and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
The way he says her name makes her turn.
It isn't sharp. Not clipped or defensive or laced with authority like it was when he'd been standing straight-backed before. No, this version of her name is softer. Bruised around the edges but somehow still so warm. Full of unsaid things, and gods, Flora can’t tell if those things are merely unspoken or simply unshaped; if they’re buried because he can’t find them, or because he knows he shouldn’t.
She watches him unravel, that strong, certain voice catching and stalling like a blade against bone, and something wilted curls inside her chest. Her gaze drops as she rubs a hand up the opposite arm; his hand had just been there, warm and sure, guiding her like old times, like nothing between them had changed.
But it has. Of course it has, that's the whole reason that they're here.
Flora doesn't tell him to keep going, doesn’t ask him to try and name the silence he'd offered, because if he could, he would have by now. That’s the worst part. Not the fumbling or the silence, but the way she genuinely believes he doesn’t know. And that leaves her stranded, because for all her bravado and glittering grace, Flora doesn't know what he wants from her either, and all the roles she's tried to slip into—of smiling supporter, tear-eyed and full of melancholy, or indifferent queen—don't fit quite right.
She lifts her head slowly, her gaze flickering across the dappled canopy, light spilling through the leaves like sugar over skin. There’s no path to follow. No map through this, and yet here they are, staring at each other like a giant lightbulb is just going to pop on. "I wanted to tell you a secret," she says at last, voice quiet, careful, like she's testing the words before they can do any harm. "One I've wanted to tell you for a long time now."
Her hand slips into the pocket of her shorts, fingers brushing glass. She pulls the vial free—small, unassuming, its liquid shimmer dark and strangely lightless in the glade’s afternoon hush. "But it’s dangerous. And knowing it will get you killed." She doesn't give him time to react, just presses on, words tumbling now with the kind of hopeless momentum that only comes when she’s already halfway off the cliff.
"So...I got this from Ludo," she says, holding the bottle up between them like a surrender. "It erases memories. Just an hour’s worth." Her thumb taps the glass once, lightly. "My plan was to tell you the truth—everything—and then give you this. So you wouldn’t remember what I said, but...maybe you'd feel different anyway. In your body, or...y'know, however that works, so that you and Soh could just...live happily ever after. "
Her laugh is small, sharp with self-deprecation, and her smile as she glances back at Koa is the kind that tilts like a crown about to fall. "I know it's ridiculous." A breath, shaky but genuine. "And now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever had." And gods, does she have some contenders.
It isn't sharp. Not clipped or defensive or laced with authority like it was when he'd been standing straight-backed before. No, this version of her name is softer. Bruised around the edges but somehow still so warm. Full of unsaid things, and gods, Flora can’t tell if those things are merely unspoken or simply unshaped; if they’re buried because he can’t find them, or because he knows he shouldn’t.
She watches him unravel, that strong, certain voice catching and stalling like a blade against bone, and something wilted curls inside her chest. Her gaze drops as she rubs a hand up the opposite arm; his hand had just been there, warm and sure, guiding her like old times, like nothing between them had changed.
But it has. Of course it has, that's the whole reason that they're here.
Flora doesn't tell him to keep going, doesn’t ask him to try and name the silence he'd offered, because if he could, he would have by now. That’s the worst part. Not the fumbling or the silence, but the way she genuinely believes he doesn’t know. And that leaves her stranded, because for all her bravado and glittering grace, Flora doesn't know what he wants from her either, and all the roles she's tried to slip into—of smiling supporter, tear-eyed and full of melancholy, or indifferent queen—don't fit quite right.
She lifts her head slowly, her gaze flickering across the dappled canopy, light spilling through the leaves like sugar over skin. There’s no path to follow. No map through this, and yet here they are, staring at each other like a giant lightbulb is just going to pop on. "I wanted to tell you a secret," she says at last, voice quiet, careful, like she's testing the words before they can do any harm. "One I've wanted to tell you for a long time now."
Her hand slips into the pocket of her shorts, fingers brushing glass. She pulls the vial free—small, unassuming, its liquid shimmer dark and strangely lightless in the glade’s afternoon hush. "But it’s dangerous. And knowing it will get you killed." She doesn't give him time to react, just presses on, words tumbling now with the kind of hopeless momentum that only comes when she’s already halfway off the cliff.
"So...I got this from Ludo," she says, holding the bottle up between them like a surrender. "It erases memories. Just an hour’s worth." Her thumb taps the glass once, lightly. "My plan was to tell you the truth—everything—and then give you this. So you wouldn’t remember what I said, but...maybe you'd feel different anyway. In your body, or...y'know, however that works, so that you and Soh could just...live happily ever after. "
Her laugh is small, sharp with self-deprecation, and her smile as she glances back at Koa is the kind that tilts like a crown about to fall. "I know it's ridiculous." A breath, shaky but genuine. "And now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever had." And gods, does she have some contenders.
