The miniature blossoms working together to form a lobe. He held the flower in his hand, fingers grasping the stem, struck by the symmetry of it. Dozens or perhaps hundreds of delicate petals organized into a perfect sphere, stained a deep crimson red more vivid than any Rohan had seen grown from the earth. He retched it up suddenly, with a tearing pain in his right lung, the instant he stepped into his front entryway. They came upon him suddenly, growing in complexity proportionate to the insult his dignity suffered. Rohan had merely frowned at the little petal, glistening wetly in his palm, a single drop of blood slowly working its way through the miniscule pathways on its surface, and then discarded it on his front step.Įntire blossoms were a different matter. The cough wasn’t anything new, either pollen had always affected him this way. It was hanami season, after all, and most days when he arrived home he had to comb through his hair with his fingers to pick out the snow of cherry petals that had settled in it. He had taken note of the first petal, of course, with the same morbid curiosity as he might have examined an insect on a pinboard, but the idea that he had been the one to shed it had never for an instant crossed his mind. Rohan couldn’t have said when exactly they began to afflict them. The flowers, like so many other things in life, were beautiful in their cruelty.
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