Trashes of the Counts' Families || Trash of the Count's Family || OC

43

She nodded, her eyes still on the poppies. "Yes," she muttered. "I do."

She got up with a sudden movement, a stark contrast to her previous calmness. She walked to get a flower, getting all the necessary equipment to do so.

Planting a Night Poppy was free. But most Nobles did not know— or want to know— how to plant a flower. So they paid some money to get it planted for them. Adara always thought it lost the meaning of planting the Night Poppy in the first place if somebody planted it for you.

There was another reason this flower was associated with the God of Death. It was the complete opposite of all flowers, it thrived in the night instead of the day. During the day, the petals closed up, hiding themselves from the poisonous rays of sunlight, in the night they revelled in the darkness. The most suitable time to plant them was at night, most preferably when the moon was not shining, but Adara could not cloak the moon, so she had to make do with what she had.

She scanned the opening with a critical eye to plant the two Night Poppies she had in her hand. The flowers had not bloomed yet, but they had roots so she could plant them well. She spotted a good location for the two, deciding to go there.

She was careful as she walked there, using her nimbleness as a Dark Elf to successfully reach her destination without disrupting the other flowers.

Bede was not as experienced, so he stood at the edges of the garden, leaning on a pillar, watching her. She had taken a different appearance than the last time he had seen her. She had pale skin now, her scars were hidden. He still recognised her, though she looked very different.

But as he stood there, he was reminded of a similar scene, a scene from more than 4 years ago.

Adara, planting her Night Poppy, him leaning on a pillar as he watched her set to work.

He laughed as Adara got her hands dirty. She frowned, the dirt stuck underneath her nails.

"I should have gotten gloves," she said, still staring at her dirty hands.

That made him laugh more. Even Adara had a smile on her face.

Their laughter lapsed, Adara getting more concentrated on gardening. He watched her silently. She was another younger sibling to him. One who was older than his actual younger sister. He was lucky they got along, the two most important people in his life were on good terms, and that mattered to him greatly.

He watched day and day, month and month, how Adara got older.

No longer was she the scarred child, afraid of everyone who came a bit too close to her, afraid of anybody who raised their voice. She was able to smile freely, able to cry freely. She was free to be herself. She had grown, mentally and physically.

He guessed it was an excellent decision on his part to talk with her.

It had been an odd day. A Priest had been misusing his position, making a bunch of Servants of the God of Death do manual labour. The Priest had not been there when Adara was bleeding out on the bed, he had not seen how ashy grey she seemed, her eyes fluttering. But he had been there when they announced her, announced their Lord had healed her while on her deathbed.

That Priest had hated Adara ever since. He himself had a daughter now long dead. He had prayed every night, planted a Night Poppy every night, to save his daughter from her deteriorating illness. But the God of Death had not listened.

He did not like how she was given special privileges. He thought it was all bullshit. After forcing a few of the Servants of the God of Death to do the manual labour, he demanded Adara to participate.