honey, I rose up from the dead, I do it all the time
"Of course," Flora says easily, the words leaving her lips like a sigh of agreement, honeyed and warm. Her body hums with the aftertaste of Dahlia’s kiss—like nectar, like wine—and her mind feels feather-light, unburdened by the weight of old fears. A new clarity has settled over her thoughts, sweet and silken and not her own, not entirely, but oh, how effortless it is to lean into it. "A long-term arrangement sounds perfect," she adds, smiling brightly, like this was always what she wanted. Like she hadn’t spent weeks carefully plotting how to survive this exact moment. "I’d love to stay. And I assume I’ll get to see Everest while I’m here?" Her gaze flicks up toward the Reaper, hopeful and shining. "It’s been so long."
Then Dahlia’s request—or is it a command?—pulls her focus down to the jagged mess glittering across the desk. "Oh, yes! Of course," Flora says again, far too eagerly, already reaching as she crosses to it without hesitation. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t look for a cloth, doesn’t even consider the pain as she presses her delicate fingers to the shards.
There’s the sound of glass shifting, of skin meeting edge. And then the blood—her own this time—blooming in thin red ribbons across her palms, bright against the desk’s dark surface. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop. Just gathers the fragments carefully, reverently, as though each one is a gift rather than a weapon.
By the time she finishes, her hands are raw and glistening, blood trickling down her wrists in quiet trails.
Flora turns back toward Dahlia, smiling through the crimson sheen. "All done."
~FIN
Then Dahlia’s request—or is it a command?—pulls her focus down to the jagged mess glittering across the desk. "Oh, yes! Of course," Flora says again, far too eagerly, already reaching as she crosses to it without hesitation. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t look for a cloth, doesn’t even consider the pain as she presses her delicate fingers to the shards.
There’s the sound of glass shifting, of skin meeting edge. And then the blood—her own this time—blooming in thin red ribbons across her palms, bright against the desk’s dark surface. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop. Just gathers the fragments carefully, reverently, as though each one is a gift rather than a weapon.
By the time she finishes, her hands are raw and glistening, blood trickling down her wrists in quiet trails.
Flora turns back toward Dahlia, smiling through the crimson sheen. "All done."
~FIN
