Wildflowers
The sun is at its peak when she rouses from her sleep. It's like any other day, curtains drawn to keep the light from spilling into her temporary bedroom. Another morning, another day to be alive; it's become quite the repetition.
She gathers her wits, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. Joints pop as she stretched her limbs and she paces to the bathroom of her spent space to begin her morning ritual. The light from the open window reflects a weary scout upon the mirror, hair in disarray and eyes asking for more rest. Golden eyes studied the small dip of her cheeks to the sharp arch of her eyes. With her current disposition, she looked quite intimidating in the morning light.
Shaking the thoughts away, she steps inside the tub full of warm water. It's enough to ease the sore muscles from yesterday's long trek. The bubbles lazing along the water's surface summons a weak chuckle from her. She'd have to hurry lest her companion left her behind, the thought is enough to give her vigor on scrubbing the loofa along her arms.
Valor greets her morning as she stepped out of the bath, refreshed and ready for the day. She bends down to ruffle his plumage, an act she's done each morning. Her laid her armor and clothing upon the covers of the bed catches her eyes, and she quickly dons the coarse fabric and buttoning it in place. Each armor is latched to her body, secured by various belts and buckles. It's a miracle how everything stays in place at the end of the day. She slings her wide quiver along her shoulder; sharp eyes do a last check before gloved fingers pluck her discarded pack off the wooden floorboards.
She pulls the door aside, coming to the sight of her silent companion. He spares her only a curt glance before making his way to the end of the hall; breakfast was served to the patrons. She thinks nothing of it, only that they need to start the day as soon as possible.
The tables provided in the dining area are much too low for her companion but it evokes no complaint from the man. They finished their meal in companionable silence, egged only by the threat of losing sunlight to leave the confines of their temporary shelter. She breathes in the fresh air, hoping to bask in it as best as she could.
Valor is eager to rise to the skies, leaving her in the silence of the assassin. It's at this moment that she feels a strange itch along her throat. It's not enough to rouse worry, most likely from the stale bread the host had provided them. The Noxian leads the way this time and she follows, thankful of the lack of snide comments and scathing remarks.
...
They'd managed to find themselves in the outskirts of Noxus. The promise of information about the missing general was something the Noxian would never pass up thus she had to tag along. Clad in the clothes of the common folk, she doesn't make the same mistake of showcasing her features to the public. Her hood sits low, enough to cover her brow as they made their way along the cobbled streets. The skies are a dark gray above them, a fitting sight to the slums. The man in front of her moves along the mass with such fluid steps, blending in with the ease his years of profession could acquire. Had it not been the stark blue of his hood, she would have been lost.
Each step on the oil-slicked road caused the bile to rise in her throat. There was something ominous about this meeting and maker forbid, she'd let her companion fall on his own. They find their way into the designated space, led only by a letter.
Why was she not surprised to find it as an ambush? She'd been expecting it, and hopefully the assassin too. The visage of her crossbow is an experience to be feared, and each arrow she released makes its mark. Concentrating too much on taking each villain down, she' lost sight of a creeping individual.
She falters only by the knife lodged into her thigh. A strangled cry wrenched from her lips is her perpetrator's prize. The blade digs through muscle and scrapes bone, but it's held by now slack hands.
Golden eyes find sepia, a silent thank you on her lips. He gives only a curt nod in response and makes his way back to silencing more of the assailants as she struggled each step towards the wall. Her bloodied hands pressed against the barrier and only then does she notice the silence, the absence of conflict. The floor is slicked with crimson and gore as her companion makes his way towards her. He bends down, a piece of torn fabric in his hands. He makes quick work of her wound and gestures for the exit.
There's little exchange of words but she follows him nonetheless. He walks slow this time and she liked to think it's not for her.
...
It's not until days later, in the comfort of her home that the cough comes in. She doubled over her desk, knuckles white at the intensity of each wave. She coughs and coughs, eyes closed in the constant lace of pain. Something soft brushes her fist and she wonders what it was. A lone petal, red against the pale arch of her thin wrist. It slides down her skin and onto the hard wood. she wondered where it's from, and turns to the open window. There was a florist near her home.
She leaves the petal on its place as her hands quickly transfer the empty scrolls and inks she'll need for the journey. It will be a much longer one, this journey to Shurima. She could not help but wonder when she will be home again. She takes two spare quills, you're not too sure when you'll lost one after all.
Another spasm comes over her and she drops the feathers to the floor. Their soft texture slides against her skin as she scrunched her eyes at each cough. Why was she suddenly struck with quite an illness? She'll have to make a quick trip to the apothecary before setting off.
The wind dances from the open window and she quickly takes the fallen materials from the ground. Deft hands shoved the remainder of her pack inside, hoping that this would merit her a good number of days from home.
