An Obsequy for the Flower's Dream

There was once a time where the princess of Firene did not carry sorrow in heart, where misery did not stalk her, creeping among the edges of her life, waiting to snatch away those that she held dear; a time where she lived unfettered by her duties; a time where the heart of hers did not weave a threnody, one where joy was boundless in a world so wonderful and beautiful. During such a time, when the flowers embodied the joys of her heart, she asked her father a question as they stood under the pale blue sky in a verdant garden located at the castle:

"Father, why are we planting these flowers?"

At one end of the four-sectioned garden lanes separated by canals and connected by bridges or other walkways were the two, not far off from a cobbled passage. Transparent blue water from the manmade pathways tinkled, running from end to end unceasingly as her father, a seemingly frail-looking but ebullient man with hair mimicking the effulgence of the sun, considered her question. His gloves were caked in dirt, his face dripped with perspiration; he did not look much like a king with the grime that accumulated on his person but rather a gardener if it were not for his royal attire of pure white and blue. Yet to her, he was very much the picture of joy if one were to capture it.

"Two reasons, Céline." Her father wiped his forehead with his arm, smiling all the while. "Flowers are beautiful, they look fragile and yet they're surprisingly resilient at times. But these flowers," he held out his hand, revealing a bundle of flowers: reds, whites, yellows, purples, greens, and pinks, "are my favorite."

She asked him why they were his favorites. Yes, the flowers he held were quite lovely, but surely that wasn't the only reason he liked them so much.

"Do you remember the story I told you about one of the past Firenese princesses? The Brightest Flower?" Seeing a nod from Céline, he continued, "She's a poet, and allegedly one of the few friends the Divine One made during the war, but the important part is that one line from one of her many poems that she wrote. Do you know that line?"

A shake of the head followed.

He told her then: "'Bury me under the shade of beautiful flowers' is what that line is." And thus, he continued his work, not asking Céline to assist in his endeavor, instead, he said to her, "I plant these little flowers partly out of respect for that princess of ours, but also because when it's my time to join all the other flowers that have withered and wilted, I too want to be buried under the shade of beautiful flowers like these ones."

"But Father, you're not going to wilt anytime soon. You're too strong for that."

He paused, letting out a raucous laugh before saying, "Oh, my sweet floweret, I hope so too. But you never know where the petals will drift."

Indeed, once loosed from their source, whoever could know where the petals would drift?

From then on, those sorts of outings were common for the princess and her father. Often enough that servants would be accustomed to seeing the pair heading towards the garden or already in the garden tending to the peonies together. About every day they would see the little princess following her father closely behind as if she were being guided through treacherous terrain where one misstep could spell the end of life. She would cling to him, holding his hand tightly, talking often about their activities in the garden: the flora that resided within, the memories and history between every little meadow of flowers, and more.

For those who observed Céline further in such moments, they would see how her eyes shone bright, how liveliness exuded from her gentle countenance; how the words she spoke to her father were soft, how her steps were as serene as the breeze, how the joy she held made her radiant. It seemed that nothing could separate her from her father. And what could? For war hasn't touched Firene in a thousand years. The land was tranquil and serene. It was unmarred, untouched, and blossoming eternally.

After the planting, after autumn and winter had passed, and spring descended with glory, there was one particular moment in which Céline, along with her father, stood upon those very same flowers, gazing fixedly at their bloom. It was not a long row of flowers. It was short. But the way the whites, yellows, reds, purples, greens, and pinks damasked from end to end filled their eyes with vivid colors; it was such a wonderful sight that Céline would crouch low and admire them intimately. Her father stood behind her as the wind caressed their forms while the sun pierced the scattered clouds. Birds, flying up high, swayed their own reflections in the waterways as they passed over, others—on undulating boughs—sung vernal songs to herald the welcome of joyous times abloom.

"Did I ever tell you that these are my favorite?" he asked her.

"You have. But what kind of flowers are these?"

"Peonies. With the way you're looking at them, Céline, I think they might be your favorites too, am I right?"

Céline affirmed that she did with the enthusiastic bobbing of her head. There was no superior flower in her mind. And as she watched her father tend to the peonies, it seemed that those times would remain her reality forever.

