#woodland sunflower

[vandaliatraveler]

Summer colors courtesy of Glade Run Trail, Coopers Rock State Forest.

[faguscarolinensis]

Helianthus divaricatus / Woodland Sunflower at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC

[uxbridge]

The flowers before they begin to fade

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Helianthus divaricatus--Woodland Sunflower

I've ranted about them enough that they should get their own posts. lol Sunflowers have edible seeds, petals, and sometimes tubers, very young shoots, or young flowerheads. Some of them can be very aggressive.

Helianthus divaricatus can actually tolerate shade! Not heavy shade and it does need at least an hour or so of full (not dappled) sunlight to flower, but otherwise does fine.

All photos mine. All unedited.

Upper two photos are from walking out and about, and the lower two are the one I planted in my garden.

[continent-of-wild-endeavor]

Small woodland sunflower - Helianthus microcephalus

[leehiller]

We blossom in the light of our Dreams. ~ @leehiller

[bethanythebogwitch]

Native wildflower collection 3

Continued from part 2

Columbine, which the rabbits won't let me grow

Mayapple. Every part of this plant is extremely toxic to humans, but some people still eat the fruit

Golden Alexander

Prairie rose. Looks nicer than cultivated roses tbh

Spiderwort, spiderwort, does whatever a spider... worts

Arrowwood. These grow long, straight branches, which made them very useful for making arrows.

Woodland pinkroot

Lizard tail

Michigan lily. Looks way cooler than the lilies you buy in plant stores

False sunflower

St. John's wort. Don't ask me what kind, there are so many

Germander

Thimbleweed

Prairie cinquefoil

Poppy mallow

Button bush. These develop seed balls that will fall apart in your hand

This one's called blue vervain even though it's clearly purple

Pickerel weed. People will call the coolest plants weeds

Wingstem. This stuff is taking over places where we removed invasive honeysuckle and I love it

Gaura

Yellow flowering hyssop (even though it's definitely white)

That's a wrap. I have a few more pictures, but they were all really badly focused, so I skipped them

[fangirl-nadir]

Why wasn't I born as a little woodland creature harvesting berries in a field to prepare for a long, cold winter? And then one snowy day I learn that my neighbor has lost her larder to a band of villainous bandits so I graciously share some of mine. And one thing leads to another and now we're two little woodland creatures harvesting bluebells in the spring

[bleuhillbitz]

All I can think about is flowers, bright, beautiful and wild! 🌷🌻🌹

[suxxesphoto]

Landscape Photography Review August 2024

August 2024 has been a month of dynamic weather and breath-taking landscapes, offering countless opportunities to capture the beauty of the changing seasons. From the dramatic storm clouds over Butts Brow to the vibrant fields of sunflowers and poppies near Woodingdean, each location presented its own unique challenges and rewards. My camera and I journeyed through misty mornings and golden…

[astralnymphh]

before the flora.

knight!ellie x princess!reader teaser. beginning is essentially just lore. bonus excerpt with ellie and princess interaction below the sketch. wrote the intro in january. no warnings tbh. illustration by @trackinglessons :P READ THIS . PALESTINE MASTERPOST

When the universe was born, there was only fire; a slowly waning blaze. And so hence when death begins to unfurl its low, groaning bloom— there will only be ice.

Yet the heavens and earth are nay alike, as death— and life, are interwoven by the timeless nuptial that is humans, and Mother Nature. Cordial and tepid heartbeats meet with her frigid and frightening marrow this season. Flakes are falling, a howl swells in the wind, and hearths stay an undying tongue of flame in the province of Istenad. Isle of riches and hedonism gone rampant amongst those who proved meritful of a conversation spat over gilded chalices. Or those who wiped a famished tongue stroke over the sole of His Majesty— The King's tan leather boots in entreat, declaring the hide a tenfold more gullet–watering than their stale, daily spare of bread. Where high life reins, low life is there to scrub their steeds.

