An Obsequy for the Flower's Joy
It was in her bubble that Céline watched her father, one overcast day, storm out into the garden with haste. She followed him as fast as she could, watching as he made his way to the peonies he planted. A slaughtering gale battered against her small form and nearly toppled her, going as far as to buffet itself against the palace, keening all the while. When she caught up to her father, he was examining the flowers carefully with a disheveled appearance. He stood stalwart against the abuse of wind and upon noticing his daughter, he brought her close and became her shield.
"Why'd you follow me out here? You could have been blown away like a petal in the wind, Céline," he asked, sounding neither angry nor disappointed.
"I was worried about the flowers too…"
And as if it were trying to punish her, the wind howled and struck the two violently. Her father held onto her tightly while she watched the peonies twist and bend like they were bodies being callously manipulated by a puppeteer.
The king saw the same scene and took ahold of Céline, lifting her before he started to hurry out of the garden. He felt wet droplets hitting his face and a mere glance downward told him all he needed to know. His dear floweret was overtaken by despair.
When they were safely in her room, he sat her on the bed and followed suit, joining her before stroking her head gently. "Come now, why are you are crying this time?"
She looked up at him with her green eyes tinged with red and fresh tears and said, "The flowers, Father, why couldn't we save them?"
"Remember what I said about flowers? They can be quite resilient. I believe most of them will be fine. You don't need to worry! We can give any that didn't make it a proper sendoff."
"Must"—she held back a sob—"all flowers wilt?"
"Every. But think about it this way, Céline, a thousand years ago, the flowers back then were much like the flowers that exist today. What once bloomed can bloom again if you wish it. Give it tender care and time, that's all you need, my little flower. Those peonies, even after I'm long gone, will still stand there provided you take care of them for me. You'll do that for me, won't you?"
"I will," said his daughter in a diminutive voice.
"Great! There is one way we can give flowers a proper sendoff whenever they have wilted and withered."
Céline wiped her face before she asked, "What would that be?"
A smile formed on her father's face. "I'll show you after the wind calms."
True to his word, after the wind calmed, when the overcast morning cleared up into a bright afternoon and they were back at those peonies. Her father went around checking them and gathering up the ones that fell to the soil, beaten and trampled by the wind. He got Céline to hold out her hands as if she were offering something. And a bunch of petals of various colors were placed upon her hands. Her father retreated, asking her to do nothing yet, gathered up another round of petals, and made his way back to her.
"Alright, so here's what we can do. These flowers need their own funeral rites too. Do you know what I intend to do?" he asked her.
She racked her brain quickly before the answer came upon her. "Scatter them?"
"You got it! I'll start so you can see the proper way to do this." After he said this, his face became solemn and with one hand, he reverently scattered the petals sending them into the air and adorning their view with variegated colors. The wind seemed to have been watching, for it picked up and sent a breeze toward them, sending the petals up higher and moving them towards some unknown destination.
Her father nodded at her, and she did her best to mimic the motions he used, and another round of petals were sent adrift by her hands. They watched as the wind carried them elsewhere as well.
The Firenese king remarked during this, "You can consider these obsequies for the flowers." His voice was soft and his expression tranquil.
"Ob-Obsequies?"
"Funeral rites, my floweret."
"Oh."
"If you think about it, these flowers embody the memories we have together. And we can say the same for the flowers that existed before you and I even breathed!" Her father laughed before he scratched his head. "What was it that the Princess of Peonies liked to say? Maybe something about how discovering where the drifting petals will go."
Céline looked at him sourly. "Father… if you keep speaking about that princess, Mother might think you have a mistress."
He gaped at her. "By Queen Lumera, where in the world did you learn about that? I'd never spurn your mother's love!"
She giggled in response and said nothing.
Yet while Céline tried to recall what memories existed in the bubble, she drew closer and closer to the end. When paradise became fleeting, and the bubble was close to popping, for misery had reached out and was ready to strike with its sharpened claws. The first signs of trouble arrived in winter.