It was a few days later, when she was out in the garden with her father once more, that she, so caught up in her excitement of spending time with him, ended up tripping and falling unceremoniously onto the very same flowers her father planted. By the time he went over to her, concern melded into his usual cheerful expression, she had burst into tears. And as he comforted her, believing that she was upset and injured because of her fall, he said, "Now, don't cry, just tell me where it hurts, and I can take a look."

"It's not that."

"What?"

"It's not that, Father! I fell on your flowers," Céline managed to choke out between her sobbing, making the Firenese king understand immediately.

He lifted her up effortlessly and embraced her. "It's okay. The flowers will recover. They're resilient when they want to be."

"But… but… I hurt your flowers."

They pulled back, and the king held her hands, giving them a squeeze before saying, "Oh, Céline, not many would cry for mere flowers. Your heart gets consumed with grief for others, but that isn't bad. It may hurt, it may even hurt a lot when it happens, but it is a gift. Keep it and never lose sight of yourself."

The king meant what he said. Whenever he looked at his daughter, whenever he saw her riddled with tears, she was never concerned for herself first; she was always concerned for someone or something else. His daughter carried many sweet fruits in her heart that were borne from a hundred trees that could reach the sky, she would hand them out so that those who partook in their succor would be granted repose, offering everyone and everything their fill.

With a heart like that, there was only one concern that sometimes nagged at the back of his mind. Céline lived in a bubble, unaware of the harsher realities of life, if something were to pop that bubble suddenly and unleash the hands of misery upon her. Whatever would become of his sweet floweret? He feared that she—adorned with a bounteous landscape in her core—would falter; her heart would become barren and dry, bereft of life, and she would succumb to the whims of misery.

As he believed every parent should, he wished the best for her, but he had not an idea what he could do to prevent a calamity to such a fragile heart.

Céline, ignorant of this pervasive fear plaguing him, was calmed under her father's warmth, his words reverberating in her mind as if it was some kind of axiom. And before long, they were watching the peonies sway in the breeze.

"So which one is your favorite color, Céline?"

She put a small hand under her face, cheeks ruddy and eyes still wet with some leftover tears. In a manner unbefitting a young princess, she thrust a finger at one peony. Her father squinted and discerned that it was the pink ones she favored.

"Interesting choice. Maybe you'll be that kind of flower for someone one day. It can be something wonderful, something that gives you strength when you most need it."

Céline asked him what he meant, exactly, for it sounded grandiose to her—almost magical and ethereal with the way he spoke about it.

The king let out a little chuckle. "Let's just say that your mother gave me those kinds of peonies alongside some red ones. Since then, I understood what I really meant to her." That earned a tilt of the head from Céline, to which he added, "Maybe I can tell you more about a special kind of happiness when you're older."

In a way, he did end up telling her about it sooner than she thought, since she did not get the opportunity to when he spoke about it. It was a late summer day when, once again, they stood looking at the same peonies as always that he surprised her with something.

"Céline," he said, tapping her shoulder and upon capturing her attention, "I have a gift for you." He proffered her a box, wrapped so elegantly and extravagantly that she almost refused to take it. But she ended up accepting it and opened it on the spot with her father's permission.

What she received was some kind of pedestal. It took her some long moments of staring to figure out it was in the shape of a flower—a peony. Céline looked up at her father then, eyes gleaming with delight. "Thank you! It's so pretty, Father!"

"I'm glad you like it! I meant to save it for your birthday, but you never know where the petals will drift as she would have said." Seeing his daughter's confusion, he added, "Don't worry my sweet floweret, I just wanted to see that precious smile of yours sooner rather than later."

"I'm going to place my favorite tea leaves on this," she said, accepting his explanation, and now looking at the pedestal with rapt attention.

"Ahem, actually, Céline, I was thinking you should save using that for later."

"What for?"

"Well, you know how Alfred has that embroidery, right?"

"Yes, you gave it to him last year."

"I did. I was thinking this pedestal of yours has a similar function. What I mean, is that… you should put something important on there. Something incredibly important from someone really important to your heart. Someone who isn't family, some nice person who really means the world to you. Something like that."

"…The Divine One?"

That was when the king goggled his eyes at her and coughed awkwardly. Oh, his sweet floweret made such an insane suggestion. He struggled to picture it, the Divine One has been slumbering for so long, he could scarcely imagine a union of that magnitude. What would he say to Queen Lumera? What would the Divine One even say to him? More to the matter, what would his beloved Ève say about it?

"Why was that the first person to come to mind, dear?" he asked.