The wintry pearlescent tundra fringing around uncharted woodlands hums your name— it carries by gale, an airy reed of vowels pulled through your ears. 

Tut, tut, tut, the pecking of bark.

Everything seems to resound much heavier over the windows thick limestone sill. Woodwinds, the sough of pine boughs— a chorus wafted. Woodpeckers, they beat rigid timber with their sonnets of calling. The echoed tut starts to sound awfully kindred to a beckoning call of your name. And at daybreak, when the tangerine sun dips its head under the coast, you feel a magnetic lull to traverse your truest passions and slip away into the night, arctic chilled steel in hand. The quantity of hay sticking beneath your shoes collected by skittering across the night–doused thoroughfare was well enough to concern your maids on duty to dress you, brows fuddled at the streaming of straw near your door come morning.

Loop of your knuckles, bend of your wrist, a hand flexed on the hilt of a meticulously poached sword. A swing 'round your waist, a cold hale grip the air could taste, fighting off many mythic brutes of moonlight, however only conceived where dreams are airtight. The mind, it plays. The play it perceives, a viewing spread like tawny butter. Ghouls and ghastlies encircle a quaint pond, chanting away in cryptic grumbles and beastly bumbles, enraged with their slobber frothing at the fangs you tore from their sockets— deeper than artless, juxtaposed to the blinding ruby reds and dyed paper sunflowers of the theater. Your mind’s play felt real.

Unfortunate to your heart, dreams will stay dreams.

Nary a princess was meant to tune into melee, especially at your courting age. Nevertheless, your psyche has spurned from what a maiden is expected of and is completely in a haven of your own structure, your signature sanctuary. 

In the farmsteads, a forthcoming soldier harvests not just crop— but dexterity. Derived and nurtured in the faraway prairie village of Dunwich, where the fertile seasons prove flaxen of corn and the trickling sweat of every farmhand turns to gold. Any newborn granted to this quaint village is fated to form calloused hands with labor written in their palm lines as time unfolds. In their— well, her— adolescent years, the yearning for practices of gallantry in knighthood swiveled her sights to the colossal stone castle way.. way far away. Sprouting beyond the earth line, far as the eye can see.

So, she learned, she trained, she slept, partaking in a ranged cycle taught by her ruthlessly departed father: Sir Joel. Reprisal became her nemesis; never able to rend the barrier of hesitation and cleanse her shut eyes of revolting imagery. The horseman of death was not omitting the trauma of this hazel-haired soldier. A weight so burdensome, her speckled skin remembers the tales of every scar clawed into it. Like how the lips of a bard cling to an everlasting ballad.

Every knight knew well to exile any lingering ties to the past. It's been years since he passed, she understands that. Though, the heart never lies, and certainly never covets forgetting.

Ambitions stemming from legions of knights in waiting have fallen short, submerging within the moat of the castle and sinking deep into the catacombs with no elegy sung. An allegory for dreams long since vanished. A domain so valued longs for those biding life with rigid bones, such as she. Tempered by the hardships, endured like metal meeting the blacksmith's chisel. 

A vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. For it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. A knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. An artisan of her craft, this knight-to-be is. Born to thrive in matters regarding protection of their kingdom and its nobility. By the sheer tenacity of her skill, she will excel. From the self–instructed lessons in a verdant pasture, basked by undying light in her hometown— to the ordained priming within the royal court. 

They were forged to be dutiful. 

You are a daughter of the illustrious King, Sagard, and swan–grace queen, Sagard— maiden name Adela, and sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, Prudence. Subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. A pratfall you plainly turned a serene ear from, for you foresaw its coming. Clandestine adventures and lollygagging in the marketplace earned you right in the clasp of consequences. You knew that, knowing it kept you on the balls of your toes before you'd be caught suiting into an act more repugnant— be it, no.. befogging yourself in a peasant boys' dire–in–muck rags, merely to play "boy" games as a young one? 

