somewhere along the road, indigo stoops to pluck a small spray of blue larkspur from the verge/ the petals near the color of spell-flare, dusk caught in bloom. the druid keep it tucked carefully away for hours after. only later ā¦ they approach without announcement, stop just within his orbit, and hold the flower out between two fine-boned fingers. no explanation follows. only that small, awkward offering and the slightest nod, as if the gesture ought to suffice/ as if handing him a piece of the wild that made them think of him is somehow simpler than saying so. ā”
the flower hovers between them for a moment; neither refused nor accepted, but a third thing: awkwardly considered. first, he throws a look at the other, only to seemingly remind himself that few words escape indigo's lips. the explanation will have to come from elsewhere. the wizard then looks behind himself, apparently expecting someone else to be there, awaiting a gift.
obviously, indigo and him are alone, if not for the flickering light of the fire at the center of camp, and the few candles that gale keeps alit at all hours of the night, prefering their warm gleam to the complete darkness.
when the realization hits him-- that it must be for him, that it is freely and voluntarily offered, that it has not been picked at campā¦ color blooms, cherry-pink & embarrassing, over high cheekbones. the flower is exchanged, tips of his fingers brushing past indigo's to hold it. he has the most inane thought that the flower goes fairly well with the pyjamas he's wearing, and he's strangely pleased by that fact.
to their nod, he nods back, at a loss for words. he tries, still, his throat dry and his face alarmingly warm. "that is... well, terribly kind of you. thank you."
