Don't Pick the Flowers

[Flame]

OOC: Month 7 Week 3 Day 5. Semi-private?

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Despite the strange and terrible turn his life has taken lately, Aidan remains first and foremost a lover of green and growing things. More so than ever, in fact; these things are the only solace he finds some days, his splintering mind hiding inside his work as the broken scientist named Flame finds gaps in the therapy, gaps not covered by his ever-diminishing doses of medication. There are bad days – days where his mind wanders in idle moments to places both wondrous and horrible, where his head pounds and his ears ring with echoed screams, where his hands shake so badly he has to close the store until the tremors pass – and there are good days.

This is a good day, and he trusts it will only improve with this outing into downtown. He has the day off from the shop, largely because Leann insisted he take time for his own health before she knocked him over the head and made him take the day off. He has seen the news stories on the inexplicable grove that sprang up on an empty lot in the city; he has seen multiple photos of flora that don't exist, or haven't in centuries. He is fascinated by this rich greenness amid the concrete and steel, by the almost alien shrubs and blossoms. He has to see them with his own eyes. He has to feel the texture of the leaves, smell the fragrances, bask in the colours and shapes of life.

The initial media frenzy has died down enough that he doesn't face a crush of rubberneckers when he arrives. A few pedestrians marvelling at the slice of jungle mill about and an out-of-state news crew packs up their gear after shooting a piece on the grove. Aidan skirts them, approaching from a different side of the block. Here, there are medium trees with broad, spearhead-shaped blue-green leaves and fragrant white bell blossoms growing in clusters of three on the branches. There are also flowers, deep cobalt blue with six tepals around a pale corona, each taller than Aidan himself. And these are simply the ones that stand out to him first. As he takes it all in, gaze sweeping from one end of the block to the other, he sees more and still more dazzling specimens. And he forgets, in this blaze of colour and vitality, about what he's becoming. He forgets the horrors he sees when he lies down to sleep; he forgets the alien, familiar voice seething at the back of his mind; he forgets the crippling fears that are suddenly part of him, the memories of an ages-old lifetime spanning far beyond his years. He forgets Flame and is only Aidan again.

"It's certainly a pleasure to meet you," he murmurs to what he supposes might be a long lost grandparent to an iris with its bold pink hue and tightly reflexed petals. He slowly settles onto his knees for a better look at the small, ground-hugging leafy plants growing beneath it, mindful that he doesn't crush anything as he sits just barely inside the green, on his knees with his feet tucked carefully beneath him.

[Shanodin]

Not very far from where Aidan kneels, the grove's green-skinned mother perches upon a leafy branch. She is nicely camouflaged by a veil of ivy that has wound its way through the tree's limbs, and she watches the newcomer with no little suspicion.

Very few come to attempt harm now, but that one still wants her, and his people are quite tricksy. Xaaron's people come, too, and the gilded lily, herself, teasing memories from Shanodin's mind. Distantly, she recalls herself now, but Botanica the whole is still lost to the wilds of this new planet. Her children are this fragile new green, her ward the crystals upon which they grow. She must let the gilded man and the firebird's childe care for Father's own for now.

This one seems respectful of the green, she notes. Careful. He has not tried to take, like that one did last week. That silly human who sought to impress his mate with a rare orchid- that episode made the human news, yes, and left the man with a posterior full of thorns. She sits and watches while the bushes around Aidan rustle nervously.

The iris to which he speaks happy with his words, however, and one of the younger buds opens slightly by way of welcome.

[Flame]

Many things has Aidan seen in his many years as a florist, but never has he seen a flower answer him as such, and he peers at the little blossom in fascination. His crow's feet crinkle more deeply as he smiles, leaning over for a closer look but not reaching out, resting his elbows on his thighs. He'll pay for this later with aching knees and a stitch in his back, he's sure, but he doesn't much mind.

"…Hm? Do you understand me?" he wonders, "or is that your mother?" He eyes the shrubs nearby. Does the nymph ward off animals as well? Is he about to be mauled by some stray cat or a tetchy rose vine? He looks up from the shifting branches toward the trees. "I hope I'm not intruding," he adds, awkwardly apologetic. He'd rather not spend the evening picking out thorns and burrs. "I simply wanted to come see – well, visit, I suppose. Some of these are relatives to my flowers, you know." He must look silly, trying to make conversation with plants. But she's surely in there somewhere.

[Shanodin]

The dryad watches and listens, mostly understanding Aidan's words now. She has not tried to speak the human words much yet, but she finds she remembers them more now- or perhaps the plants know them, and therefore so does she. Shanodin smiles, pleased at his show of respect and the depth of his feeling.

When Aidan asks his question, the open bud bobs slightly, though which question this might be taken as affirmation might be unclear. A strand of some long-lost strain of flowering vine winds up from behind Aidan and tries to tickle the man's ear. The vine itself is soft as silk, and the tiny trumpet flowers a brilliant sapphire.

Out on the street, the small group of people that has been present these last weeks begins their usual chanting and praising of the "Wyld Green Goddess." Shandin shakes her head in exasperation. They do not understand.

A short way from Aidan, there is a now a gap in the shrubbery which was not there but moments before.

[Flame]

Now, this really is a spectacle. Aidan chuckles and reaches, carefully, with the back of one finger, to tickle the little blossom under its 'chin'.