Sacrilege! 

Prudence was there, at every occasion, scolding with her youthful finger at the palace fore, sucking her fingertip wet of spit and dragging a stroke over your soot–strewn cheek, just before scuttling the halls in search of father, cawing, “Father, Father! My sisters become a boy again!” until it rang his fucking ears to a pulse. Hmph, father even countered his own remark of squawk, pouring through the walls, “Hah! The second son I wish I reared! Tell me, what peasants skin does she clad: butcher's boy, or of the farmer?”

Rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. You purely long for a world of your own color. Your self-brewn arcadia of art. In a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty. And your family chastised you curtly for every scant display of free will, short of the Queen, she is fair.

Daughter of the King, Princess of the thicket. You retain your fortunes. Modestly.

“Why don't you resemble your sister more?”

A ruby crested box designed by the best of goldsmiths is lodged at the margin of your beds footboard, safekeeping of your esteemed regalia. You possess a bedazzled amassing of circlets, veils, brocade and velvet tunics of long lengths within this box. But do any of them revel in the blessing of being worn on regal skin? Never. You opted for garbs of less gilding and jewels, so that you might taint it with whatever adventures mold under the ribbing of your foot. That shit offended your skin with its indelicacy of forgetting a human will don its fabric golds and woven jewels.

Even— court gatherings. You don the likeness of simplicity and temperate elegance. This morning's virginal aurora, a broach of light swoll from the windows arch, to the footing of your bed, made the wake of your eyes begin upon a lighting behind sheer skin. Your box of regalia shone in that incandescence momentarily. It danced, fleeter than you, irkingly so. You had to squint whilst flipping the clasps and hauling the heavy lid slanted against your bed, or else you may be heaven–blinded. “Every inch of Princess,” you intoned in quietude at the sight of glamored fabrics, “—whom I shant mirror.” and reached for the homelier fabrics, scratch of cobalt-blue linen delight brushing under your prints, you grasped your reserve tight.

“I was not made aware that there is a village wedding to be, dear sister— from what river does this dress of rags hail from?”

“It is not a brides dress, nor rags, leave me Prud—”

Prudence had blocked the shut of your chamber door with her hand flattened, pursuing, “You glum your gems. Rotting in that chest, tasting no light, no glory.”

You kept your lips thickly sown shut, casting dimly eyes to the ground.

“Shall I send for the steward so he may sell—”

“No need.”

“Hmm, most stubborn, are we? Then I—”

“I am least stubborn,” you wedged your fingers beneath her palm, prying the door loose, “—it is you, who strays your own counsel, unmoving as a mountain.” ending with the trudging shut of your door, ceasing in silence.

[++ bonus excerpt from act 2, scene 1]

“Uh–huh..” she draws out. Legato; a sarcastic reply, and wipes her tongue through the press of her lips together, “This far out? You must rebel quite often to have made a friend, I bet?” she tilts her head, a bit playful.

“You bet well— a lot, I assume?” 

Cannily, she winks, “Indeed I do.” and aligns her face onward. Gesturing to her horse's rump a second— third? Eh, whatever time— she jerks her brow with a head cock back, “Hop on, I'll take you there.”

Both brows fall, and you flinch bemused, “Wh– uh,” as you hem and haw for words, grating a stutter, “But not a moment ago you spoke of the roads recent perils—”

“Surely it's not far?” she spoke presumptuously, “I mean, you've come this far, My Lady. Nobody would travel the woods past sunset, besides you it seems.” now a matter–of–fact vocal barricade that shoves itself into your ears and winds the cogs to think cleverly.

You shan't know my transgressions, sweet Knight. You may talk.

Trust is sparse as a puddle marched in.

“‘Tis but a mile out. Bravo on your convincing, Williams.” you wry and scoff. 

“Can't fumble that name, huh?”

“I would not want to dishonor your knighthood.” 

