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The Flower Oracles had always struck Faraandrunah as an inefficient way to divine fate.
Stars, she could appreciate. Ancient maps of the heavens were orderly, dependable, rooted in mathematics and the patient turning of ages. Coins carried history in their worn edges. Even old relics whispered truths to those willing to listen.
Flowers?
Flowers wilted.
They bruised if held improperly. They bloomed for only a season before surrendering to decay. They were beautiful, certainly, but beauty was a fleeting currency.
And yet...
Curiosity was a debt she could never quite leave unpaid.
The dragon-soquili approached the secluded grove with practiced elegance, each polished scale catching shafts of afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. Wildflowers blanketed the clearing in impossible colors, their fragrance soft enough to be pleasant without becoming offensive. Bees hummed lazily among the blossoms, blissfully unaware they shared the space with a creature whose silhouette belonged more in mountain caverns than peaceful gardens.
The Oracle greeted her with neither fear nor awe.
Refreshing.
"Lady Faraandrunah."
The dragon inclined her head.
"I confess," she replied smoothly, "I have catalogued thirty-seven different methods of divination throughout Kawani. Yours remains the least... statistically convincing." The Oracle laughed. "So I've been told."
"And yet here I am."
"And yet here you are."
The exchange earned the faintest smile. Perhaps she liked this mare already.
No lengthy ceremony followed. No smoke. No chanting.
The Oracle merely wandered into the flowers, disappearing among blossoms taller than her shoulders before returning with three stems clasped gently between her teeth.
A crimson rose. A pristine white lily. A scarlet poppy.
She laid them carefully before Faraandrunah.
"Your path," the Oracle said softly, "is reflected in these."
Faraandrunah examined them with narrowed eyes.
"...Only three?"
"They are enough."
The dragon remained silent.
The Oracle offered no explanation beyond the meanings every child knew.
The Rose.
Love.
Passion.
Beauty.
The Lily.
Purity.
Devotion.
Virtue.
The Poppy.
Rest.
Remembrance.
Consolation.
Then she simply stepped away. Leaving interpretation to the one who sought it.
—
Faraandrunah stared at the flowers for a very long time.
Her first instinct was to reject them entirely.
Love?
Absurd.
No treasure had ever appreciated because someone loved it.
Beauty?
Well...
That, admittedly, possessed undeniable merit.
She looked over the immaculate sheen of her own scales, catching her reflection in a nearby pool.
Beauty was an investment.
One should never neglect valuable assets.
The rose, therefore, was clearly referring to— "...Me."
That seemed obvious enough. She nodded once. "Yes. Entirely reasonable."
Satisfied, she turned her attention toward the lily.
Purity.
Devotion.
Virtue.
Her expression faltered.
Purity?
She lived atop mountains of gold accumulated over decades. She negotiated with smugglers. She occasionally threatened people over historical currency. She had once refused an entire caravan access to her cave because one merchant attempted to pay with freshly minted coins.
Purity hardly described her.
Devotion...
Now that was different. She was devoted.
To preservation.
To history.
To excellence.
To ensuring every artifact under her care remained exactly where it belonged.
Her gaze drifted toward the rose again.
No. Not merely those things. Without meaning to, another face emerged in memory. Her brother. His laughter echoed faintly through years she preferred not to measure. He had always interrupted her counting. Always rearranged perfectly sorted piles simply to watch her grumble. He would hand her odd little trinkets he found on his travels with the same pride another might present a king's ransom.
"This one's interesting."
"It's broken."
"Exactly."
She could still hear him laughing. The memory settled heavily inside her chest. Devotion. Not to treasure. To him.
She had crossed kingdoms searching. Questioned travelers. Purchased maps that proved worthless. Offered fortunes for rumors. Left offerings beneath the Wishing Star. She had never stopped. Not once.
The lily suddenly felt far less mysterious.
"...I see."
Quietly, she folded her wings closer around herself.
Only the poppy remained.
Rest.
Remembrance.
Consolation.
She frowned. "I dislike this one." Rest implied endings. She refused endings. Her brother was not a story concluded. He was simply... Elsewhere.
Remembrance?
She already remembered. Every conversation. Every argument. Every coin he'd slipped into her collection because it "looked lonely."
Consolation... The word irritated her. Consolation was what one accepted after losing. She had not lost. She simply hadn't found.
"There is a distinction," she muttered.
The breeze answered by stirring the flowers.
The poppy tipped gently against the lily.
Its petals brushed white.
Something about the sight caught her attention.
Rest.
Not death.
Peace.
Remembrance.
Not grief.
Memory.
Consolation.
Not surrender.
Comfort.
The realization arrived slowly, almost unwillingly. She had mistaken hope for obligation. Every day she searched. Every day she planned. Every day she scoured maps and questioned strangers.
If she rested... Would that mean she'd given up?
The answer surfaced before she could reject it.
No.
Even dragons slept. Even stars disappeared beyond the horizon before returning. Rest was not abandonment. It was preparation.
She could miss him... And still permit herself moments of joy. She could polish her scales because they pleased her. She could catalog coins because history deserved preserving. She could listen to stories simply because she loved them.
None of those things betrayed him. If anything... He would have insisted upon them. He had always scolded her for working through moonrise.
"You'll wear yourself smooth one day."
"I am already smooth."
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
"And yet you're arguing."
"I enjoy precision."
She found herself laughing. Actually laughing. The sound surprised even her. It rang softly through the flowers before fading into silence. When had she last laughed aloud? The answer escaped her.
She gathered the stems carefully, treating each blossom with the same reverence she afforded ancient relics.
The rose rested nearest her heart. Beauty was not vanity. Beauty was something to cultivate and share. The lily she tucked beside it. Devotion did not require explanation. It had guided every step of her life for longer than she cared to admit. Lastly came the poppy. She regarded it for another thoughtful moment before nodding. "...Very well."
"I suppose," she sighed with gentle resignation, "even I am allowed an afternoon off."
As she turned to leave the grove, she glanced back toward the Oracle. "I believe," Faraandrunah said, her melodic voice carrying easily across the flowers, "your methods remain scientifically questionable." The Oracle smiled knowingly. "But?" The dragon's lips curved into a small, reluctant smile. "...Your flowers possess an inconvenient talent for honesty."
With that, she departed. Three flowers rested carefully beneath one wing. Not as prophecies. Not as commands. But as reminders. To cherish beauty without becoming consumed by it. To remain steadfast in love and devotion, even when the road seemed endless.
And to remember that hope, like any precious treasure, could not endure forever unless one occasionally laid it down... if only long enough to catch one's breath before carrying it onward once more.
