@scharlakol & @sacaeblade sent:
18. A memory they’d love to change tosses a grenade before you can get me
//sacae wants me dead forreal
//via memories; no longer accepting
Daisies to say 'I love you'
And Bellflowers mean 'I'll see you when I wake'
Sain breathes deep. Every flower in his arrangement is accounted for, each of their petaled heads touched by the tip of his finger. He's been rummaging through the bouquet for the better half of an hour now, ensuring that every last detail is perfect--is picturesque. This would be the climactic scene at the end of his act. He'd finally roll up his sleeve and allow his lady to see the heart he wears underneath, speaking truly and honestly when he professes his love.
He knows what he is. That he's very rarely taken seriously. But dash your head against a rock enough times, and it may just start to crack; maybe this time she'll understand. Maybe this time she'll see.
He cradles the flowers like they're a newborn, saddling onto his mount with measured motions. Like treading upon a carpet of gossamer, he is careful. Not even the wind can be allowed to misarrange that which he has painstakingly crafted.
And as he draws near, she comes into view. She is the very picture of beauty, just as lovely and refined as their first encounter. Her hair is warm and gentle, like a breeze, but her eyes are each wells of insurmountable strength. They are perfect compliments to one another: the sun's first ray on a field of morning frost. Nothing is too cold, and nothing too hot. Everything attains balance and moderation by another of her qualities. And when he sees her move, he finds it difficult to look away. Every motion, every flick of the blade, is deliberate and practiced. She flows faster and more poised than any river: a movement Sain wishes would end up in his arms. To see her dance across and open field and end in his hand, he could die happy. Every effort spared for her would have been made more than worthwhile, such that the remainder of his life's breaths could all be hers to claim. He wants her. He needs her. In the way a sunflower turns to the sky, aching for its one true love.
And right now, she's... Speaking with the others.
Sain stops himself. He laughs a little, noticing how easily she does the same. Except, he doesn't think he's ever heard her laugh. Not while he was around, at least. 'It seems there are no decent men among Lycia's knights,' she had once said. And though it failed to reach him then, the realization that he has more than just his own reputation to tarnish takes root. There is Kent, too, and Lord Wallace. And his father, who he fears a slight against more than any other. Is it right for him to be doing this? The Lance sucks in a breath. His gaze falls from Lyndis and the others, and onto his bouquet. It seems... Pathetic. Insufferable. Like it would only earn further scorn against his house and knightly order. "They... Don't deserve that," he mutters, looking back to his liege to see that she has still not noticed him.
"There's still time to go back."
If asked about why he had spoken those words, Sain could not come up with an answer. They sort of just fell out of his mouth, far beyond the reach of his own control. And as they do, his vision grows bleak. The world dons a deeper shade of gray--reflected in his eyes by the loss of focus in their lenses. Nothing seems worthwhile. Not the flowers, not the sappy poem to go along with them--not even his service, in a way. But the shake of his head dispels that last thought. Sain may be able to convince himself that Lyndis will never accept him as her man, but he will always be her knight. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Hands tremble as they reach for his horse's reins, but once they're grabbed, he yanks them back.
The flowers fall from his hands, destroyed in an instant by the trampling of hooves. Daisies are torn, petal from petal, and half-ground into a medicinal sludge. Carnations, with their crimson buds, look like a stain of blood against the side of the road. Lilies lose their virtue, becoming nothing more than a sinner's discarded hope as their purity is dyed brown with dust. And Bellflowers, whose shape had been so pronounced and well-kept, are flattened. Naught remains but tattered heads and splintered stems.
Sain has whipped his mount into a full sprint, making the choice to venture back into town and keep his secret safe in his heart. The arms of a village maiden, though transient, will soothe his hurt feelings for a short while.
"It won't hurt anyone this way. Not me, not them..."
