Flower prophets: petals speak


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There was always fire.

Everything was burning in the wind, spits of delicate fire-fly dots of blazing buildings fluttered before her amber eyes. They made little lines like burnt auburn hair, curling at the very end lazily then whisking off business like, as if they had some where very important to be.

You will destroy everything.

The words were old. They were history repeating itself and she could do nothing to stop it. Beneath her breast and deep in her belly came an ache that words held no description for.

Ran lowered her chin to look down, protruding just below the delicate arch of ribs was the hilt of a katana pinning her like helpless moth to the building behind her.

She smiled.

Kill me. I was wrong. It wasn’t you that destroyed us all. It was me. It was my words. It was this curse. Kill me and maybe I can atone for the sins of my mouth.

Fingertips jerked around the hilt of the katana, amber eyes watching the bits of her city on fire in the wind. She thought it was beautiful. She thought, finally, they are all free.

She slammed the butt of sword’s hilt further within.

Ran arose from the rumpled bed with mouth away from teeth in a scream that made no sound what so ever. Her heart raced for what seemed eternity as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and flattened them on the floor. In the distance, she thought she could hear several male voices and one female’s. She could still be dreaming however, Ran always had difficulty telling dreams from reality.

Though the last dream had not been fake—shaky hands went to her middle absent as the flower-prophet stared across a room far more opulent than she’d ever remembered being in. She would have to buy many sweets in payment…

Expressionless features turned toward the dying fire of a candle lit long ago. One did not need tears or sobs to mourn. Amber focused on the sputtering bob and wheeze of flame.

There was always fire.
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