Céline pouted, her cheeks were puffed and if she noticed the trouble she gave her father, it did not seem that she cared much. "They say the Divine One is heroic, brave and kind. I think he'd be nice. I'd like to see him. All I have are those paintings and statues."

"Oh, I see. Maybe when you're a little older, your mother and I can take you to the Somniel with Alfred. I'm sure Queen Lumera would like to be introduced to you."

Having said that, the king tried again to imagine what seemed to be an unfathomable union, falling into his thoughts. Yes, yes, he would be standing in front of the Divine One, his daughter would have grown into a fine young woman and then… he'd introduce the two. "Here is my lovely daughter, she's blossomed into such a beauty, Divine One. I do hope the two of you will get along well." No, no, something more like: "May I introduce you to my daughter, Princess Céline? She's as devoted to you as any sensible Firenese lady can be and would love to hear more about your heroic exploits if you would like to entertain her with about your deeds?" Alright, perhaps the Divine One wasn't a fan of stuffy introductions, in that case it'd be better to say to him, "Hey, Divine One! Had a nice slumber? Excellent, I have somebody you should meet. You see, my daughter is a big fan of yours and she'd certainly love to have a nice chat over a cup of tea back if you don't mind. What do you say?" And if the Divine One—

Throughout this, Céline watched her father with confusion, standing almost absently as he stared at her, making all sorts of expressions that were accompanied by winces, shakes of the head, visible cringing before he began to pace, walked over to the balustrades of the nearby bridgeway; leaned on them and sighed; looked right; looked left; pacing once more before slapping his forehead, muttering something inaudible then marching over to Céline and ceasing his movements no more than a few steps in front of her. He rubbed his chin.

To any possible outside observers, he appeared much like a crazed fellow, certainly. But also, rather silly to Céline. The entire bout of turmoil that took place within her father was something she had never seen before, while she was not certain of the exact cause, it seemed to her that had something of worthy consideration to say for when he did speak, he did so in a low voice.

"Céline, as your father, I must say, you have high standards if you want someone like the Divine One. Ah, well, at least I don't have to threaten running someone through with a lance if they mistreat you. Not that I think the Divine One or somebody of like qualities would do such a thing."

"Father… what are you talking about?"

"Hm? What am I talking about? I'm talking about your future! You"—he gestured at her wildly, and even though she was perhaps too young to understand now, he had to stress this to her—"are the First Princess of Firene. But most importantly, you're my precious little flower. Whoever you think is worthy of your affections should set your heart abloom!" He tapped the pedestal, still sitting exposed in the box. "And so, I ask that you promise me to find happiness in the future, okay?"

In that moment where a sea of petals from all the flowers in the garden would be cast into the world like signaling farewell to a chapter of life by the wind's fluctuating gaze; an obsequy to send off something of importance, Céline, with her father's eyes gazing earnestly into her—promised to do so.

Unfulfilled. That is the current state of the promise the princess made years ago. If one were to ask her why it was, they would receive a response about the duties and responsibilities of her station demanding her vigilance. What time could she spare for being selfish when it was expected that she be selfless for her nation? Despite this, she would stroll the gardens looking at the beauty that inhabited it, perhaps asking herself a question along the lines of: where gone have those days? The jubilant times of childhood wonder and awe have faded. Her new situation, her reality, was bound, existing as still as water in a stagnant puddle.

Now Céline watched as the clouds passed by in the pale blue sky. Shooting out an arm, she reached with her hand as if to take ahold of a cloud so that it may ferry her to somewhere beyond. Of course, it was fruitless. She stood no more than ten paces before those selfsame peonies that harbored so many memories of her father. Her eyes flickered to them. Ever since his departure from the world, she took over care of the blossoms. She found that they did not seem as vibrant or colorful as they used to be in the days where her father still breathed.

Striding to close the distance between the peonies, she sank low and crouched over one of the pink ones. Extending her hand out and gently touching the petals, she reflected. They were as cold as they were warm. The spring dew dripped onto her fingers, glistening before it dropped and soaked into the soil as if it were a tear itself. At this, Céline almost frowned, for if she stayed perfectly still, there would be a cold hand resting upon her shoulder, one that whispered its vile words that even flowers would shed their tears as the one before her did.

