#taieyeini

[monmilter]

Tai ey Eini [Language of Flowers]

The Language of Flowers Exists for Those Moments When Speech Is Powerless. It allows one to express feelings that cannot be put into words — because of prohibitions, distance, fear, or duty. Flowers become a substitute for confessions; they speak for a person without demanding an answer. Through the language of flowers, one conveys an inner state. It is a way to be sincere without destroying boundaries, and to leave a feeling in memory rather than in words.

As soon as the scene appeared in which Tai gives Tiss a bouquet, I understood that it was not without meaning. Perhaps Alexander Shut did not intend to embed any particular symbolism in the bouquet — just as Tai himself might not have — but please allow me to analyze the message. Because, strangely enough, symbolism is indeed present in this bouquet.

The bouquet consists solely of anemones. In old legends, they were called the breath of the wind: they bloom and fade as easily as feelings that cannot be given a name. The anemone has always been about a love that exists on a boundary — between what is permitted and what is forbidden, between hope and loss. It is given when the heart is full, but the world around it does not allow that heart to be heard.

Tai (in my view) chooses anemones precisely because they mirror his own position. These flowers are fragile, almost doomed, yet astonishingly honest. They do not promise eternity; they speak of a real feeling that lives in the present, despite fear and danger. In the language of flowers, anemones are a confession without vows, a love without the right to a future, yet with absolute sincerity in the now.

Seven anemones in his bouquet are not a random number. Seven has always symbolized fate, mystery, a sign from above. The bouquet given to Tiss signifies that she is not a whim or a fleeting infatuation, but a feeling he perceives as both a trial and a gift. It is as if he is saying: “Our feelings for each other are not a mistake. This is what was destined for me, even if the world stands against it.”

The two white anemones in this bouquet represent his pure intention. White here is not about naivety, but about a truth one cannot renounce. Tai does not wish Tiss harm; he does not seek to possess her, nor to draw her into his political shadows. These flowers are his promise of silent protection, a sign that his love is not stained by calculation, power, or war. Two means “we,” even if this “we” is not meant to exist openly.

The burgundy-violet anemones are the most intimate part of the bouquet. They conceal his pain, his fear, and his desire — the kind that cannot be spoken aloud. This color is the color of royal blood and of night, in which he remains alone with his thoughts. These anemones speak of a love that is deep, mature, and lived in silence; of a feeling that grows not from rapture, but from inner struggle, from the realization that he loves the enemy of his own state, and that therefore every step he takes is a betrayal — both of himself and of his crown.

The coral anemones are the only light in this bouquet. They carry warmth, hope, and a desperate longing to be not a prince or an heir, but simply a person beside her. This is not the color of passion, but the color of life. It says: “Even if the world between us is hostile, my feeling for you is alive. It seeks not to destroy, but to warm.” These anemones are his attempt to imagine another world — one in which the political relations between Esshai and Ro’od hold no meaning.

Together, this bouquet becomes a confession. It does not shout love — it whispers it. There are no promises of marriage, of a future, or of victory over circumstances. There is only an admission: “I love you in the only way I am allowed — silently, carefully, with my whole heart.” The anemones in his hands are flowers of a love that knows it may perish, yet still chooses to bloom.

This bouquet is not a gesture of hope for a happy ending, but a sign of the deepest respect for Tiss’s fate and life. Tai gives it knowing that he may never be able to repeat this act. And thus the anemones become a symbol of a love that exists in spite of states, flags, and wars — a love that demands no answer, yet remains forever in memory.

[monmilter]

Forget-me-nots and a letter from Tai [language of flowers]

Tai wrote one of his letters to Tiss in episode five of season two. And it was not just a letter, but a letter with forget-me-nots.

Forget-me-nots belong to the quiet category of symbols: small, easily crushed underfoot, almost apologetic for their beauty. They do not announce themselves the way roses do; they do not demand space or insist on attention. And precisely because of this, they are the right flower for a feeling that must remain unnamed.