In the cold of Firene, sheltered in the exquisite comfort of her room, Céline watched as the snow fluttered about, coating the vibrant green world outside she was so used to in pure white thinness. It was a fascinating sight for winter hardly ever marked its appearance so strongly. She thought she would see something like this only if she went to Elusia.
But her ruminations were interrupted when her father burst into her room with concern written all over his face, marched up to her and said, "Céline, I want you to know that no matter what happens in the future, I will always love you."
"Father?" she started with widened eyes, unable to comprehend why he was saying something like that so sternly.
"Listen… We've—meaning your mother and I—have been hearing about some sickness spreading throughout our lands lately. I asked Alfred to be careful around anyone who looks ill. I ask you the same. So please keep healthy, my sweet floweret."
She could only nod.
But as if that were all he intended to say to her regarding the manner, he grinned and said, "Boring grown-up talk aside, want to play in the snow?"
Confused with the sudden change of attitude, but wishing to move on, she agreed readily. And soon she was outside in the cold, dressed in warm winter clothing while still looking much like a princess. Her father got Alfred to join her so that they could play together while he stood next to her mother and chatted with her.
Throughout the entire time Céline played with her brother in the wintry garden, the Firenese king would be talking about the illness spreading throughout the land with her mother. The two made sure to keep the conversation as private as they could, not wanting to spoil their children's fun. Eventually, their topic turned to their two children.
"Dear, should anything happen… you know what to do, right?" he asked Ève who could only frown at first.
"Please, don't ask me to pick up the remains if that scenario comes to pass."
"I hate to talk to about it, but I cannot pretend nothing is happening… I still remember all the times a little cold took me to bed for a few days and you'd rush over to my bedside and take care of me as if I were your most precious flower."
"Yes, I remember those days well. But what can potentially occur now is nothing like those from the past. I shall ask Queen Lumera for assistance if you should fall ill."
"I don't mean to be rude to Queen Lumera, but I'm not sure she could help me if—"
"Alfred!" Céline cried out. "Stop being a barbarian and act more like a prince! You shouldn't be making those kinds of sounds."
"What do you mean? I am a barbaric prince! Fear me!" There was a fearsome roar. Well, fearsome if another child heard it.
The king chuckled as he watched Alfred pursue Céline in the snow. Ève joined in and they stood in temporary contentment.
"You were saying?" Ève asked after a bout of silence, her voice steady.
"Never mind that. I'm not worried about myself at all. I'm worried about those two," the king gestured toward Céline and Alfred. The two were now attempting to construct a snowman, but it appeared no matter their efforts, the body would simply become deformed and lose its structure, much to their frustration.
"Our children…"
"Yes. I think…" He eyed his son carefully, who was proclaiming that the snowman would receive a strong body. "Alfred will be fine; he's shaping up to be a fine young man." His gaze turned to his daughter advising Alfred on their mutual goal, and fear struck him—the kind that stems from knowing one is powerless if calamity were to occur. "But it's Céline I'm worried about. She's, well, you know how she is."
"Her heart is gentle, maybe too gentle for the harshness this world can bring out. But that is what makes our Céline so precious."
"If the world hits her too hard, she will never recover. By the Divine One, I fear she will be as mangled as flowers trampled by warhorses." The king sighed. "Perhaps I should pray more to the Divine One for good health."
"What can we do? What can I do if that were to come to pass?"
"I don't know; I don't know. Maybe there's nothing we can do…"
"We must think. We have to."
"I know, I know. Let's—let's not worry about this too much. You never know where the petals will drift."
Ève looked at her husband who currently bore a lax expression as if the topic never did concern him, but underneath it all, she saw how the growing pit of despair was wriggling around. "Wouldn't it be wonderful, if we could consult her?" she asked in a low voice.
"The Princess of Peonies knew much about sorrow, I reckon." He let out a mirthless laugh. "Let's try asking Lumera instead, they were contemporaries at one point."