The thought was pushed aside for a lone butterfly, bearing orange wings not unlike those of her own hair accessories, fluttered in front of her before resting upon the pink peony that had just cried. Such respite she could almost envy for since her father's passing, nothing was quite ever the same. That did not suggest she harbored any resentment for her father's unexpected departure. For rather, there were times where she wished to step into the dreams of her past, where sorrow did not exist, where misery did not follow her around.

Under the shade of the flower is where the butterfly hovered next once it was finished resting upon the petals. Ah, that brought to mind for Céline: her father at least had that wish granted to him. He got to rest under the shade of beautiful flowers, a mix of peonies mostly, and some other flowers of her mother's choosing. It was at his grave that she would often let bouquets of peonies and lentil flowers rest alongside the tombstone. She'd gaze at the words marking his name, his birth and death, the epitaph and all, wondering if he would be pleased to see her and the rest of their family in its tattered state.

Céline took hold of some of the red peonies that had withered, plucking their petals until that was all she had in her hands. Bringing her hands together, she offered them to the world, and the wind scattered them about. Her eyes followed a group of petals that fluttered into the sky, sent adrift as if they were now wayward souls looking for warmth. Then she gazed upon her hands; her fingers were stained red. The thorns she had so carefully cultivated had become a crown that she bore. Was it a sign of atonement, asking the Divine One for forgiveness for she had disregarded what her father stated was a gift, letting it become barren so that she may will herself through the unstable times before her?

If there comes an opportunity where she could take off the crown of thorns, to see the days of hardship vanish from sight and finally enjoy the time of full bloom—it would come from a decision she would perhaps fear to make. And just when and how it would come? She could not find an answer to this. It was too perilous. It's far better to stick to what she knew would safely reside in her life. There was too much lost and too much to lose now.

"Céline!"

There was the sound of hurried footsteps, followed by the audible inhalation of breath. And at once she felt a warm hand touching her shoulder briefly. She turned around, knowing already that it was Etie. How could it not be? Neither of Céline's retainers would address her so casually nor was it their habit to intrude upon their liege's personal time in the gardens.

"Etie! I'm pleased to see you in good spirits."

"Yeah, and you look down in the dumps. Something wrong?"

"Ah," Céline glanced away, she could see that the peonies were in good health, "I was lost in thought before you came here."

"Hmm." Etie gave a knowing look as her ponytail moved with the breeze. "Thinking about when the king was alive, weren't you?"

"I was."

"Want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing of importance."

Etie crossed her arms and stared expectantly. "Uh huh."

"I was thinking about the peonies," Céline said, relenting to her friend's unspoken demands.

"I remember when we used to play together right next to them while the king and Alfred sparred with lances across the garden."

"Yes, I can still recall those days as well. My father once brought up a princess from long ago—"

"A princess?" Etie's eyes flicked over at the peonies for a moment. "You mean the Princess of Peonies, right?"

"It is exactly whom I am speaking of. My father loved to talk about her when he could. He would always refer to her and her poetry. He could not cease his ramblings that if you didn't pay attention—you would believe he was talking about a mistress and not an ancestor of mine."

"So, would you be our Princess of Peonies?"

Céline let out a laugh. "I don't write poetry, Etie, and if I did, who would want to hear the musings of a princess?"

"I don't mean it in that way. I meant it in that you like peonies too, don't you?"

"They were my father's favorite," Céline said, casting her gaze on the peonies. "Yet I don't suppose you're wrong about that. I do favor peonies."

"Yeah, they're really beautiful, especially the ones you've been taking care of."

Céline walked over to a nearby bridge connecting one segment of the garden to another. She looked down into the steadily flowing water below before Etie joined her side. And as if wishing to accompany the two, that very same butterfly from before soon accompanied them and landed on Céline's hand. "At the funeral, what did you think of the obsequies?" she asked Etie who appeared to be caught off guard by the sudden question.

But of course, Etie knew Céline did not often speak about her father voluntarily since he passed, it was almost like a prohibited topic of the highest sensitivity to her. And out of respect for her friend, she was content to not speak of it if she could help it. They were both in tacit agreement of this. But when Céline broached the subject herself, that always surprised her. This happened to be one of those occasions it appeared.

"Aside from you not crying and Queen Lumera visiting us in her dragon form… I remember you were scattering flower petals all around his grave before they lowered the coffin. Alfred did the same, but those were definitely lentil flowers. Meaning… yours were petals of peonies, weren't they?"