In the old language of flowers, forget-me-nots do not speak of love that has been fulfilled, but of love that is remembered. They are a sign of attachment that exists without permission, of a feeling that does not need recognition in order to be real. To notice a forget-me-not—and especially to give one—is to acknowledge that someone has already entered a private territory of memory, more enduring than words. Memory, unlike promises, cannot be revoked by decree.

For Tai, raised as a future heir, this carries particular weight. His life is structured around duty, succession, and the gradual erasure of the self in favor of the role he is meant to play. So when attraction appears, it becomes not merely desire but an intrusion—a feeling that belongs neither to empire, nor lineage, nor crown. The forget-me-not conveys this perfectly. It demands no action. It does not push him toward rebellion. It only insists that what was experienced is real and will remain, even if he never allows that feeling to influence his choices. In this sense, the flower becomes his first personal truth—something he was never taught to want and that cannot be officially taken away.

For Tiss, from the hostile Esshai, the symbolism sounds different, softer. From the beginning, she understands that the world has already decided everything. The forget-me-not does not promise union or safety. Instead, it offers recognition without claims. To feel under such conditions is not naivety but a form of courage: allowing something to exist even when it cannot be protected. In her hands, the flower means: “I see you as you are, not as you are supposed to be.” It is not a request to be chosen, only a request not to be erased.

Between Tai and Tiss, the forget-me-not becomes a shared silence. Their restrained flirtation—half-smiles, light teasing, conversations that circle around what they never name outright—serves not as a step forward but as a confirmation. They are not moving toward confession; they are fixing memory in place. Each small interaction says: “This happened. We were here. This is not imagined.” In this way, the flower belongs more to truth than to romance.

There is also a quiet political note in forget-me-nots. Between hostile empires, forgetting is often necessary for peace, and memory is dangerous. To remember the humanity of the other side is to undermine the convenient simplicity of enmity. This modest, unassuming flower becomes a symbol of that threat. It hints that beneath banners and borders, two elves recognized one another—and that this recognition remained. Not loud enough to start a war, but deep enough to complicate the story that will later be repeated.

In the end, forget-me-nots symbolize a love that does not insist on a future. They are not about what will be, but about what has already taken root. In this story, they say: even if duty intervenes, even if history rearranges everything, something fragile and blue once passed between them—and that cannot be undone.

[monmilter]

The meaning of the red lily, the gift from Tai ey Eini, and a few other things... [language of flowers]

I swear, every time I analyze the symbolism behind Tai’s gifts, I’m ready to cry. And this latest gift from Tai is no exception.

Red lilies carry a very different symbolism: they represent a desire that can no longer be ignored. These are not flowers of longing, but of a feeling that has become too powerful to pretend it does not exist. In the language of flowers, lilies traditionally symbolize devotion, admiration, and a deep emotional connection, but the color red adds passion to that meaning. They speak of a love that no longer wishes to remain merely a thought. They symbolize the moment when admiration transforms into a yearning for closeness.

For Tai and Tiss, red lilies take on an especially painful meaning. They are no longer flowers of innocent beginnings. They appear when two people know each other too well and see all too clearly the catastrophe their feelings could lead to. Every conversation, every smile, every moment of understanding only strengthened the attraction between them. They know perfectly well why they should keep their distance, and yet every reason only makes them feel each other more intensely. The red lilies seem to say: “I know what this costs me, and I still feel it.”

A lily flower in all its beauty is something whole, complete, and restrained. But the petals scattered across the floor tell a different story. A whole flower still maintains control. Petals are what remain after the flower has opened itself. Symbolically, a trail of red petals resembles an act of vulnerability. It is as though the prince took something that embodied his most secret feelings and scattered it at her feet. Not to demand anything in return, not to overwhelm her with his love, but to create a space through which she could walk. The image becomes even more powerful because the entire floor is covered in petals, with only a narrow path cleared through the middle. At that point, it is no longer decoration. It becomes intention.