Throughout the duration of that entire conversation, Céline once paused in her play, gazed out at the icicles that had formed underneath the roof of one of the passageways in the garden for only a moment. Those swords of bitter frost—brandishing their sharp-pointed tips as if they would pierce through even the hardiest of material it fell upon—hung patiently.
The bubble began to be poked once the epidemic struck in full force. Sending the Firenese king and his son into bed, confined to their rooms. Joy began to flee then. Céline began to learn the true depths of despair during the entire ordeal. She would often visit the two when she could, fervently praying to the Divine One for their recovery as one of her few solaces was coming to the Somniel, she'd ask her mother about their progress; she'd sit in her room, staring out the window; she would watch as the days began to blur before one day—she visited the peonies.
It was a dark, but moonlit night when she came. The peonies had been neglected the entire time. But they seemed to be carrying on without issue, basking in the radiance of the silver light. Standing before them, she would gaze at their colors, recalling all the joys she had stored within them and touch them, feeling how warm they were before they started to feel cold as well.
By her lonesome that once seemed seldom, Céline sat in the small field of flowers that she and her father had tended to lovingly, her hair was like fading sunlight, her face pale and wrought with anxiety. For her, it seemed the peonies were responding to her ordeal, waxing and waning without yet blooming with faint colors that embodied the memories of time spent. The insects hidden in the darkness would rise and leap into the night, adorning the night sky as if they were stars themselves. Despite this, despite the colors and starry heavens, the abject reality of the situation settled within, and she found herself watering the flowers with her tears that glistened as the moon watched impassively, moistening the sprout of sorrow.
To the young princess, it felt as if someone had reached in, letting the tears she had been holding back all this time crystalize into a sharpened spear that would inflict hideous, unrecoverable wounds which spewed poison that tainted her being with each poke and prod. With her soft, almost muted cries that did not break the silence of the night, she would continue soaking the peonies and the soil beneath them with her tears—caring not if the water in her heart would eventually run dry.
But there was one night, in which she had thought herself lost in the overwhelming tide of misery that had been unleashed, Céline—wandering the hallways of the palace at night, if not standing amidst the flowers, as both had become wont over the period—heard a peculiar voice faintly calling out to her. Unsure if it was the Divine One responding to her pleas, she would listen attentively, trying to find the source of the voice. When she narrowed it down, she found herself in a sequestered, ornate chamber where a ring rested upon a large pedestal. The voice was clearest there. Speaking softly, speaking gently. Assuaging her of the misery that threatened to rend her heart apart entirely.
"Céline," the voice would call out, sounding much like a woman than a man, leading the princess to suspect it was not the Divine One who heard her pleas. "Stay strong. If you hold on, you can see yourself through this. Please don't lose hope."
Céline would attempt communicating with her mysterious interlocuter, but she would never receive a response whenever such intermittent encouragements came. She would come to the chamber when she could, listening carefully for the voice to speak to her. Most of the time it didn't… or couldn't, but when it did, she would feel reassured, strengthened to continue seeing the next day and the day after and more. In time, she came to believe that the voice was a way the Divine One intended to ameliorate her troubles even if she couldn't have a proper conversation with the speaker. He had heard her cries as a formless bird and intervened by sending a messenger with his divine powers to encourage her to wait for the night to flag; dawn to break.
Perhaps if not for the voice, she would have never come out of the entire ordeal. She would have succumbed entirely to misery.
Of course, she never did fully succumb to misery, for even today, Céline stood once more before the peonies. By her side, a being of the utmost divinity graced the flowers with her presence, her splendor unparalleled by the sun's own radiance. Queen Lumera gazed upon the blossoms and smiled. "You have spent great efforts in taking care of these peonies, Princess Céline. If you handled the windflowers in my garden, I would not have to worry about them."
"Thank you, but you must credit my father. It was his idea in the beginning. I have acted the caretaker in his stead."
"I see. I take it you are like your father in that you favor peonies as well?"
"I do."
"Which color would you say is your favorite?"
"When I was first asked that question by my father, I said the pink ones. My answer hasn't changed since."
