came back here writing fic for nano, but since that's all centered around one pairing, I decided to upload an old thing or two from different fandoms too. I know this pairing has not much popularity butIlovethemsomuchughhh. Radiant Dawn's support convos made my heart soar in that respect.
I still haven't found out how to link in author's comments, so I can't give you the url to the source, sorry. orz ; if you just google ' livejournal ' and then some of these flower names, though, it's bound to pop up! I get the feeling it's a relatively popular prompt table.
hope you enjoy!
absinth
he sees her first thing in the morning, laundry aside, because he is always the one to do it and she is the first to rise and bring him whatever she has dirtied. it is always bewilderingly little, considering they are mercenaries, but perhaps, he wonders, she simply does not want to trouble him with blood on red cloth.
he sees at her breakfast, and then at lunch, and then his energy sags and she helps him, and he sees at dinner and brings her tea in between all this because she doesn't know how to rest. he sees her on the battlefield, watching from behind, removing scrapes from her legs, being picked up with a practiced swing when he brusquely moves forward to remorsefully kill the one targeting the children.
he sees her everywhere, and everywhere she goes, there's that one shadow.
he just can't.
anemone
perhaps this is why shinon, who kills just to live, uses bows instead of axes. it is with ease she cleaves a shoulder beyond repair, hears the bone crack and the last scream before the head limply ( limbly, she grimaces ) falls to inadvertedly lick mud, time and time again, but somewhere it feels like it is not blade, but her own fingers tearing the flesh.
if she thinks too much, she gets nauseous. if she thinks too much, she silently curses it all – this fight, this war, this existence where she mindlessly mows that of others under the daisies, and asks herself where the goddess has gone.
so then she falls back for a scrape or a bruise to look for that bit of her between lines of lines and corpses.
carnation
in his line of work, pleasures of the flesh are not allowed, and he believes them to be closely associated with those of the mind to ban those as well. still, he permits himself to watch her lean arms tautly train her weapon, whirling in a flash of red for momentum, grace far from lost on her own feet.
she is everything he ever wanted to be, but now he can't, she's all he wants to see.
when she turns to smile, however, bangs plastered to her face in nearly the same curve as her mouth, he just nods with the same expression and leaves a towel. there is only so much he can take.
chrysanthemum
to what extent is it lying to not say anything?
he hopes it isn't at all, because she is not supposed to know and his honesty pains.
cyclamen
but perhaps even honesty is sentient enough to know its bounds. he knows she'll never, so he knows he'll never. the blow bleeds and bleeds, but it's been for so long he's aware he's dying. it makes it all so much easier, even if it hurts so much.
it must have been how she held out for decades, however, so he will as well.
daffodil
in moments of weakness, she'll sometimes think of the whys and hows and could – have – beens, but vulnerability isn't her strong suit. it was self – imposed, she realizes, out of honor and respect for the feelings of the man she loved. in the end, it was for the best – the best way she could have loved them as they were.
he thinks of whys and hows and why – didn't – yous, not because it would have facilitated the situation for him, but simply, by the goddess, who wouldn't love her? one who moves on does not forget, but man and she who adored him so could neither, so he just stand back and offers support and a hand he rubs lukewarm and gritty to his robe before he even dare extend it because he's afraid something will break if he touches her lower arm so coldly.
it's the only way he can love her as they are.
daisy
she stomps and she cleaves, the child in her long dead, the croaked chanting voice and the white behind her reminding her that she needs to let untainted one who she should not have brought here in the first place.
eglantine
he takes some pride in his journals, especially once they are on their way. aside from pangs of homesickness he does not dare express in his letters to his parents, they contain accurate portrayals of roads, places, people. he likes reading down the children's line of growth – how small they were before.
he scraps all their encounters, though. they leave his prose feeling faint and brittle, and it is not as if he'll forget them either way.
fern
it sparks between his fingers and would have made him feel accomplished if it were not for its actual use. still, it is a death much softer than the sword, so he lights up the area and kills.
a trail of almost slumbering bodies remind her she's failed to keep her promise this time as she heads back, and guilt makes its omnipresent entrance when she finds him kneeled in prayer over one he has murdered in crying blood.
forget me not
he closes the last of the three books he owns, the other lost in their home – made fire, blows at the candle, and rests his head.
he's learned himself to not fabricate memories of the future, so looking back on today is all he has.