She doesn't notice the handful of petals the wind has swept beneath the posters of her bed. No, she doesn't even consider the number.
…
She's standing in the middle of a hot spring in a remote location, hunched at a corner. In her hands were petals, petals she never could think would come from inside her. If she was keen on the flowers, she'd know but one stood out for now. The soft pink Camellia petals were a fond memory of her childhood as it grew by her windowsill. She doesn't understand, can't seem to fathom how she had caught such an ailment.
And yet, in wonder, she does what she thinks is best; throw the petals away, a flower intact in there as well. Some of them float on the water she bathes in and she can't help but wonder if it's a mockery. For now, she scrubs the layer of grime on her skin, letting the heat of the spring soothe the prickling pain in her chest.
She dreads the next coughing fit; unsure of why it happens. She licks her lips, wetting them; yet only to be reminded of the taste of flowers on her tongue. She's not sure how to go about it, the potions must make do for now.
…
"Aye, it is a new disease, child." A kind old lady spoke as she tends to the flowers in each pot. She's a florist but also an apothecarist, the scout considers herself lucky for stumbling on one. In her calloused hands, she'd finally succumbed to keeping the flowers she's coughed up. One she had wretched in the middle of the night, now a wilting pink Camellia. She'd pieced herself the small Geranium as they trekked along the forest. She briefly wondered if her companion had seen how she coughed petals but perished the thought.
"Can you tell me more of this disease? It's too odd." Valor nipped at her fingers, something he'd done ever since he found her coughing petals. The old lady glances at the flowers she had meticulously put for display. "It is a diseased that originated from Ionia. Hanahaki? I believe that's what it was called."
Old wrinkled fingers toyed with the fallen blossoms, eyeing the scout with wizened eyes. "You have a lot of flowers inside you."
"Pardon. Inside of me? That's impossible. How can flowers grow inside a person?" She asked, incredulous. There's a tinge of fear in her voice that she should have contained.
"It is a recent discovery. Only those who are inclined with flowers know about it. No one truly knows how the disease happens, only that it is a blossom inside you." She sighs, letting the silence bathe them. The scout lets out a frustrated cry, drops a few gold coins that clatter on the wooden table. The blossoms are left to be ignored, hopefully forgotten.
She stomps back to the inn, eager to find a semblance of control. But not even her fierce bravado could fool the florist, she could see the fear in those golden eyes.
She lets Valor soothe her, rakes her fingernails along her scalp to ease the shock. It's not helping, not abating any fear in her blood. She sits, upon the rooftop of the establishment. The cold winds of the evening hardly do their effect, as she sat in isolation to mull over the truth.
Why is it? When the sudden presence of the Noxian from their shared quarters brings the prickling sensation in her chest to life? It aches, stabs at each breath. She coughs against her palm, hiding the fallen petals from prying brown eyes. She offers a meek excuse, opting to let the night air soothe her more.
He leaves her then and she lets a coughing fit take her; lets the petals flutter from her lips and the wind to bring them elsewhere.
…
The Noxian is elsewhere, of that she is thankful. She sits against the sturdy frame of her bed, tired and bleary-eyed from her coughing fit. It's been days and the disease is only wreaking her body. At times, she must catch a breath, must be still to know if she is truly breathing.
She's paid good coin to find the truth about the disease and after a week, she finally has news. Fresh from Ionia, the scroll is heavy in her hands. She's nervous, wondering if it is worth every gold spent to know how this ailment was born. She knew she should but it scares her, a disease has rendered her useless in battle.
She lets a sigh slip past her lips, bringing a few petals in one breath. Her trembling hands unrolled the parchment, feeling the grainy texture beneath her sweaty palm. He pressed her bare foot on one end as her hand smooths the scroll.
Tired eyes roved along the report of the disease she's stricken.
Hanahaki, a disease born from unrequited feelings. It occurs when one has feelings that are never reciprocated by another. A flower grows within one's lungs as its roots ground itself around the stricken individual's heart. As the disease grows, the flowers bloom and the roots travel deep. Numerous individuals stricken with the Hanahaki have been recorded on the Ionian lexicon. There is one way to rid of the disease.
Only an apothecarist can brew this concoction. It will erase the flower from one's body, roots and all. However, the downside would be to lose the feelings they feel of that person.
Figures. She lets the scroll roll back into itself. She plans to make a visit to any nearby apothecarist with the ingredients at hand. But, who? Who does she feel strongly for?
She lets the coarse fabric of the bed sheets comfort her. The day was slowly melding into night and she wonders where the assassin is. Shakily she pushed herself to stand, keeping the rolled scroll into her pack. She licks her lips, tasting the familiar flavor of flowers upon them.
She opens the door to find the assassin in the process of knocking. She feels a flush along her cheeks, realizing how precariously she dressed at the moment. He arches a brow in confusion but shakes his head in exasperation.
