Flora
Flora takes a slow, steady breath, surprised when the hair beneath her fingers doesn’t frost over, when Jack doesn’t stiffen or pull away. Instead, his calm feels like permission, and her mind responds in kind, blooming open with hesitant clarity. She doesn’t speak aloud, but the thoughts come easily now, woven in imagery and memory, laced with the sort of trust that had once been second nature between them.
She shows him Zavien, their spar up on the Righteous Road. The laughter that dulled to strategy. The bruises that bloomed like small, earned victories. How the plan had started as a fantasy—her knuckles cracking against Pierce’s jaw just once, as a fuck you for having killed her. She lets him see how Zavien hadn’t laughed it off or brushed her aside. How he’d said he’d help; that he’d get people to safety if it all went wrong. How they'd even made up little hand signals.
She shifts to Hadama then—tells him, in that unspoken way of shared memory, how she’d mentioned the idea of stabbing Pierce in passing. How the Tidebreaker had taken it seriously. How he’d given her one of his rings, quiet and solemn, to help her accuracy, and if Jack looked, he'd notice a chunky ring on her thumb that was far from her usual style.
Then: the image of her writing to Deimos. Asking for his wraps to help bolster her odds.
Flora finishes the first section of Jack’s hair and shifts slightly, moving to the side. Her fingers sweep through the next length of sun-bleached waves, combing out the knots with more care than she probably needs. She doesn’t pause, not now, not with her thoughts beginning to fall into alignment like stars.
I'll wear a surong around my waist to hide my daggers. If I can hit him, she thinks, her fingers trailing through another lock of hair before she cuts, I can recall it. And if I can recall it, I can compass away with the blood. Not just for Torchline, maybe—if there’s enough.
She shows him Zavien, their spar up on the Righteous Road. The laughter that dulled to strategy. The bruises that bloomed like small, earned victories. How the plan had started as a fantasy—her knuckles cracking against Pierce’s jaw just once, as a fuck you for having killed her. She lets him see how Zavien hadn’t laughed it off or brushed her aside. How he’d said he’d help; that he’d get people to safety if it all went wrong. How they'd even made up little hand signals.
She shifts to Hadama then—tells him, in that unspoken way of shared memory, how she’d mentioned the idea of stabbing Pierce in passing. How the Tidebreaker had taken it seriously. How he’d given her one of his rings, quiet and solemn, to help her accuracy, and if Jack looked, he'd notice a chunky ring on her thumb that was far from her usual style.
Then: the image of her writing to Deimos. Asking for his wraps to help bolster her odds.
Flora finishes the first section of Jack’s hair and shifts slightly, moving to the side. Her fingers sweep through the next length of sun-bleached waves, combing out the knots with more care than she probably needs. She doesn’t pause, not now, not with her thoughts beginning to fall into alignment like stars.
I'll wear a surong around my waist to hide my daggers. If I can hit him, she thinks, her fingers trailing through another lock of hair before she cuts, I can recall it. And if I can recall it, I can compass away with the blood. Not just for Torchline, maybe—if there’s enough.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
