even after they have been stepped on
The longer he spends in the meadow, the younger he feels. The forest — and all its shadows, its secrets, its blood-red unicorns running with their horns held like spears by which to run through the world — feels so very far away.
There was a time when he would come to the meadow to remember, instead of forget. But standing here exchanging flowers with a girl whose eyes smile more than most peoples lips, the difference doesn’t seem to matter.
So he smiles, and he laughs, and he bids more flowers to grow and press against their skin. Somewhere, closer to the forest, a patch of wild roses blooms bright and lively, offering up its fragrant and fragile beauty to the shadows as if to relieve the darkness somehow. Later he might wonder if it was meant for the darkness within or without — but now, oh, now he only thinks it some sweet moral blossom, that nature could pity and be kind to condemned men like him.
He’s not sure it’s an even trade — a flower for a friend — but he doesn’t tell her that. Today he feels more light than darkness and he holds the feeling as close as he holds the flowers the flowers she gives him. “I couldn’t think of a better trade,” he tells her, and hopes saying the words will make them feel more honest. He could use more friends (too many of his were dead, or gone, or worlds away.)
“As long as you have a place waiting, then I promise,” he says with a laugh that feels lighter than it ought to. “Goodbye, Elena. I’ll see you soon.” He crosses his heart and hopes to die, like he did so many years ago, like he did the last time he gave away flowers to a pretty girl.
Rhoeas comes to him when she turns to leave, and together — wildflowers in Po’s hair, and in Rhoeas’ ribs — they watch her go.
@
"Speaking."
