#the flowers Quill is holding are forget-me-nots!

[macaron-jester]

how did you come up with Quill?

I originally drew Quill because I needed a new profile picture! Although Quill as a character is partially based on me as a child, confident, bright, and proud in a way I am learning to be again. I think little me would have loved Quill!

[readyforthegarden]

When the Nightingale Sings - Part Ten

Pairing: Danny Wagner x F!Reader

Synopsis:Medieval AU! In a world where noble alliances dictate futures, you have been betrothed to Prince Emers, a man you barely know and certainly don’t love. As you travel towards the royal palace for your impending wedding, your journey is upended, causing you to run straight into a kind, lonesome hunter. With no choice but to trust him, you embark on a journey together towards the nearest village, navigating through the forest and it’s perils. As the solace you find in his companionship builds will you choose to honor your duty, or will you abandon everything you’ve ever know to follow your heart?

WC:  3115

Warnings: Angst, talk of death/murder, drunkenness

Danny didn’t return to the tavern. Sam left quickly after him, and you could hear him shouting after Danny as the door closed behind him. Josh followed closely after, grumbling about the quality of his now rushed work after squeezing your hand as comfortingly as he could.  Jake stepped closer to you, taking the hand his twin dropped and softly clasping it in his. 

“Let’s get you into Fiora’s room before they realize you’ve been living in sin, yeah?” Jake forced a twitch of the corner of his lips, a small huff of a laugh exiting through his nose. You forced a smile back in return, and let him lead you upstairs, knowing the weight of his hand in yours was the only thing keeping you from throwing yourself down the stairs and through the door to find Danny. 

You paced the floor of Fiora’s room, where your things were promptly and discreetly moved while Rychard and his men were settling into their own accommodations. You always knew this was coming, and yet the idea of leaving the tavern, leaving your friends…leaving Danny…it sent chills through your body and flushed your face. Your stomach flipped, leaving you a nauseous feeling. In less than twenty-four hours you would be on your way to Ferryden, and to your betrothed. 

Your eyes fell on the dried flowers hung all around Fiora’s room, reaching up and breaking off a small sprig of forget-me-nots. The paper thin petals were almost see-through as you gazed at them. You plopped yourself at the table by the window, setting down the flowers and grabbing a sheet of parchment and her quill. With how early Rychard was talking about leaving, you weren't sure if you were going to be able to say your goodbyes. You scratched out little notes to your new friends, errant tears that dropped from your eyes staining the bits of parchment as you wrote. 

Danny still hadn’t returned for dinner, or after, as everyone made their ways to bed. Fiora had decided to room with Jake, giving you the space and privacy of her room for your last night. Your letters were on the small table, folded and waiting for your departure. You kept picking up one, holding it in your hands, debating on if you wanted to throw it into the fireplace or if you should leave it be. The turmoil was chewing you up inside, and with the note in your fist, you swiped an item off the table and left Fiora’s room, bounding down the hallway towards your former room with Danny. 

Gently rapping your knuckles on the door, you listened for movement, but none came. Pushing open the door, you were greeted with a dark room, the fire burned down to the coals that glowered up at you from the hearth. In the dim light, you could see the bed, exactly the way it had been left when you dragged your bodies from it that morning. Your blood heated as you remembered the slow, gentle kisses shared with Danny in that bed. You could practically feel his body beneath your fingers again as you stared at the mussed sheets, the movement of the muscles in his back as he held himself over you. Heart cracking in your chest, you moved closer, and placed the note and the small bundle of forget-me-nots on his pillow, before turning quickly and dashing from the room, unable to bear the memories swarming their way around you.

When you got back to Fiora’s room, you couldn’t sleep. Your bags were already packed with the little you had, Jake having fetched a trunk for you from Sam, who had extras from when he traveled to sell his weapons. You had nothing to do but sit in front of the fire, staring at the crackling logs and jump at every creak of the floorboard. You hoped Danny had come back, read your note and was coming to you. But the handle never turned, the door never opened, and you watched the darkness of the night fade into the light sunrise of morning. 

A gentle knock at the door signaled the hazy blue light was the last you would see of Ashlight. You opened the door, expecting Fiora, but was met with Josh. He took in your appearance and smiled gently.

“You look as worn as I feel,” he pressed his lips together into a line before shifting the clothes draped over his arm and pulling you into an embrace with his free one. “Did you sleep at all, love?”