“You honor me with your coincidental presence, Princess.”

“Honor in your mind.”

"Hmph," her breathy chuckle, a sweetness you luckily caught with ears even numbed by the snowsquall. Do not blush. Do not smile. Fuck. Guess you'll be visiting Malina after all, the gale of a displeased sigh icing your lips over as you approach that dangling stirrup.

[vandaliatraveler]

A selection of late summer wildflowers growing in the riparian zone along the Monongahela River at the Friendship Hill National Historic Site.

From top: Paleleaf woodland sunflower (Helianthus strumosus), also known as pale-leaved sunflower, distinguished by long leaf petioles and a pale leaf underside; common sneezeweed (Helenium autumnale), a water-loving aster whose dried leaves were once used to make snuff; cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis), whose scarlet, five-lobed flowers draw hummingbirds as pollinators; the closely-related great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica), which early settlers once used as a treatment for syphilis (wishful thinking); and blue mistflower (Conoclinium coelestinum), or wild ageratum, a native aster that has become popular as a garden plant.

As a note, about a dozen sunflowers call NC-WV - SW PA home and they readily hybridize, often complicating identification. Pale-leaved sunflower has a tall, branching structure up to 7 feet in height and dense clusters of large flowers. In addition to long petioles and a pale leaf underside, this sunflower has a smooth stem with a whitish bloom to it. It's a very beautiful mid-to-late summer aster and one of my favorite wildflowers of Central Appalachia.

[swede1952]

My Kingdom.

This hawk was in an oak tree outside my backyard fence this morning. I tried taking a photo through the storm door because it was raining. But some leaves were covering the head of the hawk, so I made a hasty waterproof cover for my camera and went out into the rain to get some photos. I think that this is a Cooper's hawk (Accipiter cooperii) based on its size, but it could be a sharp-shinned hawk (Accipiter striatus). I'm basically guessing between the two they look so much alike.

Among the bird world’s most skillful fliers, Cooper’s Hawks are common woodland hawks that tear through cluttered tree canopies in high-speed pursuit of other birds. … With their smaller lookalike, the Sharp-shinned Hawk, Cooper’s Hawks make for famously tricky identifications. Both species are sometimes unwanted guests at bird feeders, looking for an easy meal (but not one of sunflower seeds).

@birdcounter

[benedictscanvas]

bluebells - remus lupin x reader

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

word count: 0.8k

a/n: i just keep thinking of teeny tiny remus concepts and i have to write them every time. thought it would be fun to do another in the recent universe (1, 2 & 3) from sirius' perspective. this is quite unedited, but i'll have a check on it tomorrow. enjoy sunflowers <3

---

“Do you have a secret admirer you haven’t told us about?” Sirius asks, as innocently as he can.

The question has Remus sitting up a little straighter on the stool in your kitchen, just as he intended. Remus may never have spoken to him about his feelings for you, by some miracle, but they were plain as day to anyone with a brain cell between their ears. Sirius was fairly sure you were equally enamoured - but you were harder to read than his precious Moony.

“What are you on about now?” you laughed, able to shrug off the question easily. Sirius sidled up to the tiny vase of flowers that sat on the granite countertop, filled with imperfect bluebells that didn’t look shop-bought.

“Only the very pretty bouquet in your kitchen that someone has clearly picked for you,” he practically purrs, “And don’t try to convince me you picked them yourself, doll, because I know for a fact you haven’t been walking in the woods.”

That only makes you laugh harder, and Sirius knows he’s got you. He’s hoping you’re about to praise whoever picked you those flowers and Remus will get sufficiently jealous to snog you senseless or something. Sirius hasn’t figured out his full match-making plan yet, admittedly.

“Obviously, I didn’t pick them,” you agree, glancing with obvious shyness towards Remus, who already has telltale pink cheeks, “Remus is the one doing all the woodland walking in this group. He is sometimes kind enough to fill my teeny tiny vase for me.”

