I sit with my legs drawn to my chest, the pink flower resting in the palm of my right hand. Its pink petals are the colour of a thousand beautiful sunsets that I have memorised over the many years. Its petals feel so soft, so delicate. I take them in my fingers and imagine how many more of these flowers have grown over across these lands around me, and I realise how simple it would be to simply pluck the petals from the flower. Leave it dead at my feet. And I feel sad. I feel sad about a flower. Such an insignificant thing.
I bring the flower up to my face and narrow my eyes, studying the darker flecks that pepper the petals, each one a different shaped speck than the other. And then I realise something else, and it breaks my heart.
I have already killed this flower.
I’ve already plucked it from the ground and ended its life. This flower was happy basking in the golden sunlight. It was happy waking every morning, its petals reaching towards the sky and merely enjoying life.
But now it’s dead. And it had been so easy to do it. So easy to kill such a beautiful thing.
I lower my head and place the flower back on the ground, pressing it very gently into the apple-green grass. And then I am distracted by something. Something that I can only just sense. My breathing becomes rapid, and something tells me not to look. But I can’t help myself.
With a final gasp I glance upwards.
They surround me. The hill is covered in them. Thousands – probably millions – of the pink flowers. The gently sloping hill is covered in a carpet of them, and I can clearly make out the trail I walked through them. Where I’d carelessly flattened the flowers as I made my way through the morning sun, just so I could see the gleam of the distant spires.
I feel a tear trickle down my face, but it’s not hot. It’s cold. It trickles across my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. I sniff and regret it instantly. I can smell the sweet, honeysuckle scent of the flowers. They’re tormenting me. Torturing me for what I’ve done. Making me keep that sweet aroma in my nostrils. Making me breathe them in.
I close my eyes, shake my head, and then tie my long hair back into a ponytail. I didn’t come here for this. I didn’t come here to be judged by flowers. I get to my feet and hold my head high, feeling the burning sun bake my pale skin. I will not let this beat me. I will not let this drag my down.
Instead, I hold my head up high. I try to remember what I am. I try to remember where I am. I tell myself that the flowers are insignificant. That I am a giant walking amongst them. That there will be many more where that one, dead flower came from. That this is all that matters in the end.
But then I remember the war. I remember the loss and the death and destruction. I remember losing Artemis…
I’m momentarily distracted by the sunlight glinting on one of the silver spires in the distance. It drives my thoughts back to the present. Back to the here and now. There is a cheer from somewhere down in the city. The day is just beginning, but the celebrations will last long into the night. The people will rejoice. The people will hail the coming of a new warrior. They will hold on to that hope and let it bind them and wrap around their souls. They will let her into their hearts.
And although it is just a drop in a tiny ocean, it is important because it means that the Six were not forgotten. That their heroism is still alive and well.
In another place.
In another world.
The End
I bring the flower up to my face and narrow my eyes, studying the darker flecks that pepper the petals, each one a different shaped speck than the other. And then I realise something else, and it breaks my heart.
I have already killed this flower.
I’ve already plucked it from the ground and ended its life. This flower was happy basking in the golden sunlight. It was happy waking every morning, its petals reaching towards the sky and merely enjoying life.
But now it’s dead. And it had been so easy to do it. So easy to kill such a beautiful thing.
I lower my head and place the flower back on the ground, pressing it very gently into the apple-green grass. And then I am distracted by something. Something that I can only just sense. My breathing becomes rapid, and something tells me not to look. But I can’t help myself.
With a final gasp I glance upwards.
They surround me. The hill is covered in them. Thousands – probably millions – of the pink flowers. The gently sloping hill is covered in a carpet of them, and I can clearly make out the trail I walked through them. Where I’d carelessly flattened the flowers as I made my way through the morning sun, just so I could see the gleam of the distant spires.
I feel a tear trickle down my face, but it’s not hot. It’s cold. It trickles across my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. I sniff and regret it instantly. I can smell the sweet, honeysuckle scent of the flowers. They’re tormenting me. Torturing me for what I’ve done. Making me keep that sweet aroma in my nostrils. Making me breathe them in.
I close my eyes, shake my head, and then tie my long hair back into a ponytail. I didn’t come here for this. I didn’t come here to be judged by flowers. I get to my feet and hold my head high, feeling the burning sun bake my pale skin. I will not let this beat me. I will not let this drag my down.
Instead, I hold my head up high. I try to remember what I am. I try to remember where I am. I tell myself that the flowers are insignificant. That I am a giant walking amongst them. That there will be many more where that one, dead flower came from. That this is all that matters in the end.
But then I remember the war. I remember the loss and the death and destruction. I remember losing Artemis…
I’m momentarily distracted by the sunlight glinting on one of the silver spires in the distance. It drives my thoughts back to the present. Back to the here and now. There is a cheer from somewhere down in the city. The day is just beginning, but the celebrations will last long into the night. The people will rejoice. The people will hail the coming of a new warrior. They will hold on to that hope and let it bind them and wrap around their souls. They will let her into their hearts.
And although it is just a drop in a tiny ocean, it is important because it means that the Six were not forgotten. That their heroism is still alive and well.
In another place.
In another world.
The End
Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby
All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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