“I think you know the answer better than anyone.” you whispered, voice cracking as you took in his warmth. Your arms squeezed Josh a little tighter, realizing this may be the last time you see him, let alone get to hug him. 

“Don’t,” Josh murmured. “Don’t say goodbye yet. Not until you’re really leaving.”

“Okay,” you sniffled, stepping back. Josh regarded you, the crinkles next to his eyes relaxing as he smiled, though his eyes were looking glassy.

“I’ve come to get you ready,” he sucked in a deep breath, plastering on a jester-like grin. “We need to do something with that hair, and I’ve finished your gown. I want to make sure it’s packed properly.” Ushering him into your room, you shut the door behind him. Josh laid your gown on the bed, brushing the material delicately before turning to you. “Fiora should be up shortly with hot water, and I brought some oils to wash your hair.”

“You don’t have to do all of this, Josh.” you shook your head. You had decided that the way you felt was the way you wanted to show up for the next part of your journey. Perhaps Prince Emers would be so disgusted with your lack of self-care, he would send you back.

“If you’re going to be wearing my work, I’m going to make sure you look beautiful in it.” Josh stepped forward, brushing your hair back from your face. “Even if the people that will enjoy it don’t deserve it. Or you.” You were about to reply but Fiora brought the water to you, and Josh helped her fill the basin. Josh left you with his oils before giving you the privacy to bathe, and you did so quickly, eager to have your friend back in the room with you. 

You dried quickly, dressing in your undergarments and twisting the excess water from your hair as you opened the door and beckoned Josh back inside. He slid in quickly, the aroma of lavender wafting around the room. Josh took a comb from his things and motioned for you to sit on the chair at the table. His fingers and the comb slowly glided through your hair, the familiar twist of braids tugging softly against your scalp. A tense silence fell over the two of you, an unasked question lingering in the air. Josh was the first to pop the bubble, clearing his throat.

“I haven’t seen Danny,” he confirmed your suspicion. “I assume he’d been at Sam’s. I haven’t seen him either.”

“Jake said he didn’t see them at Sam’s house when he went to fetch the trunk.” you sighed softly.  “Perhaps he’s decided to go back to Timberwall.” Josh tsk’d.

“He wouldn’t go off like that,” he replied. “But it wouldn’t shock me if he walked into the woods and Sam had to chase after him for some time.” 

“I hope he comes back,” you murmured, feeling the hot sting of tears prick your eyes. As if enough hadn’t fallen throughout the night. “I would like to say goodbye to him.”

“I know,” Josh replied, pinning up the braids he’d completed into a crown. “He’ll be here.” The promise felt hollow as it left his throat, his confidence in the hurt young man low. 

The glow of the sun felt like ridicule as it shone through the window of the room, telling you that dawn was here. There was a large rock forming in your stomach, weighing yourself down and forcing yourself to step heavy down the stairs, being greeted by Rychard and his men, along with your friends. Your eyes traveled over the faces, Jake, Fiora and Sam all have you half-hearted smiles. Josh passed by you, gently squeezing your arm as he did so, and joined his brothers. Yet the man you wanted to see wasn’t there. 

Rychard met you at the bottom of the stairs, looking at you less disdainfully than he had the day before.  

“My men will take your things to the carriage, once they’re done, we will be on our way.” he informed you, matter-of-factly, as a few men passed you, stomping up to the room to retrieve your belongings. As Rychard moved away, you turned to face the group of people you already missed. Your lip trembled only slightly as you gazed at them, and Fiora launched at you, wrapping her arms around you tightly. 

“There’s still time,” she whispered. “I can sneak you out the back into the forest right now, and claim you got lost looking for truffles.” you bit back a tear-filled laugh. You glanced at the rest of Rychards’ men, who watched you closely.

“I don’t think that will work,” you sighed, a bitter tinge to your tone, pulling away gently. “But I appreciate it.” When she stepped back, Jake stepped forward, embracing you. He didn’t say anything, but placed a soft, brief kiss to your temple as he parted and Josh took his place quickly. 

“Now,” he said, throat thick with emotion. “Now is when you can say goodbye.” The crack in your heart was beginning to become unbearable as his voice wavered, his hands coming to cup your face as he brought your forehead to his. “I expect a portrait of you in that gown as soon as you can commission it.” you laughed, gathering him in a hug.