"You're certainly the most talkative flower I've ever seen!" he says. Then he shivers and turns his head at that brushing sensation behind his ear, lowering his hand at the same time. He stares, quite flabbergasted, at the animate vine, because this sort of thing doesn't happen. Or didn't happen, at least until a month or so ago. His life really has become something from a sci-fi serial. "Well," he blurts out, oblivious to the cult and to that new void between the bushes, "hello to you, too!" And he tries to counter-tickle the vine with a knuckle, if he can, and get a better look at those bright flowers.

[Shanodin]

The vine evades the counter-tickle much like a puppy will evade a head pat, then darts back in to wind loosely up Aidan's arm. Momentarily, the vine tightens and tugs at him before drawing away and toward that gap in the green. There is a rather spectacular ancestor of a varigated rose at the start of that path.

The dryad slips from her perch in the tree and down into the wild growth. If Aidan is paying attention, he might catch the movement.

[Flame]

While Aidan may not speak plant, it's impossible to mistake that pull on his bony wrist. He looks around briefly, expecting a camera somewhere, or someone lurking. Now he notices the cultists, who have yet to see what's going on over here. Perhaps that's for the best, he thinks. They're dreadfully loud.

"All right," he says, "all right, just – give me a moment. I have to watch where I'm stepping." His shod feet could crush any number of those tiny flowers low to the ground, break stems, he could snap branches by hurrying through. His careful respect has kept him thorn-free so far. He'd like to stay thorn-free, and he would not like to damage any of these plants. He'd hate to see such beauty lost to the world. He looks down scrupulously before placing his feet, making it slow going. And meaning he hears that faint rustle in the trees, but doesn't see the keeper of the grove.

[Shanodin]

Aidan's carefulness warms the dryad's heart. There is still some suspicion, of course. Should he turn upon her children the man will find himself most uncomfortable, but she is curious about this frail man with the light eyes who looks on her grove with such wonder.

She peeks around a tree trunk to watch his approach with her own eyes. She is not actively hiding from him, now, her curiosity outweighing her shyness.

[Flame]

Aidan doesn't look up from the rose for a long while once he's safely behind the wall of shrubbery and can get his hand free. He's too busy taking in the colours, the patterns they make on the petals, the shape of the leaves. He notes, too, the length of the thorns on this little beauty, and simply smiles.

"Look, but don't touch?" he murmurs. He feels quite drab in his khakis and polo shirt standing amidst all this green. It's a riot of colours and fragrances, and he drinks deeply of both, revelling in the calm and quiet they bring him. He could spend hours here trying to memorise everything; then he wonders why he didn't bring a camera or a notebook. Then he hears a rustle of leaves that seems contrary, for there's little breeze in here at the moment, and he turns.

He knows it's rude to stare, but stare he does at the keeper of the grove, his hands falling to his sides. His voice doesn't want to work though he tells himself he should thank her for the invitation.

[Shanodin]

The dryad reflexively flinches and tucks her head back behind the tree trunk when Aidan spies her. This one isn't like the others; there is no hint of the familiar about him. To her, he is but another human, and humans are inherently untrustworthy.

The plants seem to like this man though. They are not wary of him as they usually are of intruders. So the dryad peeks at Aidan again.

"I would watch the thorns on that one. She is a pretty poison," she says. Of course, she is speaking in Cybertronian, so it probably sounds like gibberish to him.

[Flame]

Though something about the way she speaks itches at the back of his mind, Aidan has no idea what she says, and shakes his head apologetically.

"I don't understand," he says. "Though I can hazard a guess that you mean this one?" and he gestures at the long-thorned rose. "She's lovely, but I'm afraid I don't want to contend with her thorns. Do you…." He looks again at the dryad with his tired, sunken eyes and his drowsy but happy smile, curious. "Do you understand me at all, by any chance?" She at least seems to grasp that he means no harm in his botanical fascination with her lovely home, and grateful he is for that!

[Shanodin]

Her brow furrows as she puzzles out his words. He doesn't understand her. She only loosely understands him, understanding the feel behind his words more than the actual. English is coming back to her in bits and pieces. Cybertronian is what comes to her with ease.

After a minute she hesitantly moves toward him, working her way wide through the brush to the other side of the rose. She reaches out and runs a finger along the bottom of one long thorn near the base. A drop of clear, shiny liquid wells from the tip of the thorn and collects on her finger.

She then uses her other hand to pick up a dead beetle from the ground. She holds up first the finger, then the beetle. Can he make the connection she is trying to show him?

[Flame]

Aidan's eyes widen and his eyebrows rise as he takes in her pantomime. He most definitely understands, and he carefully withdraws from the rosebush.

"I see," he says, "so not only sharp, but wicked as well. Thank you for warning me." Slowly, hoping not to startle the little nymph, he turns to a vine crawling up a birch-barked tree. The vine itself resembles a sort of ivy, yet bears clusters of tiny, round, bright yellow flowers. "What about this one?"

[Shanodin]

The dryad smiles and nods when she sees that Aidan understands. Her lips purse as he moves to the vine, but this one is a safer, tamer specimen for him to examine, at least, if a bit shy. The flowers close up into tight little buds when he gets closer.

"Now, now, behave for our guest," she admonishes, her tone much like a mother chastising her child. Slowly, one at a time, the flowers start to reopen.

[Flame]

The sheer liveliness of the plants in this grove is enthralling. Aidan can't help smiling as he looks from the vine to the dryad and back.

"Well, I certainly didn't mean to frighten it," he says, contrite. Studiously, he keeps his hands to himself lest he startle anything else, and risk the next one being a more aggressive scare. He watches the flowers, eyes dancing, hands folded behind his back. "So," he ventures to the dryad in an effort to make conversation, even one-sided, "is that the language of plants?" He's only partly kidding.