And Sirius just gapes at you. Then at Remus. He can’t help it, because whatever he was trying to achieve, it is utter madness that Remus himself could be the one to pick you flowers and still neither of you could move past a more than friendly friendship. 

Remus is glaring at him now, because he’s clearly been gaping so long that he’s made the whole atmosphere awkward. You turn your attention back to making cups of tea, but Sirius sees the way you fluster. He’s made it weird. He was trying to make it a bit weird, yes, but not like this.

“Sorry, I had to take a second there,” he said, through a half chuckle, “Just struggling with the idea that Moony is bringing you flowers and he’s never once thought to bring some for me?”

Sirius is just charming enough to get away with it. Remus softens, his glare now holding far less scorn and you throw him a smile over your shoulder as you get the milk out of the fridge.

“He likes me better,” you argue playfully, sticking your tongue out at him. Just like that, all awkwardness is gone and replaced by the almost flirting thing the two of you do that drives Sirius mad - he wants to tell you both to give your heads a wobble.

“I can give you the leftovers if you like, Pads,” Remus chimes in, “But I’m afraid the finest flowers are already reserved.”

And Sirius watches Remus smile at you like you’re the sun and moon and all the stars combined, and it melts his heart a little. Who is he to rush you? You grin back at Remus like there’s a secret to be shared.

But of course, Sirius must keep up the facade and so he grunts in annoyance.

“I see how it is. Fifty years of friendship and look where it gets me,” he grumbles, “Pretty sure picking flowers is objectively wrong, too.”

“Drama queen,” you say through a cough, then adopt an instant wide-eyed innocent look when Sirius rounds his glare on you.

“Fifty years? We’re in our twenties Sirius.”

“Friendship like ours defies the laws of nature, honey,” Sirius smirks, and Remus’ nose wrinkles.

“And if you pick flowers in moderation, it can actually benefit their conservation,” you say, placing the three cups of tea on the table and waving Remus over from the island stool to sit with you and Sirius, “So drink your tea and stop whinging, Sirius.”

He gasps in mock offence and then pretends to burn his tongue on the tea, just to see you and Remus roll your eyes at him together. When Remus sits down, he thanks you for the tea under his breath and you smile your brightest at him, squeezing his elbow as you hurry away to get the biscuit tin.

Sirius takes another look at Remus’ lovestruck face even though all you did was touch his elbow. He’s not sure whether it’s cute or slightly sickening, but he glances at the pretty shitty bluebell bouquet on the table again and decides that if the two of you are happy as you are, he won’t try to interfere again.

(it lasts all of thirty seconds, because the two of you gang up on him about biscuit choice as soon as you sit down with the tin, and Sirius immediately decides it’ll be worth it to fluster the two of you, if only for his own amusement)

[twstbookclub]

Fleeting Dreams and Paper Rings

Summary: Silver's eyes always remained on you. His memories of you were filled with sunflowers, the warm afternoon sun, and paper rings. His hand always sought yours, and the thin band of gold on your ring finger stirred his heart more than anything else. POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender-neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa🦋 Tags: Romance, Angst, No happy ending, sorry folks, Childhood Love, Unrequited Feelings, Silver Being Too Understanding, Diasomnia Found Family Cameo, Mentioned Vil and Neige, Mentioned Event from Book 5 (no major spoilers), Silver's POV Word Count: 2, 085 The way I struggled thinking of angst for this guy. Fluff is easy with him, but angst? Book 7 is already giving this boy a struggle, and I'm already teetering on the edge of the cliff with this. I'm not sure if this is any good, but I hope yall enjoy it at least. Silver is literally giving fairytale, woodland prince vibes. I'm going to drown this man in fairytale energy, even if it's the last thing I do.

“Silver, c’mere!” Your giggles echoed across a field of sunflowers. The young boy, whose hair glimmered like his namesake, waded through the yellow blooms with a curious look. Silver aurora eyes stared at your smile, stretched from one ear to the other.