“I’ll demand it, for you.” you promised. Sam was last, regarding you with a forlorn look on his face. He gently shook his head before pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. 

“I tried to get him to come, to say goodbye.” Sam murmured. “He couldn’t…” you didn’t reply, the stone in your stomach turning into a boulder. Maybe it was better this way, not seeing Danny before you left. You could hold onto the memories of what he had given you and leave it at that. Tell yourself he only showed you what you could miss if the Prince wasn’t interested in more than securing an heir, that there wasn’t anything more to it than what you felt. 

“I understand.” was all you replied, inhaling the smoky scent of Sam’s clothes. You stood back, looking at them all again. “I just want to thank you all, for everything you’ve done for me.” your voice was beginning to crack as you spoke. “I am so grateful for your kindness and your friendship. I will miss you all so, so very much.” 

“It’s time to go,” Rychard stepped back into the tavern, and you wiped your eyes, clearing your throat. You wanted to scream. You wanted to turn wild and flip the tables and chairs in your path and run away. But instead you took a deep breath in, steadying yourself as you walked slowly towards the man who would take you to your new home. Your friends followed, watching as you were helped into the carriage after Rychard. Turning to the window, you watched them, all various states of grief and sadness. Josh and Fiora were letting tears fall, while Jake was stiff-lipped, disapprovingly glaring at the men around the carriage on horseback as they prepared to depart. Sam was chewing his bottom lip, glancing around before coming back to you. 

Suddenly you were jostled, the carriage lurching forward as the coachmen shouted and the horses began to move. Your body reacted, the deep seated feeling of regret making your stomach lurch as you turned as far as you could to see your friends grow smaller in the distance. When you couldn’t crane your neck any further, you turned forward, sniffling. 

“Don’t worry, dear,” Rychard spoke to you as if you were an afterthought, as if your current state was annoying to him. “You’ll have plenty more people around you at the castle.” you didn't reply, just nodded and tried to fight away the sick feeling in your stomach. Something in you told you to turn around, to look back one more time, and say one final goodbye to the village that was your home for weeks. As you did, your heart shattered. 

Standing in the road was Danny, staring down your carriage as it left the village. You couldn’t make out his face as he became smaller and smaller in the distance, but you felt in your heart it mirrored yours as silent tears slipped down your cheeks. 

Three days. Three days of Jake watching his good friend wallow in misery, drowning in drink and holing up in his room. Even Sam was having a difficult time getting through to Danny, the door to his room slammed in the younger man’s face many times. Danny wanted to be alone. Alone was what was best for him. It’s how he was always supposed to end up. That’s what he kept repeating to himself, at least. It became a mantra of sorts, especially as he spent hours in his room, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and twirling the small spring of forget-me-nots he’d found amongst his things. The note you left sat on the table, unopened, unread. He couldn’t bear to read what you had written to him, didn’t want your pity or apologies. 

“Stupid,” he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle. How stupid he was to think you would have fallen in love with him. A penniless hunter who could offer no comforts of life, no expensive things. He of all people should have known sleeping with him didn’t mean that you loved him, and lover was just a name, an object that he was to you. 

He stared at the forget-me-nots between his fingers. His favorite hue of blue, the color Josh dressed you up in as if to torment Danny. He wanted to throw that sprig of dried flowers in the fire so many times, even moved to do so, but found himself back in the bed, twirling it between his fingers and staring at it, thinking of you. Going to take another drink, he realized he was out of booze and groaned. 

Jake watched as Danny trudged down the stairs, haggard and swaying, he let himself behind the bar, and grabbed a bottle without reading the label, and went straight back upstairs. Sighing deeply, Jake finished wiping down the bar in front of him, planning on what he was going to say when he spoke to Danny later. When he couldn’t focus on that anymore, he decided to listen to the murmur of his patrons, a favorite pastime and a way to pick up on the local gossip.

His ears pricked on a conversation happening down the bar, and he shuffled closer, eager to have anything to take his mind off his friend upstairs. 

“I heard one of them knights talkin’ before they left with the girl.” one of the men grunted, his speech slurred slightly. “‘Parently the prince don’t want her. Said they was planning on finishing the job once the couple was wed.”

“You’re all talk, Gareth.” the man next to him huffed. Jake’s brow furrowed as he continued eavesdropping.

