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The notion of a world lacking in flowers is one that is not only dreary, but rather difficult to imagine. Yet that was how it was when Hydaelyn was in its youth: algae, moss, lichen, shrubs, ferns, and trees had all long made their presence known before those first few petals opened up under the sun. A late blooming—if you’ll indulge the author a small pun—but one made all the richer by delay, as what was then a world of simple brown and green sprang forth in countless hues. And to each and every kind, folk have attached meaning; especially when given as a gift, for it is simply human nature to collect a pretty thing and give it to your sweetheart as a token of affection, much as it is within our nature to sow meaning in such places that the cruel indifference of the universe dared insist must remain barren.
It was this former impulse that had led the Warrior of Light along his present path to where he was now standing; with his arms crossed, and a very serious expression on his face. More a glare, really, as he stared intently at a colorful display of flowers by a stall in Sharlayan’s Agora.
Ifan and his friends had been within the Scholar’s patronage for a few days, now, and despite a memorable evening atop the city’s foremost library—where he’d given his beloved G’raha a homecoming present of his own making—the whim to treat the scarlet-haired Miqo’te to another little token of affection made itself known, as Ifan made his way down to meet him by the harbor for a quiet afternoon tea. Nothing too expensive, obviously, but neither did he want to buy the former Exarch tourist trash from his own country. And so he’d settled on a simple classic: flowers.
Sadly, it proved far from simple. Even this relatively modest stall on the Agora’s periphery had such a broad selection that Ifan knew it wasn’t the aroma making his head spin. Roses, violets, carnations, chrysanthemums… lillies, daisies, tulips, morning glories… He had a fair amount of knowledge when it came to botany, at least for those plants which were useful in the practice of magecraft, but most of those for sale were merely decorative, and in this case the magician found his studies lacking.
So there he stood; lips twisting, and staring at a sunflower as if it would start speaking to him.
“You’re either having a really hard time deciding, or you’ve got something personal against sunflowers.”
Ifan blinked. It took him a moment to realize that it was not in fact the flower that was speaking, but rather a young lady who’d appeared at his left side and was now smiling up at him.
She was a slight woman; Midlander by appearance, fair-skinned and clad in pink and red, with light brown hair tied up into a braid, and gazing up at him with eyes of a most striking turquoise hue. The stall’s owner, he guessed, judging by the wicker basket she was holding—filled with white and scarlet blooms that gave off a sweet and strangely calming scent.
It took him a few more moments to realize he was staring.
“…Oh! Sorry.” Ifan shook his head and chuckled sheepishly before straightening up, suddenly aware of his poor posture and vacant expression. “The former, actually.”
The flower girl let out a gentle laugh and tilted her head slightly in response. Her smile brightened even further, which was quite the feat given her already cheerful countenance, and she nodded up at Ifan before gesturing towards the flowers.
“I’d be happy to help!” she offered. “What’s the occasion?”
“Not really an occasion,” Ifan replied, mirroring her laughter with a chuckle. “I just wanted to get my sweetheart a small present.”
The smile the flower girl was wearing widened to a beaming grin.
“Well, that’s always an occasion,” she said, eyes sparkling. “What’s he like?”
How she knew G’raha was of masculine persuasion was a mystery. But there was something in her grin and gaze which gave Ifan the notion she could smell exactly how he felt regarding the Miqo’te, as easily as she might sample the perfume of one of her flowers. So he gave the matter no more thought, and turned his mind instead towards his answer.
“I could write a book,” he said, wistfully. That was true: he just couldn’t imagine trying to boil a man like G’raha Tia down to a few sentences. A storied hero of his own (at least in Ifan’s eyes), but what was conjured up in Ifan’s head was such a crush of memory and feeling that trying to carry water in a sieve felt easier than putting it to words. But he did his best to give the flower girl an answer, nonetheless. “If I had to put a word to it… Radiant.”
“Oh, so you’re in love love,” teased the flower girl.
“Oi!” Ifan’s smile evaporated as his lips pinched in bashful reflex, but the simple truth of it quickly bore out. He let out a sharp scoff, then chuckled at himself. “...You’re not wrong, aye. And I could just get him roses, but I wanted to get him something more… personal,” he finished, punctuating his sentence with a gesture to the flowers she was holding.
The flower girl’s expression grew more thoughtful, even if it remained cheerful, and she nodded in response.
“Fair enough. I mean… I’d still call roses pretty personal, even if they aren’t original,” she mused. “But I guess we wouldn’t have invented floriography if people didn’t want specific meanings.”
Ifan cocked his head.
“Floriography?” he asked.
“Sending messages with flowers,” she explained, smile widening again.
“Ah.” The magician clicked his teeth and nodded. “Didn’t know that had a name.”
“Only what they call it here in Sharlayan,” said the flower girl, her expression growing wry and slightly smug. “But I prefer a field of flowers to a field of study, personally.”
Ifan couldn’t help but snicker.
