evil fox with a disorder

Flowers Don't Bloom

And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you’re told. It’s just Darkness, good old Darkness — oh, you know it so well! She’s your older sibling, this Darkness; you have seen thousands of times Light leave people’s eyes forever, glassy emptiness staring at the starless sky. You have seen thousands of times crops and animals fall down before they had the chance to fulfill their role. You have seen thousands of times creatures drop into the sea, giving up so close to the end of their journey because it’s your realm reeking of death that they needed to cross. You have believed yourself cursed to be the Elder of the realm that always dies.

Yet, it has always survived. Newborns would yell almost loud enough to coax the resting from their graves, and crops and animals would straighten their backs proudly, and creatures would soar high up, so high up that from down below, you could no longer see them. Flowers would bloom again.

They don’t. They just don’t.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the Stubborn One says from across the table, their hand reaching out to touch yours. You move it away.

“What can I do to help?” the Weak One asks from where they are standing on your right, tentative fingers on your shoulder. You wince.

“Neither do mine,” the Misguided One confesses, eyes on the sea, not daring to meet your gaze. They are afraid of you, you know. You ignore their confession.

Scholars sigh and shrug, and tradespeople wipe the sweat off their foreheads, and flowers don’t bloom. A ship goes missing. Monsters ravage the cities. In the villages, people fall down with glassy eyes. Oh, how you hate the glassy eyes!

Flowers don’t bloom.

“They will,” the Stupid promise, and you raise both of your fists. You only lower them again because the Stupid are children. Still. Despite the numbers. Children. They never change.

They don’t. They just don’t.

“Time will show,” the Unwise One points out, not meeting your gaze. You look away, too, ashamed of having let blood water your flowers for so many years. How are they supposed to bloom now, if all they know is Darkness, disease, and death?

They don’t.

The Light-taker says nothing as they stand with their back turned towards you. They probably don’t even remember what flowers are.

They just don’t.

They don’t bloom, they don’t bloom, they don’t bloom. They only wilt, only wilt, only shrink like the elderly, thin stems bending and dry leaves crumbling, only die, only die, only die.

“I can’t forgive you,” the Stubborn One whispers.

“We don’t have enough Light,” the Weak One admits.

“Forget about flowers: our whales are dead!” the Misguided One yells.

The Stupid don’t look.

“It is too late,” the Unwise One concludes.

The Light-taker leaves. The world breaks. Darkness comes. People fall.

* * *

Children bring the flame.

They dance and sing, run and fly, ask and answer; they set free what was never meant to be caged, give what was never meant to be taken, they are docile and strong and correct and smart and wise and Light-bringers. You know they carry life, and you touch life, for the first time in forever, and you drink it all in, in the hope that maybe, just maybe—

But flowers don’t bloom.