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Olberic held the white petal in his hand. It was tall and thin and terrifying. He didn’t like coughing out flowers, least of all white flowers. The only white flowers he had coughed out had spelled treachery for him and the downfall of his kingdom. They had spelled love and adoration and heartbreak so terrible that he wasn’t sober for weeks after. They had spelled out Erhardt, with his green eyes, golden hair and deep voice.
He had coughed them up while they were knights together. He had no idea who they meant, but they kept getting worse. So he had complained about them to Erhardt, his closest and best friend, and was promptly kissed.
The flowers went away after that, and Olberic felt very stupid for not figuring it out on his own.
What followed were days of wonder and romantic bliss—until the day Erhardt committed the highest treason then attempted to kill him.
The worst part wasn’t that he survived. The worst part was Olberic had returned to coughing up those white flowers. Those terrible, beautiful, white flowers that meant Erhardt.
He did the only thing he could do at the time. He found an apothecary and took the medical cure for the condition. His love faded, the flowers disappeared, and all that was left was the aching grief of betrayal and failure.
Then, eight years later, he and Erhardt crossed blades again. They reconciled in a dark cave in a sea of golden sand.
And now, a week later, in his bedroll in the tent he shared with Alfyn, Olberic coughed out white flower petals once more.
These looked different than the first white petals, however. Where those were fat and short, these were long and thin. Where those looked as if torn apart from each other, these stood independently.
But they were white. They were white and Erhardt was back in his life.
He did not wish to do this again. Alfyn would have the elixir for this. Olberic would take it and forget these emotions for Erhardt once more.
Once he cleaned up the flower petals and packed his things, Olberic headed directly to Alfyn. He found the apothecary with H’aanit, the two of them chatting amicably while the huntress brushed Linde’s fur to a shiny coat.
“Alfyn, may I speak with you?” Olberic called to him. Alfyn and H’aanit both looked up at him. They both smiled in greeting before Alfyn got up, dusted his hands clean, and came over.
“Sure thing, what’s up?” Alfyn grinned amicably.
“Could we speak privately?” Olberic requested.
“Of course!”
The two of them walked back to their tent together. Once they were both inside, Alfyn turned to Olberic and gave him his professional smile.
“What can I do for ya, Ser Olberic?”
Olberic held up the single white petal he kept. “I desire the elixir for this.”
Alfyn stared at the petal for a moment before turning to Olberic. “Don’t ya wanna know who it might represent?”
“Nay,” Olberic shook his head, “For I know ‘tis Erhardt. I learned my lesson the hard way with that man. I do not wish to repeat the same mistake.”
Alfyn looked bewildered by this information, then blurted out, “It’s not Erhardt.”
“What?”
“It’s—well, it’s a chrysanthemum, Ser. Now, pardon me for sayin’ this, but chrysanthemums and Erhardt don’t share a single dang thing.”
Olberic frowned at the white petal in his hand. “Then who does it represent?”
Alfyn whipped out a leather bound book with a floral imprint on the front. “Why don’tcha look it up?”
Olberic accepted the book. Alfyn headed out of the room as Olberic sat down and carefully put the white petal on the floor near the book. Then he cracked the heavy tome open and leafed through the pages. Alfyn had said chrysanthemums, so he searched for that entry. Once he found it, he learned there were many colors to it. The white ones, however…
Loyalty. Honesty. Truth. Hope.
Olberic breathed a deep sigh. Yes, this was not Erhardt. But these words could describe just about everyone he traveled with. The only ones he could count out were Therion and Primrose… maybe Tressa and H’aanit if he stretched the meaning a little. That still left him with Alfyn, Ophilia, and Cyrus—
—Ah. The realization hit him all at once. It was Cyrus.
Of course it was the professor. A more honest man did not live in this world, and his devotion to truth was admirable. His hope for the future fueled his determination, and his loyalty to his students, despite their wrongdoings, was unerringly admirable.
Of course it was Cyrus, with his lovely voice and beautiful eyes. The man who took everything in stride, even his own forced sabbatical, even the betrayal of his headmaster. The man who looked forward and found the best in any situation.
The man who cheered loudest for him at the tournament. Olberic could hear his voice over the crowd, clear as day.
He started to cough. More white petals rained from his mouth and onto the book. Olberic picked them up, pocketed them, then closed the book to return to Alfyn.
He found Cyrus before he found Alfyn, so he decided to get it over with. But no sooner had he approached the scholar did the other man look up.
“Olberic.” The name rolled off his tongue in a way Olberic always admired. “May I speak with you privately?”
Despite knowing that he was a grown man of over thirty, the words sent Olberic back to the days of his apprenticeship. It took everything within him not to get lost in the memory of a younger him hearing those words right before being lectured. It still filled him with a sense of dread, and he feared the worst.
Still, he nodded. Cyrus gave him a tired smile and Olberic noticed the dark circles under his eyes. The professor was terrible about his sleep, yes, but not so terrible that those circles were almost black.
Olberic followed Cyrus to a spot outside of camp, right near a big tree, and asked, “Are you well, Cyrus?”
Cyrus gave him another weak smile, and Olberic saw the apprehension in it. “Tell me, Olberic, do you know what the gladiolus flower stands for?”
Olberic had no idea. He remembered the floral catalog he held and held it up. “I can find out.”
Cyrus’ laugh was immediately choked away by a coughing fit. He covered his mouth with his elbow, which did nothing to hide the red flower petals that fell to the ground.
Olberic’s dread intensified. Cyrus had feelings for someone. Someone with red. Could it be Primrose?… Or Erhardt…?
He didn’t wait for Cyrus’ reply and instead cracked open the book. He took a deep breath and began his search. Once again, he had the name of the flower, so all he had to do was find the meaning.
Strength of character. Sincerity. Integrity. Remembrance.
“You pierce my heart,” he read aloud from the passage. His frown was palpable in his voice, and likely his confusion.
“Indeed,” Cyrus replied quietly. “Your love was much like a spearhead, and had pierced my heart with devastating accuracy.”
Olberic, shocked at the admission, blurted out, “My aim is terrible with my spear.”
Cyrus laughed. More flowers choked him and rained from his mouth. Olberic shut the book, went to him, and did something he had wanted to do for weeks now.
He held Cyrus. He held him close and patted his back and felt a thrill rush through him when Cyrus’s head leaned against his chest.
“I am afraid I do not have a poetic confession on hand,” he admitted, “but my mind symbolizes all that you are with white chrysanthemums.”
Cyrus sagged against him, partially in relief and partially in exhaustion. “Wonderful,” he sighed happily. “Positively excellent.”
Olberic smiled gently and brushed a hand through Cyrus’ hair. His smile widened when he felt Cyrus hug him back. They stood there in silence, under the tree’s dappled shadows, and simply held each other. They would need to talk about this in further detail, Olberic knew, but for now, he was content, and he was sure that Cyrus was content too.