Small, chubby hands reached out to place something soft on top of Silver’s head. It also tickled and pricked his forehead. The warm, summer air rustled his silver locks, and his own tiny hands clutched the ring of flowers that adorned his hair. Gentle fingers touched the petals of the sunflowers woven among the stems. A few leaves poked his skin, but he didn’t mind.

“Yay! It looks pretty on you,” you told him with a giggle. Silver watched you clasp your hands behind your back, as you looked at him with a bright beam. “I asked Lilia to teach me how to make flower crowns. Do you like it?”

His cheeks grew warm, not hot to the touch yet enough to color his pale skin. He imagined that knowing look in his father’s eyes. It was an innocent request, most likely born from a wish to make a beautiful gift. As young as the child was, Silver was already aware of his father’s mischievous tendencies.

Without lingering on the thought, he nodded and murmured, “I like it. Thank you…”

The edges of your eyes crinkled, hiding behind the chub of your cheeks. A laugh rang in the silent field of flowers, and Silver was reminded of the tinkling noises of the diurnal fae. You clapped your hands and tugged him to sit down with you. Another story sat at the tip of your tongue, just waiting to be shared with the boy you met in the forest one day. Somehow, you two became inseparable afterwards.

As the sunflowers swayed in the wind, carrying its fragrance and heralding the beginning of summer, the little boy thought your smile was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.

“Silver!”

Gone was the chub in your cheeks, yet your smile remained. Ten-year-old you and Silver sat in his father’s study: trinkets, books, and scrolls bearing untold tales of travel and war within its cabin walls. Scraps of colorful paper, either torn or crumpled or both, littered the mahogany table. Silver noticed that the bright sunlight that illuminated the room glowed with a soft orange now.

“Yes?” He asked, turning to you, only to be met with another wide smile and an excited gleam in your eyes. A paper ring sat in between your thumb and index finger. It was shoddy, obviously the work of a child, but you showed it to him as if it was gold that you unearthed yourself.

“I finally made one!” You cheered, before you beckoned him to give his hand to you. Silver did so without a complaint, and you slid the paper ring on one of his fingers. His heart skipped a beat as your fingers brushed his. He silently prayed that you didn’t hear his breath hitch in his throat. The silence seemed to make him more conscious of his own breathing and heart and everything.

Silver couldn’t help but notice that you put the ring on his left finger, right next to his pinky. He vaguely remembered his father telling him about an ancient belief; how a vein in this finger ran directly to the heart. He didn’t understand it, but his young mind interpreted it as the finger being related to the organ in some way.

“Mommy and daddy both have rings on this finger,” you explained without a falter in your smile. “They said you give someone you really love a ring here. Something about marrying the person you want to be with for life.”

As you looked into his eyes, your smile grew wider, if that was possible. Silver owlishly blinked, listening to your every word amidst the confusing warmth in his chest. His heart thudded, beating loud in his ears. He stared at you without so much as a twitch in his expression, despite what he currently felt.

“Let’s get married when we’re older! I want to have more fun and happy days with you for the rest of my life!”

You cradled Silver’s hand as if it was glass, fragile and valuable. It reminded him of the time when you held a glass of apple juice that Lilia had given you once. Silver felt as if the words would spill out of his mouth, anyway.

“Okay,” he answered softly. The wind could have drowned out his voice, but it rang clear in the quiet study. “I promise. We’ll get married when we’re older.”

You cheered, giggling and laughing and clutching Silver’s hand. Even if it was made of paper, he treasured the ring like a diamond that sparkled under the sun. Even if these were words being exchanged by naive and ignorant children, he held the promise close to his heart.

That day, Silver kept the ring in an empty cookie tin next to the flower crown. Time had not been kind to the gift from his early childhood. The sunflowers have long wilted, and the stems browned and became brittle. The petals and leaves crumbled under a feather-light touch.