"The pink peonies? An interesting choice. Would you care to explain?" Lumera fixed her gaze on Céline then, some twinkling of mischief in her eyes.
Céline gave a little smile, having no issue with indulging the ever-reverent Divine Monarch with her answer. "Perhaps it is naïve of me, Queen Lumera, but ever since I was a young girl, I've had a slight yearning for see what it is that pink peonies promise those who behold them."
"And that yearning, do you still possess it?"
"I would be a fool to pursue it. Rather than chasing the grand joys of fleeting nature, I have only need of the small ones. Those days have long since passed."
"You do not deny that you still yearn though."
Pressing a hand to her cheek that had become rosy, not as attempt to hide it, but more so as if admonishing herself, Céline responded, "It is perhaps a dream—a mild fantasy of no importance." Her hand fell to her side and what came next blended with a sigh. "But it will be nothing more than a dream."
"I will once again extend my offer to you," Lumera said after a moment, the glint of mischief still hasn't vacated her eyes despite her stern posture.
Céline laughed. "Queen Lumera, you certainly hold a penchant for teasing young maidens. Whatever could have started that?"
"I only offer it because I believe he will see all for what it is and understand. The two of you are more alike than unlike. Of course, with or without my offer, you will have no issue with your future."
"Oh? Then why do you continue to make such an offer?"
"Hmm, whyever do I continue? You must be right, Princess Céline, I enjoy teasing young maidens for idle amusement."
"I would suppose living as long as you have, you must find something to pass the idle times."
"Ah, you're becoming more brazen in your attitude, is that how you would like to speak to the Divine Dragon Queen?"
A bow of the head followed. "Forgive me, I did not mean to be rude."
"I was making a jest." Lumera chuckled then. "You do remind me of someone I knew long ago."
"Who might that be? Ah," Céline looked down, feeling the dew dripping on her feet, "surely it isn't the Princess of Peonies?" she asked, shifting her position and now facing Lumera directly.
"It is her. If I recall correctly, your father was quite fond of her."
"He was. He spoke of her often. I don't suppose you have known her for long when she was alive?"
"I have known her throughout her entire life actually."
"Would you indulge my curiosity briefly then, Queen Lumera?"
"What is it that you wish to know?"
"What do you believe she would make of me if she saw me now?"
"I believe she would be pleased to see how you managed throughout the ordeals you have gone through. But she would have wanted you to look inward and ask yourself if that is truly what you wish to be. Do you think yourself mended entirely from what has shaped you? Or have you encountered another predicament in which you may choose to rid yourself of the foundational structures that have upheld you for so long? Whatever you decide, she would suggest you think hard about what you are doing."
"Is that truly what she would have said?"
"If you choose to believe me, I'm confident she would have said something to that effect. I am of the same opinion. Ruin may not come to Firene, but ruin will come to you if you continue to bear that crown for it will be far too late to reverse what has been done."
"I see." Céline was immediately reminded of her last conversation with Lumera back in Lythos itself. "I have not forgotten your words that day, Queen Lumera."
"It is well you haven't. You will make a decision at some point, and I know you will have done it after much thought."
The two let silence subsume them in thought. One, Céline, considered all the words she had heard and was left wondering what he would say to her then; if he would loathe her if she chose to continue. Would the ire be worth what she saw being necessary?
The other appeared to be reflecting of times long past, many, many years ago. Céline studied the reflective expression Lumera held. What times of joy had she went through in her life, and how did she view them? Did she look back upon them and thought to herself that better times would never come along? Or were long-lasting beings such as Lumera unbothered by such prospects? Queen Lumera appeared no different than a regular person at times.
After minutes had passed, Céline spoke up: "Pardon, but could you tell me something else? I would like to hear more about the Princess of Peonies."
Lumera quickly settled back into the present and stroked her chin with one hand. "Hm, is there something more specific you would like to know about her?"
"I recall my father mentioning that she supposedly knew the Divine One during the war."