The sea of petals surrounding the path may symbolize everything he cannot say aloud: attraction, tenderness, longing, nights spent thinking about her, the awareness that every moment together is borrowed time. All of these feelings exist around them like an endless ocean. They are everywhere. There is no escaping them. And yet, in the middle of it all, there remains a clear path. A deliberate space. A choice. An invitation. It is as though Tai is saying: “There are enough feelings between us to drown us both. But I will never force you into them against your will. Here is the path. Walk it only if you choose to.”

That is what makes the gesture romantic rather than possessive. The petals create the atmosphere of feeling, while the path preserves her freedom.

There is also something especially intimate about the fact that this path leads to Tiss’s chambers. Not to the throne room. Not to the gardens. Not to a place where the rules of politics and propriety still apply. Not even to the prince’s own chambers. Her room is her personal space. Her sanctuary.

The petals leading there transform the journey into a kind of silent confession. Not “Come to me.” Not “Be mine.” Rather: “I thought about you while you were away. I wanted your return to be different from every other return. I wanted you to know that you were awaited.”

And then there is a single red lily. Sometimes one flower says more than hundreds ever could. Hundreds of flowers can be a spectacle. One flower is a choice. One flower is the feeling itself. And the note beside it — “You are welcome here” — changes the meaning even further. At first glance, these are very simple words. Polite words. Safe words. Words that could be said to a friend. But in their situation, they become almost devastating. A prince can welcome ambassadors. He can welcome guests. He can welcome allies. But when he leaves a red lily and writes, “You are welcome here,” the meaning extends far beyond ordinary hospitality.

What he is really saying is: “You are welcome in the place where I am forced to remain guarded.” “You are welcome despite the boundaries between us.” “You are welcome despite everything our empires say about one another.” “You are welcome despite every reason this should not be.”

And perhaps most importantly: “I am the one who welcomes you.” Not as a prince. Not as an heir. Not as a representative of his empire. But as an elf.

For two elves who have hidden their feelings in plain sight for so long, words like these may be even more intimate than a confession of love. Love can be loud. Love can be impulsive. But telling someone that they are welcome, that there is a place for them where they do not need to justify themselves, defend themselves, or prove their right to remain by your side—that is a quieter and far deeper form of devotion.

The red lily says: “I desire you.”

The note says: “I choose you.”

And together they become something even more dangerous: a promise of belonging. Not a promise of a shared future—neither of them can honestly make such a promise. But a promise that, for whatever time they are given, there exists at least one place in this divided world where neither of them is an enemy.

There is a place where the distance between kingdoms disappears. And perhaps that is why the gesture feels so powerful. The petals do not merely lead her to her chambers. They lead her across a boundary that exists for everyone else, but vanishes between them.

[monmilter]

The symbolism of  Tai ey Eini bouquet [language of flowers]

Bouquet from Tai in episode 9 of season 3. The deep red chrysanthemum-like flowers surge from the bouquet like hearts ablaze, each layered petal a secret whispered in the language of fire and longing. They speak of love fierce enough to defy empires, passion that trembles yet refuses to yield, a devotion that dances on the knife-edge of danger. Red is courage, red is desire, red is the quiet sacrifice hidden beneath a lover’s touch; it is the thrill of stolen glances and the ache of impossible closeness. In these blooms, love is both a wound and a flame, a pledge written in the pulse of hearts that beat in unison across walls, oceans, and forbidden borders. To hold them is to hold a confession, a daring promise, and a warning wrapped in petals, a mirror of the soul’s boldest and most tragic passions.

Soft pink chrysanthemums, with their tender yellow hearts, settle like gentle sighs between the fiery reds. They are the quiet murmurs of care, the gentle brush of hands that shield and soothe, the delicate devotion that thrives even amid peril. Pink is the color of hidden tenderness, a love expressed not in grand proclamations but in the meticulous, loving acts that shape destiny quietly yet irrevocably. They are candlelit smiles, whispered comforts, and the warm pulse of intimacy that persists even in shadowed corridors. Here, love balances fire with patience, passion with foresight, desire with measured, enduring loyalty.

