms continue to hold him up in a sitting position. His breath is too fast yet again, but the novelty of it is long gone.
His thoughts are a swirling mess. Memories flash before his eyes—all those days trapped within his glass cage, wishing he could help his dear King—when Asgore thundered through the doorway with tears in his eyes night after night, when he started moving boxes into the shop all alone, when he watched him sleep on the hardwood benches.
All those years, and yet he has never hated himself more than he does now.
It’s all he can do to not crumple onto the ground. To give up and not move another step. Perhaps a perfect world does not need him after all.
And there, out of those mires, comes a truly terrifying thought.
I’m going to die? Fine, then.
Let it happen.
He almost laughs, although there is no humor in it.
Let it happen quickly.
Asgore still stands there, shoulders rigid, towering above his collapsed form. He gathers up what willpower he has left—uses it to make his face a passive mask, controls his voice to be neutral, expressionless.
“I’m sorry. I truly am.”
Asgore does not say a word.
“I get it. I’m an object, aren’t I? That’s all I am.” A bitter laugh slips out. “I was meant to be a signpost, nothing more than some pleasant scenery in your journey. Always meant to aid you, never anything else.”
He has to grit his teeth and force himself to say his next words. “I’ll get out of your way.”
With that, Asgore looks at him one last time and leaves.
— — —
In the end, Flowery thinks he was lucky, in a way.
Flowers were not meant to have much. Some light, to survive. Delicate as they are, they require water, sunlight, certain levels of humidity. They were never meant to have eyes or hands or mouths. They were never meant to see or touch or speak.
So he was lucky, extraordinary so, to have a voice and a body. To have friends and family. He was lucky to know love.
He was only meant to live a day, after all.
— — —
So when the end comes, it is less of a shock.
A tremor. A great, cleaving pain.
Then the light.
— — —
When he comes to again, he looks up at a great, fluttering mass of pink petals. The leaves blur and sway in his vision. In any other circumstance it would be beautiful.
He is so, so tired.
He had given every bit of his strength to fight the heroes, combined his power with his friends one last time—and he was defeated, and humiliated, and then they were gone. And then Asgore was taken, so what was the point? He was dead either way.
So yes, he went into the chase exhausted, to save a man who felt no love for him in return. He did it knowing he would die.
He did it with a smile on his face.
Now he cannot even smile. He is too tired to think, too tired to meet each throb of pain with anything more than a ragged breath. His consciousness is so reduced that for a moment he thinks he is just a flower again, alone in a dark shop, locked behind a glass barrier.
The heroes are running over. They are talking to him. He is giving them a warning—mouth thick, voice strained.
They are crying. They are crying—for him? For him.
— — —
In his last moments, he thinks that if he might have had a chance, if he had wanted it. This is the truth: the Knight has no supreme power which he does not possess. Dark Worlds are ruled by strange logic; the logic of dreams, variable and volatile.
If he truly had the will to live, then he could stand in a clash against any force, indefinitely—as long as he could sustain that will and keep it close to him, burning against his chest, forging it into an impenetrable shield. It was that simple.
The heroes did not know this, of course, or at least two of them didn’t—and the third, he could guess, was willfully ignorant. That was why he had acted with such bravado. He knew that his stats weren’t completely fake—that if he just had the resolve, he could win in any conflict. It was a simple matter: after all, with all his friends and family by his side, he had nothing but the utmost determination to win.
But one day, just one day was enough to take that away.
It wasn’t so simple, he learned. The easy stride of the heroes as they advanced toward his demise. Asgore’s eyes glancing over him, seeing nothing. This world, and all its wonders, able to be sealed in the blink of an eye.
So really, perhaps it was his fault that he lay here dying. Perhaps he should have tried harder. If not for himself, if not even for Asgore—then for them. For his friends. For sparring partner and dance rival, his kitchen partner and little sister.
The last moments of his existence are peaceful, at least. He is too far gone for anything to hurt anymore. His vision fades. He draws his last breath.
Then everything goes dark.