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Even among concrete structures towering over meadows of steel and smoke, there are places only known to a few where respite and peace can be found. A return to the natural world, where the bright days are only interrupted by emeralds and jades that sway in the breeze and the only sounds are that of trees shifting in their bark, branches waving to those who pass by, bugs whirring around contently, and birds chirping overhead as they fly around, swooping through the air in utter peace.
There’s a place like this in District 2, or at least, twenty some odd years ago, there once was. Where the urban sprawl pauses just enough for a field to crawl towards the horizon, allowing trees, grass, and an abundance of flowers to grow and dance in the wind. It was a beautiful slice of the wild, a place that may have once been where Cisitia now stands.
On the weekends, where Van wasn’t teaching, his kids weren’t busy with school, and Castrella didn’t have any bloom duties to attend to, they would go out to this place, this nameless park that Van only ever saw a few other people walk about it. They would pack a picnic basket full of snacks and drinks, as well as a blanket, and perhaps some games if the wind wasn’t too strong, then go, set up underneath an especially large oak tree, and enjoy the sun shining down on their faces through the leaves. They’d play games, eat the food, talk and joke. Sometimes, Castrella and Van would sit on the blanket or move to the grass, letting the blades poke between their fingers as they sat shoulder to shoulder watching their three saplings run around and play with one another.
But there was one thing that Eve and Ala loved to do when they visited the field, or as they called it, the Flower Meadow. At first, it began just with them collecting a variety of flowers from all over the field, grabbing whatever they believed to be pretty enough to add to their bouquet. Then, they began weaving the stems together, tying the flowers together in messy crowns that would often fall apart once rested upon their heads.
The girls perfected their flower crown making over the years, eventually roping in Spruce who easily convinced both Van and Castrella to begin making their own adornments, too. It became a family activity. Once done eating, they would all go out, grab the flowers they wished to weave, then reconvene, sitting in a circle around one another and tying their petals and stems together.
It took Van a while to learn how to make the crowns well. He was the slowest learner out of all of them, especially since he was more preoccupied by studying the flowers he and his family were selecting.
Spruce loved the Baby’s Breath, said it looks like snow in the summer, which Van can’t disagree with. Patches of it cover the meadow, making it appear as if winter had visited early. The young boy loved to run through the small white petals, giggling with a wide smile on his face.
Ala and Eve would sprint through the grass hand in hand, only separating when they went to eagerly pull their flowers from the rich dirt. Eve, the eldest of the children, would always gravitate towards daisies, bundling them back in her grasp before returning to Ala who would always be covered in dirt and mud, but grinning ear to ear as she waved around sunflowers of varying sizes– some too big to go on the crown, but would travel home with them at the end of the day and stay vibrantly alive in a vase on the kitchen windowsill for a good week.
Castrella loved violets. Perhaps it had to do with her loving the color purple and all shades of it, but Van could attest that the flower suited her perfectly. Along with violets, Castrella would collect hibiscus, always giving them to Van when he was too busy watching bees travel from bud to bud, landing on petals gently, or when he would simply sit and feel the silky, velvet touch of the flowers against his fingertips. He tended to get lost amongst the plants, something about them so soothing that the world fades for a bit, but Castrella always managed to bring him back.
In all his time, Van had only made one flower crown that didn’t crumble when he finally set his upon his curls. That day, everyone applauded him, and they paraded around the Flower Meadow like royalty until the sun set and the air cooled comfortably that night. It was the longest they stayed in that small slice of heaven amongst the modern environment that ate up most of the country,
If Van knew what would happen the following weekend, he would have kept them there forever. Amongst the flowers that couldn’t hurt them, he would have kept his family safe. He would have kneeled before his children and wife, his royal family and pledged his allegiance to them undyingly, whether knighted or not. Instead, they were never crowned again, the only throne they sat in were death beds, and Van felt less like a loyal servant or knight and more like a father completely hopeless and helpless as the people he held dear died around him like flowers wilting in the heat.
- - 🥀- -
Twenty years and the flowers have never looked healthy ever again, constantly faded as if the life was sucked out of them. That can be said for much of the world and its survivors these days. They lack what once made them truly who they are, the spark, the color to the petal. Van feels that way, like he’s the color of the gravestones he buried his family beneath. He can see Raven that way, too, how she holds herself unsaturated. He wonders at times what she has lost, but Van never asks. She’ll tell him on her own time.
But Van can see that amongst the grey, the world is slowly healing. The weeds peeking through the cracks in sidewalks, the ivy growing down buildings, the overgrown bushes and trees in need of trimming are all signs of the world continuing to spin, even if some people view these as inconveniences or signs of ruin.
It was as Van tripped over a root breaking through the sidewalk one day walking back to his now shared apartment that he saw what looked like the Flower Meadow he once frequented with his children and wife. Of course, this one paled in comparison. It was a small lot stranded between buildings in District 8 with a couple smaller birch trees and a selection of flowers. The splattering of white, pink, red, and blue against the increasingly vibrant grass seems to be more color than Van has seen in what feels like too long.
In the moment, Van didn’t think much of the random, nature-overtaken lot, but when, after a long week, each day seeming to drag on unnecessarily long, when the weekend finally arrived, his body moved before his mind did. Van rummaged around his belongings, startling Raven slightly when he emerged from a small closet that held a bunch of random things from his old home– it wasn’t the main closet that even Raven wasn’t allowed into; she didn’t ask why, Van would tell her when he’s ready. He found an old basket but not a blanket and filled with with some food and drinks, Raven watching confused. Then, Van took her by the hand and led her from the house back to the lot he had seen earlier that week.