“All right, that was a good one,” he said, before turning his eyes towards the flowers in the stall. “Assuming roses mean love, aye?”
“Well, that depends on the color,” answered the flower girl.
“...It gets that detailed?” Ifan asked, after an incredulous pause.
The flower girl let out a gentle laugh, then nodded sympathetically.
“Mhm,” she said. “Roses are for all kinds of love: red for passionate, white for a fresh start, coral to tell them that you’re not quite into them in that way, and so on,” she explained.
“Definitely not coral, then,” Ifan replied, with a light huff. Then he paused again, scrutinizing the blooms, and after wrestling with his hesitation let out a shameful breath. “...I would get him his favorite, but… I—”
“Forgot?” the flower girl supplied, with a teasing air.
Ifan closed his eyes. After a few moments of silence… his lips twisted, and he nodded slowly.
“It sounds bad, doesn’t it?” he managed, his voice coming out as more of a wheeze.
The flower girl began to laugh again, musically, but instead of mocking Ifan felt his shame grow strangely soothed; enough that he let out a bashful chuckle right along with her.
“We’re only human,” she said, once her laughter had subsided. “We can’t be expected to remember every little detail about ourselves, let alone everyone else. And I like to think the feeling matters just as much as the fact, anyway.”
“I appreciate that,” Ifan replied, earnestly, letting out a relieved breath before nodding at the flowers. “Well… Help me out a bit. What’s your favorite?”
“Easy: yellow lilies,” she answered, beaming and without a moment’s hesitation. “I like a vase of happiness and friendship.”
Her good humor proved far too infectious: Ifan chuckled again, and his smile grew to a half-grin.
“You do seem sunny, aye,” he said.
“I can see why you have a sweetheart to be getting flowers for,” the flower girl teased. “What about you? Do you have a favorite?” she asked.
“Jasmine,” he answered, with an equal lack of hesitation.
The flower girl’s smile eased as she eyed Ifan up and down as if sizing him up. At length, she let out a quiet but indulgent hum.
“Friendliness, and sweet love,” she said. “Very fitting.”
Then she grinned again, and once more Ifan got the feeling she could identify his type as easily as she could name the flowers she was selling. He felt his cheeks grow a little warm, as well, and had to shift his gaze away while clearing his throat.
“Well, I don’t want to get him my favorite,” he said. Then he let out a small sigh of frustration, and eyed the flowers with a tightened jaw. “I just wish I could remember. I know he’s told me.”
For a few moments, the flower girl said nothing. Her expression grew thoughtful, with a hardened edge of concentration as she gazed at the magician’s face.
Then, at length, she simply smiled.
“Would you like some advice?” she offered.
Ifan blinked, then nodded with a very relieved sigh.
“Please,” he said, thankful yet beseeching. “I’ll take anything.”
There was another moment’s silence as she gazed at him, still smiling. Then she cocked her head towards the flowers, casually, but with a knowing cast on her fair features.
“When I can’t decide with my head, I let my heart do the choosing,” she advised. “Go with my gut.”
Ifan paused at this, and his eyes returned to her with a curious expression.
It was risky. A small gift it might well be, but he wanted it to say the proper thing; or at least not the wrong thing. Yet the time to meet the Seeker at the Last Stand was coming due, and at this point the Warrior of Light had few other options.
“...Why not?” Ifan said, dispelling his misgivings with a shrug. “You seem to know your way around flowers. Let’s see…”
He turned towards the stall again, and cast his eyes over each of the flowers on display with the fresh criteria in his mind: go with his gut. At first it seemed as hopeless at before… but then his eyes alighted on a bunch of pale azure blooms whose petals recalled to him the days back in Mor Dhona; the color of the sky, of Syrcus Tower, and the left eye of a young Seeker he had loved, then lost, but found again on the far edge of fate.
“Those.” The word escaped his lips before it blossomed in his head, and he blinked and swallowed at his own abruptness. But he didn’t change his mind, once he’d regained it, and cleared his throat before he nodded and glanced at the flower girl. “How about those?” he asked, gesturing at the flowers.
Her eyes followed Ifan’s finger. She paused. Then, after a moment, she smiled again and gave a curious hum.
“...Oh,” she said.
Ifan’s face began to fall at her reaction.
“Do they mean something bad?” he asked. His brow began to furrow in nascent concern, only to find itself smoothed back into surprise as she shook her head insistently.
“Not at all,” she said, with an almost Cheshire grin. “I definitely think you should give him those.”
“Oh?” Ifan peered at the flower girl with growing curiosity. “What do they mean?”
She didn’t answer right away, having already set down her basket before plucking the bouquet out of the stall. Ifan watched as she took care to wrap the flowers properly; making sure they were neatly arranged within their casing of green tissue paper, even adding a small sprinkling of ground water crystal to the stems to keep them fresh. Only when she finished did she break the silence with a teasing hum.
“Don’t know,” she said, cocking her head and handing Ifan the bouquet with a wry smile. “You’ll just have to give them to him and decide what they mean, together.”