"Have something to eat." He pushed a parcel into her fumbling arms before making his way to his own room. She eyes the container, feeling the warm heat of her cheeks. It comes sooner than she expected. A cough, and another one.
It's strong and continues with its onslaught. She closes the door in haste and crumples against; heaving at each breath that she could take. Tears prickle at the side of her eyes and she wonders, she wonders if it's him. Maybe it's him, but she wasn't so sure.
…
Due to her stubborn nature, it's been a month since she has first read the scroll. It's been a month and a half since she doubled over the hot spring, hands filled with petals of various flowers. She knows each one of them now.
The pink petals have stayed with her; Camellias. She pieces out the Geranium from the Red Chrysanthemums. Yellow and red Carnations were the last to appear. She looks so foolish, bent on the floor while petals and grown flowers littered around her. She doesn't understand why she endures such a pain. Her rationality keeps on egging her to find the nearest apothecarist, ask to have the concoction made and be done with it.
But was it worth it?
The thunderous footsteps of her companion break into her room, she doesn't have enough time to hide the flowers. Here she sat upon the floor, shock etched into her features as the assassin towered over. The colors stood out from the drab hue of the inn's floor.
It's at that moment she coughs into her hand, another strong fit. She collapses to the floor, hacking her lungs as each petal, each bloom falls from her lips. She could imagine the shock on his features, the utter ludicrous thought of a plant growing inside her.
She asked if he found it odd, a raspy voice she doesn't believe is hers. He merely gawks, eyes wide in surprise. It takes him a moment to assess the damage, the petals on the ground and asks what was truly ailing her.
The words spill from her mouth, but not of him. It's enough to claim him with rage, with anger. "Why do you continue to suffer?" She lets the question mingle, opts not to answer. Yes, why does she do this? It hurts, she hardly breathes but it's a good hurt. That was her mad thought.
"Is that person really worth it? Worth all this trouble?" He asks her, fury etched so deeply.
And despite how hoarse her voice is, she musters the strongest answer she's said in days, "Yes."
…
She wakes up to coughing, feeling the fresh set of petals against her cheeks. How long has it been? She pushes herself to sit as another coughing fit renders her useless. She's been home ever since but it's not as comforting as she remembers it to be.
The drapes are closed, hiding her from the harsh glow of the sun. Buried in the sheets, she wipes the beads of sweat. She coughs once more, this time a trickle of crimson joins the fallen petals. Should she be worried? She doesn't know, doesn't think anymore.
Tears blurred her eyes, why must she feel this way? There's no explanation, only that she feels.
…
It's three months, she's hidden her condition from everyone but not even her close friend Lux would believe her lies. Her skin has grown pale in the lack of activity. Her body constantly wracked with coughs and she succumbs to telling the mage. She pours her heart out, wondering why she feels so strongly for one she knows she can never have.
Crownguard has nothing to offer, no soothing lies to ease the scout's pain. For she understands the pain of being unrequited, she was one of the luckier ones; to be loved back in a world of strife was quite a tall order.
She can only offer the scout an arm to hold her as she coughed bloody flowers from deep inside her. How long was she going to last?
The evening of that day she seeks the refuge of her bed, feeling the messy sheets beneath her palm was a comfort these past few days. Valor stays at her side, the constant companion who has seen her pain from the start. She closed the windows this time, finding the breeze too cold for her thin frame.
It's a mistake as the glass bursts inside and the imposing form of the Noxian steps over the shards. He strode angrily towards her, a vial in hand. Was it the concoction? She hopes not, hopes it is. She's confused.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice is but a whisper but she knows he can hear her. "To end your foolishness." He uncorks the vial and tips the contents to his own lips. He pulls her smaller frame against him and feeds her with the concoction. It's a sloppy kiss, yes but it works against her stubborn antics.
It's spicy along her throat, burning the vines that have grown inside her. She struggles albeit for a while before the cold bliss takes the thoughts away. She's limp in his arms but he humors her another kiss before settling her down on messy sheets. He gapes at the serene look that has evaded her for so long. How foolish of her to think he wouldn't notice.
Valor watches him with a sorrowful gaze. "What are you looking at, you bird?" He scoffs before a cough escapes him. He frowns grimly at the handful of crimson rose petals sitting atop his calloused palm.
He'll need his own serving of that concoction soon.
Author's Note:
I got so intrigued with Hanahaki disease. I hope this was a good write up for that theme.
Flower meaning (because I love meanings in things)
CAMELLIA Pink - Longing for You
GERANIUM -"Stupidity; Folly
CHRYSANTHEMUM Red - I Love
CARNATION Red - My Heart Aches for You; Admiration
CARNATION Yellow - You Have Disappointed Me; Rejection
ROSE Dark Crimson - Mourning
Feel free to leave a review if you enjoyed reading this.