Still, the silver-haired boy smiled and kept his treasures next to his bed.

“Silver,” you whispered, standing close to the tall teenager. Your arm brushed against his, while you avoided bumping into the scores of people that flocked Main Street. “It’s really crowded this year, huh?”

Night Raven College opened its gates to the public for the school festival, particularly for the Vocal and Dance Championship—VDC, for short. Silver invited you to the same event last year, and you enjoyed the variety of snacks and games offered by the students. You two even managed to get tickets for VDC then. He thought of inviting you to this year’s school festival. Although, he didn’t expect the surge of visitors this time.

“I’m sorry.” Silver gave you an apologetic smile as he tugged you by the arm. You were pulled away from some squealing and tittering girls that rushed through the crowd. They were screaming about VDC tickets, Vil, and Neige. Fangirls, Silver presumed.

“I didn’t anticipate that this year’s VDC would garner this much attention. Forgive me,” he apologized with a furrow of his brows and a quirk of his lips. His heart skipped a beat when you shook your head and grinned at him.

You never failed to make Silver’s heart do flips and cartwheels with that smile of yours.

“It’s fine,” you hummed and tugged his sleeve with a sheepish smile now, “but… Can you hold my hand, please? I don’t want to lose you in this crowd.”

Silver didn’t hesitate. His hand slid from your arm to your own hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. With a gentle squeeze, he answered, “Of course. Let’s go, then. I still have so much to show you, and we should search for Father while we’re at it.”

“Can we get cotton candy or ice cream on the way? Maybe both?”

You squeezed his hand in return, and that was all Silver needed. Heart fluttering and gaze softening at the sight of you, he pulled you along the street—as if you two were toddlers walking in the sunflower field again.

“Silver,” you called his name in a breathless whisper. Dressed in white silk that dripped with gold, you stood in front of your childhood friend with teary eyes and a wobbly smile. Your hands squeezed his, calloused from years of training under his father’s swordsmanship. His heart stuttered, and his breath hitched at the faint crack in your voice.

Before Silver knew it, you two moved beyond your teenage years. Time took away the awkward slouch of your shoulders and the lopsided quirk of your lips. The years had been kind to you, gracing you with a confident smile that made your face glow softly. Although, that confidence was replaced with something akin to heartfelt pride and joy at the moment.

“Yes?” He whispered in return, soft and warm and fragile. He squeezed your hands back, as if afraid to let you go. Another giggle. Another smile, one that reminded him of the days when you two were simply naive children. The familiar skip of his heartbeat merely softened the smile on Silver’s face.

“Thank you,” you gripped his hands as your lips quivered more and tears gathered in your eyes, “for everything.”

Silver’s heart twinged, before he reached out to wipe your tears away with a thumb. He never let go of your hand the entire time.

Love was sitting in a field of sunflowers and making flower crowns with clumsy, chubby hands in the summer. Love was making paper rings and exchanging promises of marriage in the cabin Silver and his father shared. Love was the taste of cotton candy and ice cream during a festival filled with fireworks and songs.

Love was watching an unrequited love give what was once yours to another—accepting it with a saccharine smile and a bittersweet sting in the heart.

“Of course.” The words easily rolled off Silver’s tongue, like dew sliding off a rose petal. He saw your smile widen, stretching from one ear to the other. Streaks of sunlight illuminated your dressing room, marble and glass encased in the golden glow of morning. Your eyes sparkled like jewels under the light, which reminded him of the diamond-studded band that once sat on your left ring finger.

Silver couldn’t help but let the memory of your paper ring overlap with the engagement ring from Kalim, one of his closest friends.

Before he could say anything else, a chorus of voices called for your name. Both of you turned towards the door where Lilia, Malleus, and Sebek waited. The youngest of the fae had pinched eyebrows and a scowl marring his features. Meanwhile, smiles brightened Lilia’s and Malleus’ faces. The latter appeared happier than the one who was getting married, most likely due to the invitation.