"Indeed. They were the petals of withered peonies. You can think of it as the obsequies for the flowers too." Céline looked at her fingertips, still stained red as the butterfly lazily flapped its wings without taking flight. "Now, if you look upon his grave, you can see the blossoms that have bloomed wonderfully. It is a stirring sight, and I believe Father would be content to know he got his dying wish."

"Being buried under the shade of flowers. That's been tradition for a long time for the royal family, hasn't it?"

"It started during the war, yes."

"And that was thanks to the Princess of Peonies."

"Supposedly that is what is said. I wonder what she would say to me if she saw where I was now?"

"You could always ask Queen Lumera about it, can't you? She must have known the princess then. Or… if the Divine One wakes up, then you could ask him too."

"The Divine One?"

The one who was stuck in what appeared to be eternal slumber not quite unlike death. He seemed to be much like a formless bird to Céline, heading from one place to another, hearing the prayers of many. And so did she turn her head upwards. Blue and pale as usual. The clouds were still floating about. The sun stared at them unflinchingly. Even with the sounds of spring echoing throughout Firene, it was practically silent in the garden. The water had turned still. The birds did not sing their melodies. Neither did the wind care to make itself known.

Silence had spread aimlessly, enveloping those who were caught in it, striking them with melancholy and driving everyone into reflection.

Céline, in this quiet, thought about her father's words when he gave her that pedestal which was now sitting safely in her room, and his remarks then to her, about finding happiness, seeking someone important and dear to her heart. It was perhaps a touch embarrassing—in hindsight—to even make a suggestion regarding the Divine One. Child as she was back then, it was a flight of fancy and a mere fantasy to even entertain such an idea. But she truly was enamored with the heroic tales of the legend back then. And now? She held a healthy respect for him, but she would find herself pondering just who exactly the one she prayed to as he slept was like. At least one thing seemed clear to her: war must have shaped him.

"What do you think, Etie, it was like for the Divine One back during the war? War is a sordid affair from how our history depicts it, our people shy away from it because of the horrors it inflicted. I can understand why for I enjoy the same benefits of peace as they do—therefore I have no desire to ruin my people's tranquility."

"You and me both," Etie started before adding, "but I think it must have been tough for the Divine One. Thinking about all that pressure, all those eyes on you, believing that you will save them from the Fell Dragon Sombron. And I think it's tough enough trying to be a strong retainer for Alfred."

"Are you suggesting that the Divine One can fear?"

"More than that, maybe he's not that different you and me. But what do I know? You're the one who's been to the Somniel a lot, what do you think?"

"He looks no more a god than an unsullied flower." Céline had to admit, past the air of divinity, he looked like he could be her peer at least. "But perhaps you are correct about the burdens he faced all those years ago. My own must appear insignificant compared to his."

"Yeah, but with the stories we grew up with, I think he'd say yours aren't more important as his."

"Really? I'm beginning to think that you might understand the Divine One better than I do."

"Can't say I do. Didn't you say, many years ago, something about how the Divine One is—"

"Ah! Etie, we do not speak of that particular childhood episode."

"Come on, Céline! Really? Alfred thought it was funny." There was a snicker that escaped Etie, earning a momentary scowl from Céline. Just then, the butterfly who was enjoying its repose on her hand took flight and hovered in front of them.

"You and Alfred might have found it amusing. But I certainly—"

"Don't," Etie finished with a grin before she took on a more serious expression. "You know, you act all tough and strong these days—"

"Act?"

"Okay, maybe that's not really it, but you know what I mean. You've changed, yeah. But I still see that you're the same Céline I met way back then."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You're still…" Etie stared at her blankly, trying to think of her phrasing as Céline looked back with patience. "Nice?"

"Oh! I see." Céline faced forward, bearing a frown. No matter how much steel one can construct, it seemed it could not change what the heart fundamentally started as. How could she ever gain the strength to continue onward if her best efforts aren't enough?

The butterfly landed on her hand again. She barely felt it, but when Céline registered that it was there, it dawned on her that it was telling her something, trying to deliver a message. A gust blew then, sending a myriad of petals adrift, they floated away, about and afar. Her eyes tracked the red ones, likely some of the very same ones she scattered earlier. Were these the obsequies for something she lost—something she abandoned long ago?

Author's Note:

It appears I haven't posted anything in a while until now. This isn't the main project I've been working on unfortunately. But that doesn't mean I haven't been writing for it.