Raven kept asking Van where they were going the whole time, confused as to why they were randomly leaving the apartment, but Van just said it was a surprise. In all honesty, he was acting impulsively, something he’s been doing more and more since joining the Flower Street Blooming Company, and while he often regrets what he does in those spur of the moment actions, this feels right.
When they finally arrived, Van stopped at the entrance, waiting for Raven to turn and look at where they had arrived. When she did, grumpily, as if this was a massive inconvenience to her, surprise and awe flooded her expression, washing away any minor annoyance she may have had with Van for not letting her isolate in her bedroom.
“What is this place?” Raven whispers, as if speaking too loud would break the quiet that washes over the small field.
Van steps forward, his feet touching grass. “Not sure, but I thought it was beautiful.” He holds up the basket. “I thought we could have a picnic.”
Raven hesitates before stepping beside Van. “Sure, that sounds nice.”
And so the two of them walk to one of the bigger birch trees and sit underneath it, not caring that they’re sitting directly on the grass. Van empties everything from the picnic basket and they eat their lunch in peace, soaking in the sunshine that shines brightly from high in the sky. When he’s done, finishing before Raven, Van leans back, slides the blades of grass and the clovers he finds there between his fingers. They’re soft and so so real, just like all those years ago.
Brushing off his pants, Van stands up and walks across the field towards the flowers, Raven watching him go silently. He sits down amongst the flowers, careful of the thorns adorning the crimson roses intermingled with what he recognizes as small bushes of hydrangea, white lilies, lily of the valleys, and primroses. None of the flowers his family used to pick; they were never in that old field.
Nearly silent footsteps approach Van, and honestly, the only reason he even hears them is because he lives with the owner of them.
Raven squats down next to Van as he peers down at the flowers, running his finger fervently over the soft petals. She squints down at the flowers Van is paying so much attention to, really only see splotches of colors instead of individual flowers, each with their own set of vibrant petals and stems that strongly hold up each bud and set of leaves.
“Van?” Raven tries to get Van’s attention, but he’s still staring intently at the flowers, as if he didn’t hear her. Maybe he didn’t, sometimes Van has a tendency to simply stare off into space, taking a bit to return, as if he needs a specific person to bring him back.
Letting Van have his time with the flowers, Raven lets her own hands glide carefully over the flowers, relishing in their comforting texture. Without much thought, her hands seeming to move automatically, Raven begins carefully plucking the flowers, gathering them into a bundle. Memories of collecting flowers for familiar graves flash through her mind but she pushes them away as she picks out the pink flowers from the large variety spread before her. She doesn’t know why she’s picking these flowers specifically, maybe perhaps their pretty, a mix of pink and white that is pleasing to Raven’s eyes.
“That’s primrose,” Van says. Raven startles slightly and looks up, meeting the faded green of Van’s eyes, a color that reminds her of how miserable the trees and their falling leaves have looked ever since the Wilting occurred. “And this,” Van gently pinches a flower with white hanging petals by the bottom of its stem, gently lifting it from the soil,” is lily of the valley.”
“They’re pretty,” Raven says.
Van nods. “They are indeed.” He smiles softly and stares down at the flowers in his hands before picking a few more. With practiced movements, muscle memory kicking in, Van’s fingers tie the flowers together. The repetition is calming, and Van doesn’t realize that Raven is watching until she’s practically leaning over him. Van looks up at her, slightly surprised.
Raven moves back a little, embarrassed, but she looks at Van with dim hope in her grey eyes. The color of clouds of a day where rain is more imminent than sunshine. “Can you teach me?” she points at the crown Van is weaving. “Teach me how to make that?”
Van smiles at her. “Of course,” he says brightly before explaining the steps to her just the way Ala and Eve did to him, Spruce, and Castrella all those years ago.
When they’re done, Raven’s is better than any of the first crowns Van ever made, but he does not have the heart to be angry or unnecessarily bitter about it. He’s happy she succeeded, and he can see the faint joy on Raven’s face, too.
“May I?” Van asks, holding out his hands. Raven hesitates, looking at Van confused, but slowly hands over the flower crown she made. With gentle hands, Van lifts the crown and places it on Raven’s blonde curls. “There you go, Rav,” Van says with a smile.
Raven looks at Van, staring at him, but not in the way she would others. She’s not assessing him, not calculating his weaknesses or anticipating his next move, determining if she can trust him or not. No, Raven looks at Van with emotions she hasn’t felt in five years, five long years since she had a family who meant something more than a word and something she lost. She doesn’t fully understand these feelings yet, what they mean exactly, because just as she spent so much time running from who past, from the blood and bodies she left behind, Raven has been running from herself and her emotions. They aren’t of use when you’re busy living on the streets.
“Thank you, Van,” Raven says softly, gratitude coating every word. She knows this man before he means more to her than anyone has in a long time, knows that he can’t replace all she’s lost or what he has, too, but Raven somehow knows that they’ll get through it together, figure out how to navigate everything together.
Van lifts his own crown onto his head, and his smile grows. Both Van and Raven ignore the faint shine of tears that glitter in the corners of eyes eyes, making his eyes sparkle just enough to catch the sun glinting down. The petals of the flowers atop his head sit comfortable, as if they were always meant to be there.
It’s the best flower crown he’s ever made.