“It’s about to start,” Lilia reminded you with crossed arms and a tilt of his head. Sebek followed with a shrill, “Silver, stop dawdling around! You’re going to bring shame to Lord Malleus and Master Lilia for delaying the celebration!”

“Now, now, Sebek,” Malleus hummed with eyes narrowed in glee and a hand on his chin, “this is a union between Silver’s two friends, after all. Let him spend a few more minutes giving his well-wishes to one of them.”

Lilia tittered, while Sebek relented with a disgruntled, “Of course, Lord Malleus.”

You laughed, the jovial sound bouncing around the marble walls. Silver gawked, drinking in the curve of your smile and the unbridled joy in your eyes. With another squeeze and a tearful goodbye, you left the dressing room with a swish of fabric. Silver let your hands slip from his grasp with a single thought.

He didn’t have the heart to take your happiness away. He couldn’t. He can’t.

His father’s words and the retreating footsteps were all white noise to him. The silver-haired man stared at the empty space you once occupied. Magenta highlights and black locks swayed as Lilia took your place with a few steps. 

A hint of worry shone in those raspberry red eyes, usually brimming with affection for Silver. They still did—they always will. Lilia tilted his head back to look into his son’s eyes, glazed over with a myriad of emotions.

How could a father watch his son crumble where he stood, crushed by the weight of his feelings and loyalty for his friends? Lilia lived a long life—witnessed and experienced more than the average person, whether human or fae—but nothing compared to witnessing his child’s despair.

“Come now,” Lilia whispered with a hand clapping Silver’s shoulder, “you’re the best man, son. You must take your place before the wedding begins.”

“I know, Father,” Silver choked the words out and pressed the heel of his palm over his eye. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lilia squeezed his shoulder, before he offered a handkerchief from his coat pocket.

With a trembling hand, Silver accepted the square cloth with a quiet, “Thank you. Just… give me some time to recompose myself.”

Choked sobs disturbed the joyous air of a grand, long-awaited ceremony. In the silence of the dressing room, minutes before the beginning of a new chapter for two lovers, a father witnessed the bitter end of his son’s story with his childhood love.

[llondonfog]

diasomnia month // prompt 09 — love language

Every morning, Lilia finds a vase of fresh flowers on their small dining table, their bright and cheery faces facing towards him as if in search of the sun.

The colors and variety are ubiquitous— sometimes a bouquet of yellow roses, perky against the cozy wooden enclosure of their home. Often, a spray of alstroemerias, blushing pink and purple as they sigh their sweet fragrance into the dawn light. He's run the pads of his fingertips over the fluffy buds of chrysanthemums, the broad faces of sunflowers, and the round heads of zinnias, bobbing up and down in the morning breeze.

Once upon a time, he might have shunned their ephemeral beauty, scoffed at the fragile way they were born into this world simply to reach for the unobtainable light above them, and perish in the mud.

But now— how even lovelier they have become, a faint smile on his face as Lilia admires the latest arrangement of vibrant daisies, to know that Silver must get up before his father to arrange such a gift that they can both delight in. He must have help from the little woodland creatures who were so fond of his son, and Lilia can picture it easily— how the blue birds, squirrels, and even deer deposit their floral bounty at Silver's windowsill, waiting patiently for their sleeping beauty to wake and reward them with praise for their thoughtful deeds.

Humming merrily and with a spring in his step that makes him feel centuries younger, Lilia rattles the dishes in their kitchen, rather inspired to share in this bright morning with a flavorful contribution of his own.

"Breakfast will be ready soon, dear!" He calls out, before disappearing into their pantry in search of ingredients with which to commit a small war crime.

In his bedroom, Silver coughs lightly into his palm, wiping away the slick, dainty petals as he swallows the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

"I'll be there in just a moment, Father."