It was said, whispered, and writ in texts that now crumbled when touched, that if one were to offer a flower with their desire of their heart, that the Gods would grant a wish.
The desire and wish must be genuine. If the desire was not true, the Gods would be angry and demand payment for the lie that was spoken with the soul in the offer of the flower.
She wanted the despair gone, the lonely longing to disappear. For that she would have needed Cypress, but there was none. They were long gone, brittle and brown. Nothing more than sticks in the barren land that reached heavenward. The second option of a dark crimson rose wasn't even accessible. Roses of all types were kept in the lush gardens of the Queen. To enter there was death.
All she had was bleached cardboard covered in white felt that she scrounged for for months. It would have to do as there was nothing else she could offer.
Blood offerings were banned years ago and many people found that they didn't bring joy to the Gods. It was said that the Gods loved and wanted life, not blood.
With a wry sigh, she picked up her white dress and slipped it over her head. It was itchy in places: hard wool was used to stitch it together in places. It was only needed one more year before she was granted another.
At least it looked like it flowed and had movement, which was something to be said against her regular shift dress. This white garment was something that felt magical. Special, pure, and clean in a dirty world.
Her mother brushed her hair and nodded once. Her lips twisted at the flower, her head shaking. Soon her mother would be telling her stories of women who were stolen by smoke and mist for giving poor gifts.
Looking around at their meager things, she wanted to scream that they were poor. That they had nothing and this was something that she coveted and created out of love. Something she grew, in a way, in this barren land.
Instead, she said nothing and quickly left before her mother went on about angry Gods.
The walk was quick as they didn't live far from the temple. It was cooling and the mud under her feet was cold, and it squished between her toes. The stars were out and she could only smile at their coldness.
Temple maidens cleaned the stairs and lit the fires. One frowned at the mud on her feet. She tried to wipe the mud off with her cloak until most of rich earth was gone.
Walking into the inner santcum she could smell incense and wine. It was heady, cloying, and was starting to invade her senses. She wondered if she could get drunk on the smells.
She stood, not knowing what to do, and held her flower in her right hand. In theory, her mother told her everything she needed to do, told her everything she needed to say. Doing them was something different.
Words fumbled and fell like weighted bricks to land around her muddied ankles. The dress was too short and hung under her knees. Suddenly everything felt wrong.
Looking at the flower, she knew that it wouldn't matter what her desire was, it was not good enough for an offering. Not to the Gods and Goddesses. This was a child's thing, not a gift of a woman.
Fighting tears and trembling her heart beat way too fast in her chest, and the desire that sat at the back of her throat was gone. There was fear trying to climb up and out of her mouth.
Smoke and mist seemed to be filling the room. Perhaps the temple maidens didn't open the doors? That couldn't have been the case, the doors were wide open.
A rumble came up through the ground, through the temple floor and into the walls. She could feel it in her bones.
She was scared and longed for home, longed for warm fires, and her father. Her father who was long gone from this world.
The smoke was everywhere, in her eyes, in her nose and mouth. It stung and tears came to the corners of her eyes.
Like steel cutting through butter, she could hear his voice. It asked her what her desire was. At the moment, she wished to breathe.
Suddenly, the amount of smoke lessened and there, just across the room stood a man. He was in black but his clothing was nothing like she'd ever seen. It was finer than anything the Queen would have owned. It was simple and divine all at once.
He walked towards her, eyes on the flower she still held in her trembling fingers. She couldn't move as he touched her.
Standing behind her, his fingers tilted her head heavenward. His other hand went to her shoulder almost possessively.
The longing flooded through her again. The want of being home, of warmth, of a full belly, of her father.
"This is not a flower offering."
Silence from him but she could feel his hands still in place.
When the smoke fully cleared, nothing of her remained but her cloak, a bit of mud from her feet, and a cardboard flower.
