Precipitous Petals

former gifted student finds her life in shambles, more at 11

Addam doesn't last long, after the war. No children or estate to take care of, no expectations to live up to, no noose around his neck but the one he, metaphorically, placed there himself. Whatever it is that divides him and Flora - it could be the lost baby, it could be the rigid refusal to ever let themselves be so wantonly and immaturely in love as they could have been and might have been, it could be the seemingly careless length of time spent away - is obstinate enough that she...doesn't stop him. Just doesn't.

I can't take it anymore, he had said. What use am I? I have ruined the world - me, all me, one singular man, I have ruined the entire world, to say nothing of your life, and my father's, and all of those who fought for Torna. It is down to me, it should be on my head, it should be a debt I repay with my very life, and perhaps it is only fitting that it is not until now that I have gotten the chance to.

Flora gulps, hard and ugly and cold, on the bitter truth that lies buried among the throes of anguished dramatics in his words.

No longer is it just the silly two, and possibly a baby on the way makes three. It is not even two people, prince and princess who do not deserve to be alive when all their subjects are dead. Curse, in all bluntest tongues, the scars that imperialism gouges.

No, it is not any story that Minoth would have been happy to tell. It is one man who never grew up and one woman who never fully got to, not before being swept into his idiotic makeshift mess. The knots they tied were indelible, but not impervious to the rain.

So Addam goes, by and through whichever way and mean. It's altogether too fast, too thin, for a man such as he had been.

What a disgusting choice, too - his remorse is misspent, for now Flora is alone. Minoth had never stayed with them, not for a second. The few members of their staff, their pitiful court, that had come with them initially (most of the militia had gone to Spessia, and most of the other citizens had been blasted down upon directly) were nothing much to speak of, dead or departed in whichever ways of their own, each in turn.

Flora is alone.

She sits in the cottage, empty of books and pens and toys and pots and plants and instruments and recipes and knick-knacks and all the cluttered-up not-so-neat things that make a house a home - to speak not a word of people, dear, dear people - and tries to take stock of the world, tries to count in and out and on and over and make it all make sense.

But it doesn't make sense. Why would...why would Addam have blamed himself so fully, so absolutely? She knew every one of his foibles, his tendencies and his penchants, every way he'd react to everything, whether that meant breaking down in tears or starting up to give a shout of excitement.

He hadn't changed much at all, since she'd met him, though she knew he'd probably taken quite a many full-face turns in the six years before that, after his return to Torna (only not so, because he'd never been) from Leftheria. He hadn't been constant, not like her, but he had been a very open sort of book. One that Minoth had always had a hard time closing, for to him that was what books were meant to be.

What is there, was there about him? What had there been? His gamely joviality, his urge to give it a go even if he was left endlessly wondering, more worrying, how it'd turn out, his sheer obliviousness to any problems, cracks and tears, in the everyday firmament--

Was that it? Was it just pigheadedness? Was recklessness not still a boon, when you had teammates to rely on? Was that what she, and he too, had been blind to? For Flora was not one ever to let herself tend to pessimism, and sometimes, then, she let vagueness, ambivalent ambiguity, carry over the gap between that and optimism. She hadn't wanted to see. It would have been too painful to see.

But what now is there even left to look upon? She gets up, walks to the window, leaving her page of loose scribbles and crossed-out words behind, and looks out to the moon.

The place where the lonely vessel had been sunk is in line with its setting place, from here. That was the light by which Addam had done it, and Flora had stood with Azurda and watched. Somehow, she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away.

Before, she had been a teacher - training to be one, at least. Now, she hardly feels that she knows anything concrete and correct in her head at all. It's quite a pain, a bit of a constant headache, to know that she doesn't know. To know that now she is...indeed, quite useless. Or hadn't she always been?

Better use here and alive than there and dead. Right? Must be. But not if she doesn't do anything with it, about it, for it, to it, over it, through it. Yes, quickest way out is through.

So Flora sits back down at the table, calculates what she knows of inflation rates and what trade has been like, in Azurda's estimation, what she can contract her talents out for in the modes of needlework and accounting, what she has left that is of any value, and plans to hire a salvager.

the whole world has gone to shambles and immaterial things - why should you (get to) keep hold?

She doesn't own much - one pair of boots, a few old dresses that had managed not to be worn into maternity clothes, silk ribbons that she doesn't really need to keep her hair tied down, all in all - and somehow that seems fitting, for the disgraced not-so-royal. The most valuable part about her had always been her intellect. It's just a question of whether anyone will care to pay for that, now.

Well. There are two or three other things. One is a switchblade kept shoved behind the brooch that helms her left boot, a piece of weaponry forged in ice and engraved in love, and the other - others - is the set of pendants Addam had given her shortly after they had gotten married and moved out into Aletta.

"Is this to be redemption for Addam's name?" If he could raise an eyebrow, Azurda would be arching it clean up. As it stands, his gravelly judgement must carry all his intent.

"No," says Flora, more shortly than she means it. "It's nothing to do with him. I can make my own decisions, can't I?"

"If it were truly nothing to do with him," the old Titan begins with a snort, "then you wouldn't be selling the last mementos you have of him. You're trying to prove something, here."

when u want to be a mom but the daughter you're trying to adopt is on fire

"Do you think you're worthy of my power?" Pyra says it with...something of a noble veneer painted onto her voice, but she only does so to fit into the proper imperious mold. Saying things plainly, without trepidation...that wouldn't be right, would it? We've all got to have our fear.

"No," answers Flora. "I don't. Addam may have been right - it's possible that no one is. Now, I fancy myself clever enough to give it my best effort, and old enough to know when to stop and take pace, but I will tell you right here and right now that I don't do this as a..." she rubs her thumb against the pads of her fingertips, searching for something "a scion of mercy, or some such. I'm just a woman who is quite alone and quite afraid."

Pyra considers this. Her lips work, and her brows knit, and flames burn beneath her palms. "And you want me to share my Core with you, so that you won't be so alone?"

The instinctive next step, to Flora, is to take Pyra's hands and grasp in and into reassurance. The fire, however, scares her. From kept afar, she replies, "So that we won't be, for one thing."

Pyra blinks; her lips still and part. It doesn't strike, in the disconnectedness. If this doesn't work, or even if it does, what use does she have for her hands now anyway? So Flora reaches in. "It was different, before. There were a lot of men in Torna saying a lot of things they thought were very important."

How many? Count Khanoro, Zettar, Addam, and even Amalthus and Malos themselves. At least five, and it had only been four girls who traveled in the golden land then anyway. Too many, too many, many too many too many by far.

they never warned me about this at boarding school

training

sometimes you just want to burn it all down

deciding

if you could do anything, wouldn't you try to fly?

traveling

mementos of the past so rarely feel like the future

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't want you to be alone."

"Flora. Come on. You didn't do this for me."

"No, I mean we're going to fix things. I have faith beyond measure in what you can do, but you can't stop Amalthus on your own."

"I never tried."

"I know."

when turning on heel it is perhaps more advantageous to wear stilettos

planning

because all comes aright in the end, even if it doesn't feel like it

moving