“I ain’t!” Gareth nearly fell off his stool, pointing at his drinking companion indignantly. “They said the robbers didn’t do what they were paid to do and now they’ve got to kill the girl.” The ending of his sentence was punctuated by a belch. Jake stepped in front of him. 

“You swear this is the truth?” Jake stared down at the man, who blinked at him, bleary eyed but focused. “On your children’s lives?”

“Aye, I swear it.” Gareth placed his hand on the bar flat, as if he were laying it on a bible. Gareth was a regular at the tavern and a drunk no less, but in all the years Jake could recall, he’d never lied. Jake nodded and cleared his throat. 

“Your ale tonight is on the house.” He pushed away from the bar and rushed around patrons, darting towards the stairs. His footfalls sounded like a cantering horse as he bound down the hallway and to Danny’s door. 

Pounding his fist on the wood, Jake anxiously shuffled, knocking again and again before grumbling to himself and pulling the ring of keys from his pocket, finding the one for Danny’s room and using it to let himself in. 

Danny was sat on his bed, staring at the fire amber bottle hanging precariously in the bed. Jake shook his head, clenching his jaw as Danny refused to look up at him. Jake looked around, spotting a pail of water by the door, one that Fiora had left in the morning. Letting his red vision lead him, Jake grabbed the pail, and before he could think twice, tossed the contents onto Danny. 

“What the fuck, Jake?” Danny spluttered, drenched in cool water. 

“You need to sober up, and fast.” Jake dropped the bucket. 

“If this is your attempt at cheering me up, you've only succeeded in making my mood even worse.” Danny stood up from the soaked bed, shaking off the excess water from his arms and hair.

“Do you know what I just heard downstairs?” Jake asked, staring at Danny. Danny didn’t reply, instead rolled his eyes, setting his jaw as he glared at his friend. “One of my patrons overheard one of Rychard’s men talking about how they’re going to ‘finish the job the robbers couldn’t’.” 

“What do you mean?” Danny’s brows knit together in confusion. Jake exasperatedly said your name, stepping forward. 

“They’re going to kill her once she and Prince Emers are married!” Danny blinked at Jake and shook his head. 

“It’s just a bar rumor, everyone hates the royal family, they’ll say anything about them.” Jake had enough of Danny’s attitude, stepping forward and fisting the taller man’s damp tunic in the middle of his chest, drawing him down closer. 

“Do you love her?” Danny avoided Jake’s eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,”

“Do. You. Love. Her.” Jake repeated, letting the silence build between them. Danny dragged his eyes back to Jake’s, a forlorn expression swirling in the amber color of his irises. 

“Yes.”

“Then put your boots on, we’ve got a princess to save.”

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@mar-rein12@laurynnnn125@maddie-rae@eraofstardustchords@musicislove3389 @starsinmyeyes00

[cotharach]

Sad as fuck. Seteth clears his throat gently, steps silent and solemn as he strides up to Flayn. From behind his back, he brandishes—a giant bouquet! Forget-me-nots, white carnations, baby's breath, everything good and sweet just like her.

"... Flayn." Still sad as fuck. "... I will not pester you with my irksome questions, nor will I ask to escort you to the ball as I had originally planned." That had been the sad part. It was going to be so sad. But thankfully, miraculously, he's had a recent change of heart.

"Still, I would like for you to accept these... and enjoy yourself amongst your peers, should you be in attendance. I will be overseeing our event as usual, but you need not worry about my gaze. Simply find me if you are in need of anything."

She stills upon his arrival. She has this premonition of what brings him here.

Talks of the ball had gone around, and of course she had been privy to them. She refrained from expressing her own excitement, for she had feared Seteth's inevitable concern. But it seems that all her efforts are for naught. Why else would her brother approach now, if not to warn her from some malicious man or to instruct her to keep away?

Flayn braces herself for the lecture, for the usual talk they have... and receives flowers instead. Flowers, and a promise.

"Brother...? You..."

Flayn takes the bouquet in her hands. How soft its petals as they brush against her cheek, a comforting caress of carnations and blooms! All sensations of her father's tenderness, all manifestations of the gentleness that undoes them both.

As she listens, she holds the arrangement close to her chest, an inch away from her beating heart. She will have to bring this back to the dorm, perhaps put it in a vase by the windowsill. She hopes Alear likes flowers.