"Ah… You see, my child was facing something of a dilemma himself. He could not reconcile his wish for peace with the demand that peace be won with more blood for one. There was more to it than that, but in brief, Princess Gisèle assisted him with this dilemma. Once he made his decision, she gave him her blessing as the Princess of Firene. Would you believe she almost cut him down with his own sword in a test she administered with my consent?" Lumera apparently giggled at this, as if it were nothing more than idle gossip she heard. But Céline knew that Lumera didn't think that.
"A test?"
"A test of the heart, you could call it. She wished to know what lay within. I did not believe she would have slew him regardless, but she did draw blood through his own volition."
"I don't recall mentions of the princess being skilled with the blade." After a moment, Céline added, "Nor did I imagine she would so boldly disregard the dangers of incurring your divine wrath."
"You two are similar in that regard, she took up the blade alongside her magical prowess to defend her people. As for divine wrath, well, she was certainly more daring than most." Lumera then held up a hand to about a head higher than Céline. "If you would like to imagine it: she was about this tall, same color hair, similar eyes, she did not look far off from you. You two could pass for sisters if you stood together." A wink followed. "It can't be helped. You do carry her blood after all."
Céline tried to picture this while Lumera gathered her thoughts, recalling all the times she experienced with that princess of before. Then she continued: "Princess Gisèle detested war as well. It brought much sorrow to those affected. And she saw what I saw: what it did to him, and she was at least able to assist him during their short time of knowing one another. I believe he learned some valuable lessons from their time."
"You are referring to—"
"I am. The Firenese of those days were faithful already, but she became most devoted to my child when he fell into his slumber. She would often come and compose her poems at the Somniel. Scatter petals of peonies and windflowers. They were white. How lovely it was to see."
"It does sound lovely. However, if she were a princess, did she not have any children? All the tomes in the library never made mention of it. Henri and Charles had certainly had children."
"I do not recall any. If she did have children, then she never brought them to the Somniel. Hmm… I remember she said something about being content to live in solitude if she could choose. It was not as if she eschewed matters of the heart, I believe she was simply not bothered being untethered if it came to that. Perhaps that was what it ended up becoming for her."
"I find myself understanding well why she would choose to do that. I could do the same."
"I will not ask your reasons, but I must warn you, you may not have a choice in the matter," Lumera said, her voice laced with solemnity.
Céline shrunk at her statement, for if that did become her reality, it would mean Alfred—
"If I do not, I will simply make do and bear my duties," she replied, not letting the reluctance that tinged it be noticeable.
"You are still young, if you wish it, you may always choose to let your heart be bounded to another."
With those words, Céline could only give an empty smile in response. That sort of joy was terrifying. She could not fathom trying to grasp it.
"If you would like," Lumera started casually, "you could come to the Somniel more often than you currently do and spend your time assisting the stewards with their tasks. I can persuade your mother to allow it if you give me enough time." Undoubtedly, she noticed the discomfort that had settled upon Céline.
"And imitate Princess Gisèle in that regard? I must admit, there is a charming appeal to it."
"In a way, yes." There was a growing grin from Lumera. "However, if you wish to devote yourself in that manner, you might as well be considered part of the family and—"
"Queen Lumera, please, I must ask that you cease teasing a lady's heart," Céline interrupted. She wasn't exasperated at all, but it seemed that Lumera was intentionally doing this. "When you continually make such suggestions, I will begin to suspect you do not mean to simply jest."
"Oh my, did it always appear as jesting to you? Well, I am sorry to say that I am more serious about this offer than the initial one. Think of it as an alternative."
"How much more, exactly, are you serious about this offer?"
"About this much more," Lumera used her fingers to show the proper amount—which was hardly any to be exact, "the offer will remain open as does the previous one."
Céline stared at Lumera, who was clearly holding back laughter, and then said, "I must decline for now. If we pass over the important procedures for such an arrangement, I would be remiss of my duties."
The two smiled at one another with understanding.
"Well, you certainly lifted my spirits," Céline said. "I take it that was your intention all along?"
"A little teasing can never hurt." Lumera tapped her fingers together. "But humor me, did I stir your heart a little?"
