Chapter Text
Sunflowers swayed in the biting arctic wind, stretching across the ground in a yellow trail — unnaturally fresh, their fleshy petals remaining soft and warm despite the tormenting cold.
They lead along a long road to the never-ending frozen sea. Making their way through the snow, they stretch from the rocks to the water and drop their petals, followed by their cores falling apart.
They fall down into the bottomless, pitch-black darkness.
Where there is nothing but the eternally sinking wreckage of two ships.
As if emerging from the depths, James wakes up with a cough, his whole body shudders, and he straightens up, clutching his neck with fingers. Heart is beating rapidly in his chest, its dull thumping drowning out his thoughts and other sensations.
Except for one.
His entire being was focused on taking a spare breath— something was interfering, blossoming in his throat and pressing on teeth — only a whistling rattle escaped his lips.
Punching his own chest didn't help; it only made the suffocating lump in his throat grow stronger. It scratched his tongue with a strange bitter-sweet taste.
At other times, it would remind him of walnuts, but now it reminded him of a rotting wood.
Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, blurring the green walls of John Barrow's house before his gaze.
— Please, — Ross manages to exhale loudly through his nose, and with another coughing burst pushes a dirty yellow lump out of his throat.
A familiar one.
Sunflower — a flower that had followed him for many years — Francis liked it, wherever he went, yellow petals remained.
A herbarium, or simply a fascination with a particular plant — it was always around them.
As much as… they were with each other after they crossed the boundaries of ordinary friendship.
So close. It's so easy to make a misstep, to misunderstand.
James coughed again.
Fragments of underdeveloped petals clung to his wet lips. They were cold, sticking to the edge of his palm, and when Ross shook them off, they dropped heavily onto the table.
One of them fell into the tea that maid had brought him earlier.
Exhaling shakily, James closed his eyes.
What happened to him was a curse, his punishment for his slowness — a constant reminder of those he must find.
About who he must find.
Сough gripped Ross chest once more.
— Sir James? — that voice.
Ross doesn't answer, quickly, almost blindly brushing the petals and what could have become a flower off the table and onto the floor.
No one must see this.
— Sir James, my father is not feeling well, — George Barrow began.
Did he say anything else? Ross didn't hear, for him the crunch of petals under his heel sounds louder than any words.
— Sir James?
— James?
Sunflowers are tall, above human height — their crowns reach toward the distant sun.
It is easy to get lost among them, hide from the dry wind, and drown in the warm ocean of flowers.
It is difficult to find a familiar face in them, while chasing the quiet voice that calls.
Rows of sunflowers are too dense — the deeper he go, closer they grow together.
Francis struggles to push them apart, scratching his fingers on the frost that has somehow appeared on the on flower stems.
Cores turn toward him, forming a wall of tightly intertwined petals from shades of yellow — they themselves, without needing to be touched, sketch out a blurry figure…Ross.
So close.
A gust of wind swept across the petals, turning them over and making the figure clearer — highlighting its blue uniform, where the gold of the honors blended with the living.
The only thing that remained unclear was James face.
Three young blooming sunflowers hid it; they covered his eyes and fell lower, leaving only his lips visible.
A gentle smile.
— James, — many unspoken words are contained in one name; it sounds like both regret for what has been lost and a brief plea.
— Sunflowers — they always…
— If you had been here, — Crozier fingertips lightly touched the petals.
And even from such a gentle touch, the image shattered into a multitude of yellow pieces — they fell on Francis like biting snow.
A storm in which the cold took the form of a beast.
Two small black eyes stared at Crozier, and then...
Francis woke up, their break near the rock was over—it was time to head on; a few fresh sunflower petals lay on his knees.
— Sunflowers — they always reach toward the bright sun.