flora
The sign in the door reads CLOSED and she’d sent the staff home early with instructions that the bar wasn’t to be disturbed, leaving The Last Word quiet enough that the faint creak of wood and the water shifting beyond the glass seem louder than they have any right to be. She hasn’t dressed for Jack; there’d seemed little point in wasting the effort when he’s seen her glittering and furious, heartbroken and naked, and in nearly every unfortunate permutation between. A nicer outfit wouldn’t make him kinder, and war paint wouldn’t make her any less vulnerable to whatever carefully sharpened thing he’d undoubtedly arrived prepared to say.
Given the consequences of their last two meetings, Flora thinks this restraint demonstrates remarkable personal growth. One had sent her away from the Lighthouse and directly into an impromptu wedding with Kaisel on the side of a mountain. The next had ended with Safrin binding the three of them into a pact that could erase Flora from the memories of every person, animal, and god in Caido, leaving Jack as the only one who’d remember she had ever existed. Today, she’d settle for significantly less drama, if she could.
Seated at a table overlooking the sea, Flora keeps her hands folded neatly before her, though every few minutes her fingers begin to drift towards the small mark on her right hand before she catches them. A bottle of rum and a carafe sit within reach, but she hasn’t touched either. Her thoughts are already restless enough without encouragement, and she has no intention of giving Jack any reason to think she’s approached this meeting as anything other than Torchline’s queen.
Flora isn’t expecting friendliness, and civility might already be ambitious where the two of them are concerned, but some small, humiliating part of her would be satisfied simply to make it through one conversation without Jack reaching for the most painful weapon available to him and wielding it with a smile. Flora knows better than to mistake that hope for likelihood, though, and so she sits with her chin lifted and her posture carefully queenly, watching the water instead of the door as she waits for Jack to arrive and prove her optimism misplaced.
Given the consequences of their last two meetings, Flora thinks this restraint demonstrates remarkable personal growth. One had sent her away from the Lighthouse and directly into an impromptu wedding with Kaisel on the side of a mountain. The next had ended with Safrin binding the three of them into a pact that could erase Flora from the memories of every person, animal, and god in Caido, leaving Jack as the only one who’d remember she had ever existed. Today, she’d settle for significantly less drama, if she could.
Seated at a table overlooking the sea, Flora keeps her hands folded neatly before her, though every few minutes her fingers begin to drift towards the small mark on her right hand before she catches them. A bottle of rum and a carafe sit within reach, but she hasn’t touched either. Her thoughts are already restless enough without encouragement, and she has no intention of giving Jack any reason to think she’s approached this meeting as anything other than Torchline’s queen.
Flora isn’t expecting friendliness, and civility might already be ambitious where the two of them are concerned, but some small, humiliating part of her would be satisfied simply to make it through one conversation without Jack reaching for the most painful weapon available to him and wielding it with a smile. Flora knows better than to mistake that hope for likelihood, though, and so she sits with her chin lifted and her posture carefully queenly, watching the water instead of the door as she waits for Jack to arrive and prove her optimism misplaced.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