"Oh! If I am to be honest…" Céline considered her words carefully. It would certainly be foolish of her to chase after something that could be easily lost. "You have stoked some nascent sentiments. I could almost envy those who are able to act on it."
"Happiness, if it is within your grasp, should be seized. I know how you feel about the specific variety I tease you with, and I suppose such feelings have taken root and would be hard to dislodge. Yet if you would dare to be brave, to act against those odds, you might find something worth holding onto."
Céline pressed a hand to her heart, saying, "Perhaps someday, Queen Lumera—I would like to believe that I can find that sort of joy."
Even if many do end up in that state, not all dreams will always be dreams. For there could come a time, a moment in which she could allow herself one selfish gift. Just one. But if it never does come, then the status quo would be fine as well.
"I will look forward to that day." Lumera shot her an apologetic look next. "Ah, I apologize, Princess Céline, I did not mean to digress from our original topic. Do you wish to hear about Henri and Charles as well? Or would you prefer that we return to former subject?" Lumera asked.
"Please continue with Princess Gisèle. I would be glad to hear of the Magnolia King and the Lily Prince some other day."
"Very well. However, I'm afraid I can't say much more right now. But here is what I can say: Her greatest wish was to simply watch the autumns and springs pass, writing poetry to capture her thoughts as they did. She did that for the rest of her life. I believe she was happy even through the very end."
Céline, stuck in a pensive mood brought about by Lumera, said, "I've been told that she was the member of the royal family who started the tradition of burying members under the shade of beautiful flowers. As well as scattering flower petals as part of the obsequies. Is that true?"
"That is true. All of it. I hardly can remember the faces of those long past, but I certainly can count hers among the few that I can picture clearly."
Lumera said no more after that.
Céline was left wondering about her ancestor from a thousand years ago. What was it like to have been in that horrendous war? What was the Divine One like all those years ago as well? Talking to Queen Lumera usually seemed to raise more questions than it answered. However, it was always interesting to her.
The day was starting to turn late, transitioning to evening. The daylight birds had left, and it seemed that the only sound was that of the water running in the waterways below them. Upon noticing this, Céline said to Lumera: "I suggest we head inside. My mother mentioned wishing to speak with you before our walk in the garden."
"My, has the time gone by that quickly?" Lumera took one quick glance at the sky and shook her head. "I must have occupied so much of your time, Princess Céline. You'll have to forgive me."
"There's no need. I'm pleased to have spoken with you once more, Queen Lumera. While I would certainly prefer to do it over a cup of tea, speaking at the garden made for a pleasant change from the usual scenery I'm accustomed to."
"If that is the case, I'm glad. Before we depart, I do have something to say to you," Lumera placed a hand on Céline's shoulder, "or rather, Princess Gisèle would have said this to you exactly as it is: 'Mayst thou discov'r the drifting petals' trail.'"
The bubble popped while she was an ocean away from home. That was when she learned that while the world can be so wonderful, it can be oh so cruel as well. Céline could recall being at the Somniel, having made a vow in the presence of the Divine One after receiving the news. When she and her brother were rushed home by their mother, she could recall hardly anything, only the vague scent of salt in the air that was replaced by the everlasting fragrance of flowers before coming upon the pallid, still body of her father, face stuck in a peaceful rest on his bed. Her mother shooed them out of the room before the image had time to properly settle and quickly got to work to prepare for the funeral. Céline would not be able to recall the exact image even in the present, but the passing was a mark upon her being, for from that moment on, a threnody had already begun to be woven.
It was night when she fully processed the string of events. She sneaked out of her room, made her way to the peonies in the garden and stared at them. Faint moonlight peeping through dark clouds touched their frail-looking forms that drooped as if they were swept aside by sorrow. They used to be colored with joy, embodying the memories of true happiness and the dreams of a young princess who loved the world. Now, she did not know what she saw in them. Céline walked up to them and kneeled before the flowers, trying her best to ignore the persistent dull ache in her chest. How could it be that the heart could feel such pain, emanating from within?