Ifan stared.
Though the flower girl was short and slender, the willful gleam within her turquoise eyes gave her a strangely intimidating edge. Not that she was trying to do so; rather, Ifan simply knew she could outlast him in an argument. So he simply let out a long chuckle, shook his head, and accepted the bouquet from her without further complaint.
“All right, I know when to admit defeat,” he said. “How much?”
“They’re on the house,” she replied, bending down to retrieve her basket before looking up at Ifan with another knowing smile; one brighter than the sunflower the magician had been staring at. “You seem like the sort of person who could use a few more flowers in his life.”
“Can I at least give you a little gift of gil, then?” Ifan asked, tilting his head beseechingly with a small frown. “Wouldn’t want to put you out of business,” he added.
The flower girl shook her head.
“I’m not worried,” she said, with that same smile. “There’s always a need for flowers. Plus, I have a little gift when it comes to earning repeat customers.” Then she winked at him, and raised her hand to give the Warrior of Light a gentle wave. “You take care, now. Do say hello to your sweetheart for me.”
“I will. Thank you,” Ifan replied, returning a grin and giving her a courteous bow. “Twelve be with you!”
With that, Ifan turned and headed off to the Last Stand.
***
As Ifan neared his meeting place with G’raha, he felt a classic pang of buyer’s remorse.
Perhaps he should have insisted that the flower girl tell him the meaning of his choice. What if he said the wrong thing? Not that G’raha would ever be upset over something so trivial, but after everything… Ifan wanted every gift to him, even the smallest, to mean a world or two. And if he followed up a perfect evening with a floral flub...
He hid the flowers behind his back as he caught sight of G’raha.
The Miqo’te was waiting for him near a lamppost by the Last Stand, arms crossed and smiling fondly up at the Scholar’s statue. Bright as his expression was, it grew even more radiant as Ifan approached; his ears and tails perked, and the Warrior of Light felt his cheeks prickle and nervous tremor enter his step at the mere sight of him.
“A fine afternoon, dear heart. I…” His greeting trailed off, and his ears lowered a little upon noticing his lover’s face. “Are you quite all right? You seem rather flustered.”
“...A fine afternoon to you as well, 'Raha,” Ifan greeted, after a short pause. Then he swallowed, and mustered up his courage. “Bit nervous, if I’m honest. But… here.” He drew the flowers out from where they were concealed with a small flourish, and offered them to G’raha with a loving, but still obviously anxious smile. “For you, my lord.”
G’raha’s eyes lowered to the flowers, and his lips parted in shock. Ifan swore he felt his heart stop, for a moment, at the breath of disbelief which escaped G’raha… only to swell as the Seeker’s ears splayed before he looked up at the magician, overjoyed.
“Myosotis. You remembered…” he said.
Ifan blinked. Gradually, his smile began to fade into a blank stare.
“...They’re your favorite?” he asked, slowly.
G’raha blinked in turn, and mirrored his confused expression.
“Of course,” he replied, tilting his head and cocking an ear quizzically. “Was that not why you chose them?”
There was a long silence. Then Ifan’s face turned very, very red, and he lowered his gaze before muttering, bashfully.
“...I picked them ‘cause they reminded me of your old eye,” he admitted. “Before the Tower.”
G’raha’s face shifted from confusion to mild shock. He kept on staring… and then started laughing, without a trace of scorn of shame. A simple sound of pure delight which nonetheless made Ifan’s cheeks burn all the fiercer.
“Whatever shall I do with you, my hopeless champion…” laughed G’raha. He shook his head, then stepped forward and leaned up to press a very appreciative kiss to Ifan’s lips that he might help to soothe the Hyur’s embarrassment.
Ifan felt a little better from the kiss, admittedly. But the sheer amount of tension he’d built up over what was ultimately just a bunch of flowers still kept his cheeks flushed and his demeanor sheepish.
“Don’t be mean,” he muttered, pouting as his right knee canted inwards. “I’m sorry for forgetting,” he added, apologetically.
But G’raha shook his head, returning an appreciative and deeply sympathetic smile.
“Dear heart… any flower from you shall always be my favorite,” he said, placing his hands over Ifan’s where they still grasped the crepe-wrapped stems.
“’Raha…” Ifan’s cheeks went right back to full flush; an obvious ruddy bronze which hardly helped with how he looked to bystanders, the spitting image of a nervous teenager asking someone to go steady. But it was hard to care with the way G’raha was looking at him. “As long as you like them. That’s what matters,” he said, giving a firm nod.
“I do,” said G’raha, ears wiggling joyously. “I love them as I love you, my mighty champion.”
Ifan’s smile began to widen, growing to a grin as his embarrassment faded.
“I love you too, my lord.” He leaned down to give the archon one more kiss, making sure to move the flowers to the side so as not to damage them.
“Well, humor me,” he asked, when their lips parted. “Do they mean something good?”
G’raha Tia simply gave his Warrior of Light a wide and knowing smile.
“Forget-me-not.”