Seteth finishes speaking, and the young saint takes a deep breath. The scent hits her nose and fills up her lungs. When she exhales, one can almost imagine a spring breeze following its wake.

It takes her a while to form the proper words. She had been dreaming of a moment like this for so long. Now that it faced her, she finds it difficult to know what to say. Finally, after a stunned moment of silence, she softly responds.

"Do you truly mean this? I... Thank you for letting me go to the ball freely! I feared I might have to spend the ball in my lonesome but..." Flayn breaks out into a wide grin—she cannot help it, of course, when her own happiness threatens to split her by the seam, "oh, this makes me happier than you could ever know! Thank you ever so much!"

Already, she is imagining what fun the night would be—the dances she might dance, the conversations she might have, the dress she might wear! Simply picturing it makes the flowers smell all the sweeter. But... it is not fair that she should rejoice while he looks so melancholic. It is not fair that he does not get his due. Flayn knows this. She knows it painfully.

A hand goes out to reach for him—furtive at first, for fear of breaking him beneath such tender touch. But Seteth does not need her fear for him, her worries for his hurt. She feels that he so badly needs his daughter. So when her fingers meet his palm, calloused from gripping quills and lance hilts, she takes them in a firm, assuring grasp. Finally, she lifts her head and looks into his eyes.

"...Does it make you sad to let me go? I can see the pain wrought plainly on your face. I'm afraid there is not much I can do but..." she squeezes his hand, "What I can do is save my final dance of the night for you. No other person shall have me at that moment. Shall you wait for me, then? Will... this arrangement suffice?"

Perhaps it would not, but if there is one thing Seteth should know, it is this: that Flayn would always find a way to return to him in the end.

[worfi]

Ten things to associate with Alfons Sylvatica.

(shitty inconsistent rambling that should have been kept in my drafts. I'm not sure this is an analysis of my own feelings, or in-character creative writing, or both... It switches from first and second person and it makes sense to me but it's probably incoherent to anyone else. this isn't a writing account anyway. I need to let go of my hangups and stop crowding my drafts.)

1. Forget-me-nots. This one is quite easy. He chose the name himself. He doesn't want to be forgotten. It's a fundamental truth, no matter how much he denies it.

2. The crescent moon. Just as it wanes. It will disappear for a while, but it will always comes back. And he looked so lovely under the moonlight.

3. Teddy bears. He once asked if you remembered your favorite toy from childhood. I do, in fact. It's still here with me. You wouldn't believe the things I've done to get it back after losing it. It represents my craving for permanence and stability, but also, sometimes when I see it I think of him.

4. Cats. Either he loves them, or he hates them. You know his feelings are complicated, but yours are not. You love cats, and you love Alfons. You love to pile up like kittens in his bed and pet each other's hair and sneak licks to each other's faces like cats do.

5. Ink quills. The struggle to write coherently with one is difficult as hell, but the chicken scratch reminds you of his writing. You think his handwriting is kind of pretty.

6. Unmarked graves. Blank headstones. It's grim and depressing, but one day, if things can't be fixed, Alfons will be buried in one such grave. That's why you thought you should get in the habit of leaving flowers at such headstones, so that one day, out of habit, you might find yourself leaving them at his, not even knowing why.

7. Kintsugi. In Japan, kintsugi (repairing pottery with gold or other precious metals) is used to represent finding value in flaws. But to me, because of how I was introduced to the concept, I always viewed it as something representing an apology. A way of saying 'I'm going to be better'. Guilt and apology are very ingrained in my understanding of Alfons. Sometimes I feel guilty just for liking him. Sometimes I think that to forgive him, or defend him, or to wish him well, is tantamount to being guilty of his own sin. But I don't hate him. And I do wish him well. And I will always accept his apologies, whether it makes me bad or good.

8. Mirrors. I don't believe Alfons himself is a mirror. I don't think the metaphor holds up at all. A mirror can't reflect itself? Clearly, you've never held up two mirrors. But they do make you think of him. You never really liked looking in mirrors. You never kept one in your own room. But seeing Alfons hide his away, almost made you reconsider it. There's something about needing to see yourself, just to remember you exist. Both the pain and the grounding of it. If you look into a mirror long enough, you can remember that you do exist.

9. Hoodies. They definitely aren't easy to find in the Victorian era, but any kind of shawl that covers your neck works. Once you figured out how his ability worked, you couldn't help but try to protect yourself from it. Eventually, though, you came to trust him, and these items only served to gather dust in your wardrobe and bring back old memories.