In the back of her mind, she always knew that there were infinitesimal ways her life could have gone. This was the inevitable outcome, ordained long before she could even conceive it as the only possibility.
She heard the crack of thunder. Then the rain followed. Céline looked upwards and could see the darkness spewing wet droplets down at her. She ignored the coldness, the wetness and the discomfort brought upon by both.
Watching the rain cascade down onto the peonies drop by drop, soaking into the soil, she couldn't help but think it was as if the Divine One turned into rain to pour tears in her stead. It suited her fine. She had no more tears left to give. The last of her sweet fruits were given away, the world had taken its fill and left her nothing more but the desiccated landform of her heart, stripped bare of its lush scenery, bleeding until everything had become dry and empty. Only the scant traces of petals that were dashed away by the howling gale to some unknown remained.
This was the moment where misery reached out and chained her to its whims, cackling with glee as it acquired a new victim, and she could not resist for she was too broken.
There was the faint echo of that familiar voice that night when she came to the chamber seeking relief, trying to comfort her once more. It was perhaps the only other form of solace at the time. If she hadn't heard it, it was possible she would have given up completely. However, she resolved to see tomorrow, to have a stalwart heart despite being drenched with sorrow. Her brother had chosen to fight his illness by chasing after a strong body. If he decided upon that, then she would resist as well. But even then, it did not change the reality of the situation: Joy had fled, turning its gaze from her.
Nevertheless, from her newfound resolve, from her vow to be stronger, it was over the years that she had constructed a fortress for her heart as it was born weak, layering it in steel, working carefully to cultivate thorns so that it would deter any more threats to it. If someone else were to gaze in, perhaps they would see a fortress indeed, or it may look as if it were a cage—a prison meant to keep something in instead of keeping something out.
But to Céline, the difference did not matter. A crown of thorns accompanied her fortress, and she held confidence in her ability to withstand further assault from her misery—to play the role of princess, to do whatever she must to support the future king of Firene and Firene itself.
This was all done to be stronger, for strength, oh strength, most venerable and coveted! That was all that was needed to conquer her fears, her nightmares and sadness; she needed it to control what remained, to ensure their continued existence, for everything else was snatched away by misery. A true leader who bore no marks of weakness would take pride in doing their duties with no regrets or chance for vacillation. Kindness and the gentle heart that she carried had only brought her anguish and suffering—it appeared a major weakness, a fault in her heart that could be used as a weak point, but even with all the experiences wrought with everlasting sorrow, she could not fully bring herself to eliminate it.
The reason eluded her even in the present. Why could she not cast away what is holding her back? Weakness only brings pain; weakness only holds back strength. It should be pruned, excised as if it were a festering blight upon flowers. She was fettered by her duties, gyved by misery and heart dealt with indelible harm, and all of this was given for what? Was she holding onto some false hope that someone would find the scant traces of petals and follow them to their source, to tell her what to do—to guide her journey of atonement from ruin to salvation?
It was foolish. However, even the weakest spirits needed to have something they could cling onto tightly. So, she held fast, held fast to her wavering feelings and would go through her days, her weeks, months and years, counting out the sorrows of the heart on her fingers, glancing at the splintered wishes she held within; all of this was done with a look plastered unto her public face to carry her throughout the day; an expression bearing empty eyes behind fabricated luster alongside a polite smile that suggested all was well beneath the veil of torrential grief.
Indeed, nobody who gazed upon her could ever discern what ineffaceable marks she bore within. They would see a princess of resilient exterior, one unbothered with what befell her, and satisfied with what remained. All of this would be enough to conclude, in some manner of a truth, that all is well.
So look upon her, watch her, peer at her, and understand that all is well. And all will continue to be well. Disregard the fractures riddling the landscape, the rusting steel of a misbegotten fortress, the misguided strength teetering towards a travesty of itself, and the faint pleas of the imprisoned core within the barren landscape to hold fast to the kindness that she arrived in the world with.
All is well.
