A Bouquet of Sunflowers

     Before heading out to his little date, Danner gave him a bouquet of sunflowers. "Here," he said, "I patched this up from my admirers. Figured you'd need help to put it to good use."

     Jeran scoffed, wished him well, and went back to practising his combat forms. The bouquet lay on the wooden bench, the gynoecia of the sunflowers pointed straight at him like insectoid eyes until at last he became tired of his bee-like audience of one.

     He resolved to rid himself of it. Valentine's Day couldn't have been that difficult, especially as an out-of-towner. He simply needed to find someone alone, hand them the flowers, and mysteriously walk off into the sunset with a wish for a happy holiday.

     Even so, those he would have deemed prospective candidates--a scrambling, forgetful spouse, an entrepreneurial child selling wildflowers, a lone elderly widower, and other filter-feeding creatures of Valentine's Day--simply did not exist on this chilly afternoon. Everyone was either paired up or in with a group of their friends.

     It was not until he traversed a wooden bridge past a small distributary that he found a candidate. The bridge was an inlet into the western part of the town, oft-traversed because it was the location of the town's smiths. The forges were already dark, and there was none of that familiar hammering or breathing.

     Nothing--except for the sound of a broom sweeping aside the ashes from the equally dark stone. Here he found her: a blue Zafara whose face was so unremarkable it felt for a moment that he must have known her from somewhere, or maybe he had never seen her at all. She was blowing vapour into the air as she whistled, but the moment she spotted him, she stopped and assumed a quieter way of working.

     In that moment, he knew to move on to someone a little more receptive, but he stopped in his tracks. He smiled when their eyes met, walked confidently to her, and said, "Good evening."

     "Good evening," she intoned monotonously. "Jeran, right? Can I help you?"

     She knew who he was; that made sense, he supposed. "You may, if that is what you want. Please accept this." He held out the flowers. "You're very striking. Happy Valentine's Day."

     "Oh. Thank you. Happy Valentine's Day to you, too."

     And they parted ways.

     ***

     The life of a knight was often too busy for Valentine's Day; this year was only an exception insofar as there was a war going on. From the commander's tent, you could see rows and rows of temporary barracks. Still, it was a special day, and many of the men and women were scrambling to get what could have been their final words out to their loved ones.

     Danner had once joked about having a designated "Holiday Communications Officer" to lift the soldiers' spirits, and to his surprise Jeran had actually designated an old Chomby veteran for the job. Of course, Jeran was concerned about the well-being of those under his command, morale, all of that.

     But it was also useful to have someone handle all the incoming and outgoing mail sent to and from the camps, even something as small as a sentimental letter. If it were disallowed, they would have found other ways to send these letters--in other words, they would be more holes that intelligence had to plug in.

     And besides, Jeran only heard from Holiday Communications Officer Destalt when it was convenient, and this moment was anything but.

     His second-in-command, now Danner, stroked his ridiculously well-trimmed goatee as he went over the battle plans. He pointed to a clear gap in one of the lines. "And this is supposed to be a trap?"

     Jeran nodded. "They know we're underprepared. They know our numbers are small. They will expect us to make the best out of a bad situation--and this is the best," he said, moving a few blue chips over the old, worn map of Hope River. "And it's consistent with our current strategy. They won't suspect a thing."

     These were not words uttered by a commander of the winning side, certainly. The Darigans had come in a raging storm from above, with legions of winged soldiers and war-machines onto the countryside first. The Meridellians were extremely slow to respond, with the king neither communicating nor sending his army to intervene in time. Now, everything was burning. Even if they had managed, by some miracle, to fend off the Darigans, the damage...

     ... the damage. Jeran's hands twitched. With every passing moment, these marauders were lashing out at all they could see, and every moment he was in the comfort of the commander's tent was a moment he was not out there with his soldiers; it was a moment he could at least directly snuff out the fire.

     But it wouldn't be enough. No use thinking that far out, thought Jeran. There was no use for his execrable habit of guilt. He was in the commander's tent. He needed to make that miracle happen.

     And he had the beginnings of a plan. In his hands were old schematics of the Darigan Citadel before it became afflicted with that awful curse. One of the invading knights of Meridell was fastidious enough to chart the castle they had just raided, even though there was no knowing that it would one day break free of the ground to its new home in the sky.

     There were other sources of what the layout of that floating citadel looked like; descriptions from peacemaking visits, recent blueprints that Darigan and Meridellian architects had collaborated on--before this particular war.

     Neither Meridell nor the Darigan Citadel had much in the way of allies. Being a floating settlement in the sky, the Darigan Citadel did not have anywhere to draw a particularly large number of soldiers from. The storm they were sending was likely the only one it could carry.

     Jeran bet that the Darigans depended on Meridell's ill-preparedness for their defensive strategy--if one needed to exist at all. Surely, the enemy must have thought, they could weather the Meridellians faster than they could replenish, especially if you burned their food and homes.

     And Lord Kass could win the war without ever having to step into Meridell proper. He was a coward, thought Jeran, and he would certainly not measure up to his cowardice. If he could just have a little breathing room, a little time, he could come up with a strike team to destabilise Kass's entire operation.

     Yes, he thought, they were all following his cult of personality. Striking at their hearts was the best chance the Meridellians had.

      Just now, Holiday Communications Officer Destalt made his way into the commander's tent. With him, he had an odd companion, and just in a single glance, Jeran could tell she was a princess of some description. And not just any princess: the air around her gleamed in the moonlight when she moved.

     "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, then, mentally, added, I do not have time for--dear Fyora, do I hope she's not an admirer. This fear, as Danner habitually reminded him, would have been quite irrational, for the only real "admirers" Jeran had were spies.

     But something in the back of his mind would not have been too offended if she were an admirer.

     "Ah, yes, this is someone special," said Holiday Communications Officer Destalt. "Princess Dulce, from the castle. Come on, don't be shy, introduce yourself."

     The princess, despite literally shining, had a face that was unremarkable to Jeran, who had almost forgotten to take note of her species. She was a blue Zafara in a colourful poufy dress, a sequined hennin, and a delicate hand covering her mouth. With a perfect curtsey, she gave him a pink envelope closed with a seal of a sunflower--a seal Jeran could not place as belonging to any of the noble houses--and wrapped in a gold-hemmed handkerchief.

     "Sir Jeran Borodere," she said in a practised, breathless voice. "I have heard about your exploits and my heart goes out to you, o brave knight. Please take this as a token of my appreciation."

     "Charmed," he said curtly. He needed to make a show of his own appreciation, at least, for that was what gentlemanly knights did. He opened the envelope to reveal a note that said "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY" in ornate handwriting, and below it was an up-to-date map of the citadel--a very detailed one, and below that were windspeed reports, and below that... a list of encampments still at home. He stared at it disbelievingly for a few moments before absorbing what he had been given.

     "This..."

     "A simple letter," she said, taking her leave. "I do hope you like it. May we see each other again?"

     ***

     The life of a prince was often much too busy for Valentine's Day, but Jeran made time for it. He waited at the castle courtyard, his hands interlocked, the crisp wind blowing into his face from above. Next to him was a bouquet of sunflowers.

     The north entrance flew unruly with the wind at the slightest push from his guest, a blue Zafara whose face he couldn't confuse with anybody else's. He stood from his bench, wiped his hands, and presented her with the bouquet.

     "Happy Valentine's Day."

     The End.