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It is quaint, peaceful. The silence drifts between them with birdsong in the air and petals on the wind. Spring has always been something of a hopeful season, new beginnings, fresh starts. The beginning of a new cycle. He wonders, briefly, how this one might go.

There is a fragility in this one, the cycle is spun glass and liquid metal. A flower waiting to bloom or wilt, and as he gazes at her with lilac eyes that are comparably softer than what is often found there, if she might bloom in a way that will make the whole garden glow. The Kirin hopes so, but he has long learned to hope for the best but expect the worst. His shattered heart is proof enough of that.

"There is no need," he says as a draconian wing shifts, the long pale fingers at the joint waving away her thanks politely.

"They do, though I am glad that this one will be less of a chore than the ones back home." Isorath offers with a huff of a laugh ghosting his lips. He watches her rise, and all the petals which fall like raindrops from her golden face. She reminds him a little of the woman he used to know.

A woman made of sunlight, with wisteria and cherry blossoms in her hair. Spring was her season, and flowers wept at the sight of her.

The memory leaves in the next breath, down and down until it lays upon a bed of melancholy and a hundred what ifs.

"Of course, my doors are always open, Florentine. I will have some sent to your quarters, since you like it so much." Isorath dips his head in a polite bow, and like that she is gone. A sigh escapes him this time, and his eyes peer out at the spring view beneath snow colored lashes.

For the first time in a long time, he lets the memories come flooding back. Until the tea grows cold and he rises himself, and vanishes into the castle.

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