Tiny clusters of white baby’s breath scatter like constellations among the larger blooms, fragile yet impossibly steadfast. They are purity and innocence preserved amidst scheming courts and dangerous alliances, a quiet promise that the heart remains true even when the world conspires against it. Each tiny blossom murmurs fidelity and trust, a delicate vow that love can survive in shadows, that souls can intertwine in silent understanding and shared purpose. They are the breath of honesty, the whispered oath that even clandestine deeds can be guided by conscience and care.

The feathery beige plumes, delicate yet commanding, drift like unseen hands between the colors, their quiet elegance almost conspiratorial. They are patience, subtle influence, the art of shaping events without ever showing your hand. In their whispering texture, one senses clandestine plots, carefully calculated risks, the intricate dance of power executed with grace and discretion. They remind that love can coexist with cunning, that loyalty does not forbid action, that the act of protecting or aiding a cause—no matter how dangerous—can also be an act of intimate devotion. These blooms are the unspoken nods, the secret glances, the invisible threads connecting hearts in shared rebellion.

The greenery, with its long, narrow leaves reminiscent of eucalyptus or ruscus, threads through the bouquet like the quiet backbone of reason and vigilance. It is endurance, clarity, and protection, a promise that love will persist even amid turbulence and threat. These leaves offer shelter and guidance, the calm logic that balances the storm of desire, the resilient strength that sustains passion through trials and intrigue. In a world of empires and danger, the greenery whispers hope—not naive or fragile, but steadfast, wise, and enduring—a quiet oath that hearts entwined will be guarded, nurtured, and preserved.

Together, each flower’s voice rises in harmony, a symphony of hidden devotion and daring love. The reds blaze with defiance, the pinks murmur tender care, the whites breathe fidelity, the beiges scheme quietly, and the greenery steadies all with resilience. Alone, each bloom is a symbol; together, they tell a story of secret alliances, forbidden desire, and hearts beating as one against the currents of duty, fear, and impossible circumstance. It is a bouquet that confesses, conspires, protects, and endures—a coded testament of love that dares to exist where none should, a silent rebellion of passion and prudence, a living, breathing chronicle of devotion in the shadows.

[monmilter]

Tai ey Eini [Language of Flowers]

Better Late Than Never. In fact, I posted this a million years ago, but I only remembered about Tumblr just a few days ago. So I hope you’ll enjoy this analysis (it will consist of two parts).

For the first time, Tai gives Tiss anemones in Episode 5 of Season 1.

Three lilac anemones speak the language of feelings that are only beginning to become aware of themselves. They do not yet seek to be named or given shape, existing instead in silence and inner light. The lilac shade, reminiscent of iris hues, has long been associated with subtle admiration, spiritual closeness, and emotions born not from sudden flashes, but from attentive glances and prolonged silence. It is a color of transition — between simple interest and that state in which the heart has already begun to change, while the mind remains cautious.

In the language of flowers, anemones always carry fragility and honesty. Their petals seem made for feelings that are afraid of being too sharp, too explicit. These are flowers of a love that understands its own vulnerability and therefore chooses silence. They speak of a feeling that may be fleeting, yet it is precisely this transience that gives it value: it is lived fully, even if it promises no future.

The number three in such a bouquet adds depth and a sense of development to its meaning. It is no longer a momentary impulse or a random affection, but a gradual movement of the heart. Three lilac anemones trace a path from first awareness to quiet attachment, from a glance to a thought, from a thought to a feeling one wishes to protect. There is no drama here, no pain or prohibition — only the careful, inner maturation of emotion.

In this color, anemones seem to lose their tragic quality and become contemplative. Lilac softens their natural anxiety, transforming it into pensiveness. This is a feeling that does not tear one apart from within, but gently alters one’s perception of the world, making it slightly brighter and more attentive.

Overall, three lilac anemones are neither a confession nor a request for closeness. They are a sign of a feeling that is not yet ready to emerge into the open. Such a bouquet speaks almost inaudibly: “I notice you. You awaken something new within me. I am not in a hurry, because I want to preserve this feeling exactly as it was born — pure, quiet, and real.”