She admired his patience with her, as he read the words she had written down. His voice was smooth and lavish in its resonance, and she again found a blush rising too her cheeks at his compliments. If she could have hidden beneath her hair, she would have, but it was tied back and away from her face in braids, exposing her bashful, gentle emotions to the world. She blinked and dipped her head, a silent, wordless thank you.
Fiona watched the way his eyes took in the flowers she had gathered, and at his inquiry she flipped through a few more pages of her journal, toward the end, and showed it to him. There was a page there, with flowers, brittle and dried, pressed between the pages. The bloom was accompanied by sketches, scribbles of thoughts: where she could find it, what they were good for. As a caretaker, she not only enjoyed searching and collecting flowers, but knowing their uses was important, second nature even, to her.
His next question caught her off guard, and the flower girl’s lavender eyes flickered back and forth as she thought. Then, a word came to mind. A day in this very swamp, with Florentine at the head of a meeting where she spoke of a group who many believed myth, a hospital. She flipped back to an empty page in her journal, and penned the words in delicate script: Ilati.
The girl glanced back up at the man, who she still did not know, and she waited for some reaction, some affirmative that this is what he meant. Florentine, our queen, spoke of them. Of a hospital she wishes to build, believing in the magic of healing the swamp has. I know nothing more, however. She was sorry she could not be of more help. She did not know if the mystical healers still wandered among the swamp and shadows. She could never know that the man in front of her was one, returned home to find his people. Perhaps then, there were others still out here.
Fiona watched the way his eyes took in the flowers she had gathered, and at his inquiry she flipped through a few more pages of her journal, toward the end, and showed it to him. There was a page there, with flowers, brittle and dried, pressed between the pages. The bloom was accompanied by sketches, scribbles of thoughts: where she could find it, what they were good for. As a caretaker, she not only enjoyed searching and collecting flowers, but knowing their uses was important, second nature even, to her.
His next question caught her off guard, and the flower girl’s lavender eyes flickered back and forth as she thought. Then, a word came to mind. A day in this very swamp, with Florentine at the head of a meeting where she spoke of a group who many believed myth, a hospital. She flipped back to an empty page in her journal, and penned the words in delicate script: Ilati.
The girl glanced back up at the man, who she still did not know, and she waited for some reaction, some affirmative that this is what he meant. Florentine, our queen, spoke of them. Of a hospital she wishes to build, believing in the magic of healing the swamp has. I know nothing more, however. She was sorry she could not be of more help. She did not know if the mystical healers still wandered among the swamp and shadows. She could never know that the man in front of her was one, returned home to find his people. Perhaps then, there were others still out here.