The distant moon peered at her as she stared back at it from one of the bridgeways leading into the inner parts of the garden. Céline considered the conversation she had with Lumera prior. A decision should have been made long ago; she should have excised the weakness mercilessly. Even if Alfred had recovered from his illness, she knew, as her father would like to repeat, that one never knew where the petals would drift. She had carried herself as if nothing were amiss for so long, that everything felt stable to her. Comfort could only be found in small joys; it would hurt plenty to cling onto something larger. So, she was as satisfied as she could be given the circumstances. But it could not be denied that she had resigned herself to misery's whims.
Yet when Lumera suggested she hold on to that weakness back in Lythos, it evinced a sense of anticipation and hesitation within. Her father even noted that it was her gift long ago. It struck her again that perhaps she was in the wrong. But she was lost, for if she were wrong, her father right, Lumera correct and she committed folly to engage in dubious battle within, what did it mean? It was something she could not reconcile. So, might it be the signal that she would be forced to decide later or was Lumera's interference an augur for something better to come along?
Ah, for once Céline bore a terribly unsure expression, one she'd never show to anyone except for her most trusted. Anyone else would be aghast to see her lacking confidence in her countenance and poise in her form. She looked more like a lost child separated from their parents in a bustling marketplace than a stalwart princess. She was aware of this, aware of how it looked and yet she could not calm her inner turmoil. Nobody had to know this about her, nobody had to know she's still weak all along. No marks of weakness could ever be shown.
Céline strode over to the midst of the blooming peonies. They swayed in the gentle breeze, greeting her in a multitude of waves. She gathered what flowers had unfortunately wilted and withered. Their dry and dead forms, if she had given up entirely, would she resemble them? It was something that would occasionally rise in her thoughts. Upon collecting all that she could see, Céline proceeded to pluck their petals one by one, seeing them dislodged as if they were wishes being taken from their owners. Once finished, she let the stems and other remains rest at her feet before taking as many petals as she could in her hands.
Gazing up at the moon, she raised her hands and offered them to the firmament. In response, a lonesome gust scattered the petals from her, and she watched as they slowly drifted away. The lurid colors spread across the night sky, a rainbow for all to see and enjoy, all except for one.
All the while, it sounded as if there was a lone songbird of no material form letting loose an echoing aria to accompany the rites of the night. It could be her imagination, but it seemed he was watching. Céline inhaled, solemnly wondering if she were dreaming or awake. Yet she decided to speak.
"Divine One… it is the flowers' obsequies I attend to which serve as a one reminder that all flowers eventually wilt. Perhaps after I have wilted, you could do me the honor of overseeing my obsequy as I do for the flowers here."
Under the moon, her form shimmered, her skin lightened, her hair's shine waned in silver, and her eyes dimmed, nearly vacant despite how much pale light reflected off them. The ethereal beauty bestowed upon her in that moment seemed to enchant all, for the world had fallen into silence. Céline reached out once more, guiding her hand toward the luminous orb as if she was asking it to deliver her a seed to replenish the heart before letting it drop to her side. She lowered her voice for her next words, letting it be soft enough to be carried away by even the gentlest of breezes to whom was separated by not only an ocean, but the sky.
"I must appear a weak princess to you, no matter how strong I become… Is pure strength truly all I need, or have I been leading myself astray?"
With hands clenched, she spared one more glance at the flowers before her feet before departing, knowing there would be no answer no matter how many times she would ask. As she left, there was a kaleidoscope of butterflies with patterns of variegated oranges flying about them now, watching her leave like one who would be seeing off a beloved, saying their farewells with each flutter in a resounding thought encapsulated as: There is no greater sadness than that of the sadness of parting in life, no greater grief than that of the grief of permanent separation.
And so, the peonies were left in solitude, awaiting the day for someone to look upon them and see what was contained within. If another did behold the peonies, no matter day or night, and peered deeply into them, they would see what Céline saw. Flowers, colored with sorrow, that have been watered with a million tears to bloom in her stead—embodying the memories of a dream that will always remain a dream.