We walked for almost an hour through the streets of Zenvo. Orphela lead, and I followed, some steps behind, “like a bodyguard should”, as she would say. We didn’t take any of the main streets, despite crossing them.

She had dressed in a long dark dress and a translucent black veil. She had gathered flowers so white, so well formed. “Only the best flowers are for mom”. She walked with a step so decided yet somewhat slow.

Ritual, it all screamed to me. Ritual. Ritual of what? Doesn’t matter. Ritual so human, so unfitting for a dragon. It’s not that dragons are savage, but they are powerful. It is a widely shared belief among them that rituals are for the weak, a desperate plea for mercy or power. Dragons know of respect, but also know that what is theirs to take needs no permission from those that cannot impede said appropriation. Dragons know fear, but don’t believe gods deserve even the smallest pinch of it.

People got out of Orphela’s way, yet not out of the same sentiment that makes them retreat and kneel before a king. It was a sort of social pact of which you must be aware, friend, of a respect for what, she later told me, you lot call grief.

We passed by beautiful gardens, a block or two away from luxurious palaces, under the bridge that went over a river that gently flowed through the southern district of the city. Now and then, she looked back, as if scared of losing me. “come on, Terus, we are about to arrive” She said.

Yet we had walked for a while, and the path was not a straight line. The way couldn’t be that convoluted, not naturally. Ritual, for crying out loud, ritual as her stare that looked past me and past whatever was in front of her.

We eventually arrived at the local cemetery. In front of gates tall, painted black, revealing a field surrounded by thick, high grey walls no man could jump over.

Grabbing the bars of the gate, Orphela crossed them with firm step. Her visage had gone sour, and tears welled from her eyes.

While we walked side by side across that field of green, gray, white, yellow and red, I spoke.

“I thought we were visiting your mother.”

“We are, Terus. She’s here. Underground.”

“I thought people lived above the ground.”

She turned to face me.

“Where do you think we are? Be honest with me.”

I looked around. At the plants, the flower, the decorated stones.

“Some sort of park.”

“It’s a graveyard, Terus! We bury our dead here!” She cried, but soon recovered her composure. “Be silent now: the dead deserve respect, and their families a calm adequate for their mourning.”

We traversed the graveyard until reaching an old, unmarked gravestone. Wild vines were growing about it, and Orphela hurried to remove them, pulling and cursing under her breath as she did so.

“Is your mother under that stone? I have a vague idea on how graves work, but I expected them to be more, if you don’t mind the comment, lush.”

She inspired deeply and glared at me. “Stop that. Dragons may know the graves of kings and heroes. But the common folk: me, Dariel, my mother and my future children? We are lucky if we end up in here, with someone that cared for us keeping an eye over our grave. Bringing us our favorite flowers.”

Carefully the bouquet was placed in front of the tombstone.

“Why flowers, Orphela, why do the dead need flowers? Do they return to pick them up?” I asked out of innocence, but I think she mistook it for mockery.

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“No, Terus! My people are not dreams. Once they die, that’s it. No excuses, no special cases. He or she who dies, remains dead.”

I shifted to be kneeling next to the grave, and with ritual care, I snatched a flower from the bouquet.

Orphela pointed at me. “Put that back on its place, Terus. Don’t make me get angry at you,” she ordered.

I wasn’t going to comply soon. My observation of the flower had just started. I made a gesture for her to wait a moment. “Care not, this will be brief, I will make up for this jasmine in a little while.

I carefully examined the petals, it’s shape and contour. The stamens, how many they were, their disposition, The shape of the female parts of the flower, their size. How it all joined together, the flower’s… harmony, for lack of a better word. I spent a solid minute taking that in, examining the body parts of the plant by picking them apart carefully, by feeling them. Finally, I gave the flower a sniff, to take in its aroma. “I think I can apologize, for my later behavior., now.”

Arms crossed, Orphela frowned at me. “You better do.”

After searching for a nearby mound of removed dirt, I lay on it, using my own hands as a pillow.

“What are you doing, Terus?”

“Apologizing.” I said, and shushed her.

Minutes later, in a silence only broken by her soft weeping and mumblings, I fell asleep again.

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I saw Zenvo from above, a discarnate entity watching over the city. The streets like veins, pulsing with life. The parks of green, the little and big dogs running on them. The slums, the homeless in them. I saw the graveyard, with Orphela knelt crying before her mother’s grave, and I, sleeping.

I dreamed up a storm. Gathered oneiric clouds, and ordered them to turn to an amiable and soft green tone. I envisioned every petal, mentally fit the calyx and the pistil in place, and, as the master stroke, I carefully crowned the creation with two stamens. I gave a gentle caress of breeze to this child of mine, and decided she was completed.

Thus the first flower formed in the womb of the clouds, and it was birth forth, sinking into the world with the grace only flowers can boast about. It danced on its way down, swaying from side to side, and, finally, landing on the forehead of my sleeping self.

The floodgates of heaven were opened then. Thunder rolled, and flowers began raining upon Zenvo. Perfect dreams of jasmines, the most beautiful flower of the bouquet reproduced, replicated, destroyed, but only to spread her existence as an ephemeral dew of beauty.

Jasmines landed upon every corner of Zenvo. Along the streets, where children picked it to play. On the river, that made them march downslope as a blanket of white. They covered trees. They intoxicated the winds with their aroma. And they gently caressed Orphela’s face as she looked at the skies mesmerized.

“An apology…” Her frown slowly turned into a smile, and between the bouts of ugly cries laughter sprouted. She laughed at the sky, as if she was mad or a child. “You would have loved this, Mom!”

I struggled to smile without waking up, but the still sleeping me managed to do so. The flowers kept falling upon me, covering my body as the dirt covered that of the deceased.

As the rug of flowers grew thicker, children began taking handfuls of them and throwing them into the air, or at each other. People all over Zenvo were marveled. And Orphela... she simply cried. “Thank you, Terus, thank you so much,” she said, smiling at the sky.

If I need to make a negative comment about the experience, it should be that most florists in town were seriously vexed by the spectacle.

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When I woke up, I rose from my bed of petals, emerging from the mound just to find Orphela’s delighted face outside.

“Thank you, Terus, thank you a thousand times over!”

She lunged and, as a wild cat its prey, embraced me. Her thanks kept on coming, and I was forced to examine my feelings about the situation. This was… not an attack, the words were discordant with such action. She wanted something, and I brought my knowledge of dogs to the front of my mind.

“Are you trying to stablish dominance?”

She pulled me apart and gave me a puzzled look. “It’s a hug. I am happy, so I am hugging you, who caused my happiness.” And then she went back to doing that rather uncomfortable thing.

“You are aware that these flowers will vanish as soon as the dragonb stops reading with them, right? I managed to imprint them on Cirruin’s mind, for the moment, but this wont last.”

“I prefer that to seeing them wilt away.”

I had to tell her something. Something else to apologize for. “I regret not being able to dream your Mother to life, I can only give her these flowers, every one that will ever rain. Make her resting place even more beautiful.”

Orphela pushed me apart, this time in a gentler manner. “You consider the place beautiful?”

I pointed a finger at the greyhound statues that guarded one of the entrances. “The makers clearly cared about the aesthetics of this resting place. I hope the flowers enhance its beauty. Alas, this rain could last another week, or it could last another minute all the same.”

Orphel tapped my nose bridge playfully. “don’t be silly, Terus, it doesn’t matter how long these flowers last. Flowers that refuse to wither… will remain forever beautiful.”

And here I ccould have spoken out loud, but I decided to keep the following words private, for I suspected they could have disturbed or disgusted Ophelia:

“For people that will remain forever dead. Fitting.”