10. Black Lipstick. There is nothing that leaves a stain like black lipstick. After seeing him marked with so many shades of red and pink, it felt imperative that you get a color of your own. These days, he's only ever marked in black, aside from the occasional cut or bruise. He never looked that good in red anyway.

[magesmiths]

flowers, @wayhavensummer prompt

pairing: nat x lottie

regency au, post break up

a/n: is it technically after midnight? yes. am i posting this without any context? here's some: nat has broken up with lottie "for her own good". flashbacks are to just before this.

She almost doesn’t open the letter.

She hadn’t opened the last, had cast it straight into the open fire in her bedroom. Three weeks had passed since then. Three weeks of agonising tossing and turning and staring at the fireplace as if it could provide the answers its flames had licked at until they were only ash.

But this letter feels lighter, not like the heavy paper she usually writes on. The precise lettering, the way the ink curls around the ‘L’ in her name, mean it could only be from her. But if not a lengthy apology… then what?

Her curious fingers leap ahead of her mind, breaking the seal and reaching inside. She pulls out a small card and opens it just to feel a lump in her throat at the pressed flowers within.

Forget-me-nots were the first she chose. Obvious, perhaps, when they are due to be separated soon. But she thinks of her mother when she sees their blue petals, a shade so close to eyes she only sees in memory. Next are the dandelions, faces like the sun that she can’t help but smile at. Lastly, the violet wood sorrel, creeping through the cracks of the path, insistent on growing where they should not.

Nat had looked at the collection of flowers in Lottie’s hand and her lips quirked up in one corner. “You know, most people choose not to press weeds.”

“Did you want me to steal Ava’s roses? I doubt that would endear her to me more and I need all the approval points I can get from her.”

She had smiled at that, choosing not to comment. Nat did that. She left things unsaid; let Lottie hang in the space between them, wondering.

Lottie’s chair scrapes against the wooden floor as she rises suddenly. She ignores the stares from her aunt and brother, mutters poor excuses, and leaves.

When she reaches her room she lays the flowers out on her desk. They feel fragile beneath her fingers now. She traces them lightly, remembering the vivid colour they held when she first plucked them from the ground. They are no longer quite as bright.

“A moment sealed in time,” Nat had said. She had looked up, deep brown eyes flickering between Lottie’s hazel ones, finding her closer than expected.

Closer than they should be, there in the open of the library. Lottie had reached over, placed her hand over Nat’s and closed the heavy book without looking away. Her eyes had flickered down at Nat’s tongue wetting her lips, before glancing up again.

“How long do they need to be pressed for?”

“Four weeks, to be sure.”

Their voices were low, as though the mere act of placing flowers between pages of books was a secret just for them. And then she couldn’t help but lean closer. She could never help herself where Nat was concerned.

And Nat had been the same. She was closing the gap, kissing her as though it was easier than breathing, a hand on her waist pulling her closer, closer, closer.

Lottie’s own hand is clenched now, she feels lost, unmoored by this blank card filled only with flowers, their meaning unclear. A farewell? Or a symbol of hope?

She turns to her own, unfinished, letters, piling up on the desk, re-reading the last words she had written.

I hardly know myself anymore. I am fool, I am fine, I am but a fleeting moment in time.

If I am a mystery to myself, who, what, am I to you?

She looks back to the flowers, furrows her brow and picks up her quill.

Am I simply another flower, petals pressed between pages of a well-loved book? Am I kept in a tome you might hold from time to time? Elegant fingers caressing the words, soft yet insistent, reminiscent of what we once were? What we might have been.

Or might it be one you stash away, never to be opened again? Yes — yes! Hide me from the world so I might not be consumed by the inevitability of our fate.

I hope you keep it close regardless, the bloom once so beautiful and fragrant, now dried and crushed to preserve it from death. (Is it not still a death? It seems almost cruel to kill it at the peak of its beauty rather than let it live out its life, no matter how fleeting it must be.)

All flowers must wilt and perhaps that is their beauty. A fleeting existence, one we are lucky to experience—

Lottie pauses her quill, the nib blotting ink over her last words. She shakes her head, almost laughing at herself. The fire flickers in the corner of her eye, calling to her, to the letters they both know will remain unsent, to the pressed flowers she can’t bear to look at.