Bonding Roses

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Above him was a stretch of sky, and though the pale blue color was inviting in its own right, leering into it echoed nothing but forlorn thoughts, lost in the transition of cloud to puff to nothingness over the short span of a few moments. Fleeting was the process of dispersing clouds, which Torian would easily compare to the fickleness of his identity and the deterioration of his memories, bit by bit, as he continued to wonder. He'd have mulled over this decision over a dozen accounts, far too many to count in, and the swordsman had only seen two sunsets since the night he left Golden Phoenix on impulse.

That feeling, mingled with the transparent chill of evening, was a reminiscent of an epiphany long overdue. But his body seems to have passed the high and he was suffering the consequences of his decision with uncertainty - little by little, indefinitely, Torian could very literally feel the remaining bits of his memory trickle from his grasp like fine-flowing sand, and it was a steady process that he could not control, much less even keep track off, leaving nothing its wake but an empty, barren space.

The swordsman had his eyes on the sky again, and he fears it's now an impulsive habit of his to commit to the clouds when he had nothing on his mind. Somewhere in that splash of blue and white was an illusion, a reflection, perhaps, of the broken man he was beginning to become. For how long had he been staring, exactly? Torian could already feel a prickle at the base of his neck, and a sting in his eyes from the brightness of morning sun. Hesitantly, he'd pry his eyes away from the comforting reverie back down to the streets of Lavanitir Port, where monochrome gray tiles lined the path he had been idly tracing, although it wasn't as aimless as his previous musings.

In his hand, the paper request would fold and crinkle, the words now a jumble of objectives that he stapled into his prior. His real reasons for wanting to participate in the delivery of these lacrima roses escaped him, somewhat, because he was so honestly insistent that he applied for the job on a whim. The voice in his head, the one that likes to call itself his Origin, seems to agree to the notion that it was instinct that drove him to it, but Torian seemed doubtful enough to not credit the origin's opinions.

"...It should be around here." he told himself, rounding a corner as he approached the marked destination, "Ah..."

From the far end of where he was supposed to be was a distinct puff of white, easily drawing his eye from the paper to the streets. A little girl, it seems, waiting with dainty ditz for someone at the port. Picturesque as the scene seemed on the surface, Torian couldn't help but dwell on whether or not her presence there was also for the roses.

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

Tragedy came in many forms, he'd assume, and when the ebb and throb of its essence overwhelmed someone, there wasn't much means of escaping what was bound to come. Torian, as an example, so deeply snared by the loss of his memory that he couldn't reciprocate the little girl's bubble of joy as she ran to him, voice wavering on the edge of sentimentality. He couldn't, even if he wanted to, because she was nonetheless a stranger to this new him, the one that has no recollection of the life he once walked. The way the little girl uttered his name, however, had a familiar soothe as his mind registered it, implying that her existence as a part of his life was fairly fresh, and hadn't been dulled over by time.

The swordsman sported a smile, which was apologetic in the very sense that it seemed extremely fragile. He'd bend at the knee, eyes glossed over by the energy she dedicated just for him, regardless if he remembered or not. A strange surge of relief somehow allowed itself into his person, where he, in turn, happily relished the wonder that was finding someone who knew him sincerely. Perhaps she could lend her aid in his quest to reclaim his former self.

"I am..." he began, a soft sound to couple nicely with her soft appearance, "There's one problem though."

Torian pressed a palm to her head, ruffling her white tuft of hair with fondness, unable to feign frustration over his amnesia when faced with her genuine innocence. "Mister Torian over here...doesn't remember anything, at all, and that includes you, little miss." he detached his hand from the little girl's figure with the utmost carefulness, in fear that she'd stiffen at his revelation, and he didn't wish to see the entirety of the damage he just caused to whatever relationship he'd have formed with her in the past. "So...I apologize, sincerely. Could you introduce yourself to me again, however? It might help me remember, if only for a small measure."

To one side of the long port, the crew in management of their request seemed to have realized their presences there. Soon, a man in a black pin-stripe suit waddled himself towards the pair, his glasses shining under the lazy Lavanitir sunlight as he dug it further above the curve of his nose.

"Greetings, wizards!" he said, accent thick with the tricks of trade, "I assume you're here to lend me your services? Splendid! We're just about to receive our last, grand shipment. You'd ought to be tottering over to the work site, yes?"

it may sound absurd but don't be naive

even heroes have the right to bleed

The swordsman noted the little girl's in bewilderment, curiously picking at her choice of words and adding random foot notes in between - what had she meant, that he'd been moving too fast that a stop was in-due? And more so, what of this 'Seth' person that she seems to consider an entirely separate entity? It seems not even children were exempted from cryptic speech. Regardless, Torian came to relish the soft motion of Charlotte's hand atop his blonde mop, a gesture much appreciated especially at that time, where he unknowingly sought for another human's coveted warmth.

"...I'm glad you understand, Charlotte." he said, her name not too foreign on his tongue, and that was a good thing. "Haha...together, that doesn't sound too bad...I guess."

It was nothing short to childish to feel elated, but he'd have always mulled over a possibility that along with his identity, his sense of humanity too, decided to unravel and that caused him to feel so unbearably alone at times - this much, coupled with the child's smile, however small, was the sort of medication that his weary person needed.

"Yeah...of course, um...." he mumbled, anxiety clinging to his small voice as the swordsman realized the gentleman's words that urged him to handle the responsibility, "On it, sir...!" he tried, again, as if to imitate the much younger girl's bubble of enthusiasm in an attempt to not dampen the mood.

The suited gentleman tipped the edge of his top hat with a single, gloved finger; his smile beaming as two beady jade eyes cornered them in a fond stare, "Great!" he said, "I'll be at an important meeting with the men over at the Trade Committee, perhaps an hour or two, and I'd expect all of the roses to be in their proper places by the time I drop by. Do take care of them, will you? They're quite pricey, even for me~"

Behind the stripes in his suit dawned the large display of crates upon crates, piling over the other in grand stacks. The swordsman was compelled to imagine the amount of ornate lacrima roses contained inside the mass of boxes, no doubt would cost a fortune...should they break before being bought.

"Yes...sir..." the swordsman responded, rolling his sleeves even further as dictated by his instinct. The gentleman that was to be their 'boss' for the day would eventually bid his goodbyes, rounding a corner down the port, until his shadow bent and melted into nothingness, off to the gathering of merchants with flair. to match his choice of garment.

"Let's get to it...then?" he asked, turning to Charlotte as he approached the crate closest to him, the tinker of glass against glass making him shiver.