Summary: She's always loved the smell of the pine needles that decorate the ground in fall. It reminds her of better days- happy ones when her smile was a bright as the sun itself
Flora quite likes the fall. Its crisp, cool air and brilliant blue sky bring her some measure of peace in her blood filled, violent life. The warrior's favorite thing about the season however is the layer of pine needles that cover the forest floor. They crunch softly under her feet as she walks, and their sweet scent fills the air.
Flora bends a knee and stoops low to the ground. She can feel the little indents the needles make against her leg and her lips twitch. She runs a hand across the earth and grabs at the little ornaments that run across the forest floor. They prick at Flora's fingertips as she clenches her fist in silent protest.
A sense of familiarity sweeps over the warrior.
She can recall, dimly, a memory of her running in the woods. A dark haired boy maybe a few years older than her is chasing after her. Flora can see the younger her yell something playfully over her shoulder. It sounds suspiciously like "You'll never catch me, Tobias!"
The warrior thinks the boy- Tobias- was her brother. She frowns. Why can't she remember? Then the pine needles break apart in her palm and their smell increases tenfold. It drifts into Flora's nostrils and the warrior is wrapped up in how her mother always used the little things for her perfume. She recalls the way she would collect pine needles in a basket and present them to her mother proudly, uncaring of the little drops of blood running down her hands.
Flora can still feel the ghost of a warm kiss upon her forehead. She can still feel the last remnants of a large hand- her father's perhaps?- patting her head.
The warrior thinks that once, a long time ago, she was happy. She draws her claymore from its sheathe and lays it on the ground. Flora isn't sure what compels her- it's almost as if her body has a mind of its own. Then she opens up the chamber where her black card resides, careful not to even skim the material. Flora drops the broken pine needles into the empty space carefully and then gets a few more from around her. After she's done she closes the chamber back up and rises.
Flora's eyes narrow and as she continues her trek to a little village nestled by the foot of the mountains. Enough reminiscing, she tells herself. The past is the past and leave it at that.
Still, every fall after that she stores pine needles in her sword and carries them with her until the next year.
When Flora is buried after the Northern Campaign, Tabitha, the survivor who knew her best winds a little string around the hilt of her sword. It was made from the pine needles still stored in that little chamber in the base of her blade.