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beauregardlionett · 4 years

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unrationed 2/7

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bluebells (hyacinthoides non-scripta) – constancy

Thunder rumbles around the house, deep and sonorous, and Yasha feels it in her bones.

She has the balcony doors thrown open, propped in place with rocks she lugged down from the rooftop garden. There isn’t much change in lighting over Rosohna, the magical darkness replaced by the hanging cloud layer spread across the city. It had surprised Yasha and the others that it rained here, but they supposed the city needed to get their water from somewhere.

Either way, Yasha enjoys the heavy humidity in the air, the promise of rain on the horizon. Even if the storm doesn’t call her away, it draws her in. She’s not scared of the lightning and embraces the drizzle of rain on her skin as she stretches a hand out of the open doors. It reminds her she’s safe.

A loud roll of thunder follows seconds behind a distant flash, ominous and ear-splitting. Yasha smiles as the windows rattle.

Seconds later, the rain pours, splashing only a little against Yasha where she sits just inside the open balcony doors. The sheets of rain slant away from the opening, so she stays relatively dry. The grey stone of her veranda turns dark and slick in seconds.

The quiet peace hangs.

Her bedroom door bangs open. Yasha doesn’t startle, but twists quickly to look over her shoulder, fingers stretching to reach for her blade where it lays nearby.

Beau stands in the doorway, disheveled and wild-eyed, half awake. Yasha’s reach falls slack as she takes in the monk’s appearance.

“Beau?” Frantic blue eyes flash in the dim and find Yasha’s, and the Aasimar can see the tension release from Beau’s muscles through the dim. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Beau manages, taking a moment to fuss with her clothing so it isn’t so rumpled. It surprises Yasha to see the monk’s hair is down, loose from the intricate topknot Beau wears near every day. Her hair has gotten long, and when it falls like this—tangled and rumpled from sleep—the undercut Beau sports is near invisible. And lacking most of her vestments, Yasha finds that Beau looks so human her chest aches with…something.

“I just,” Beau’s voice draws Yasha from her musing. “I woke up from the thunder, and I was worried you uh…left.”

It’s easy for Yasha to forget how much they all care sometimes. After losing her wife, and then the circus and Molly, Yasha was hesitant to accept the Mighty Nein as her family—as her tribe. But she had given up that fight months ago, had given in to the urge to see them as people she could not lose. She was used to being the protector, used to people feeling they didn’t have to worry about Yasha because she was big and intimidating and strong.

The Mighty Nein always defied every expectation set on them.

“I am still here,” Yasha promises. “Would you like to watch the storm with me?”

This is how she ends up with Beau slumped sideways, head resting in Yasha’s lap and curled under the blanket from Yasha’s bed. The monk’s fingers tangle in Yasha’s tunic and Yasha’s are combing steady strokes through Beau’s hair. She braids a few strands together for the length of Beau’s hair and then carefully unwinds it to smooth it out again. Beau slumbers on, peaceful, as thunder rumbles overhead and the rain patters against the stone.

She watches Beau’s face for a while instead of the storm, and wonders. She knows that Beau’s life has been uprooted a few too many times, knows from Beau’s own mouth that the monk fears losing them all. Yasha sees the way Beau’s mind works, the way she comes up with plans, then back-up plans, and then a third just to be safe. The monk plays herself off as careless, callous; but she calculates every move she makes and rarely takes chances.

For Beau, nothing is set in stone.

Yasha reaches for her bag, careful not to shift the sleeping human against her leg, and drags it closer. From the deeper recesses of her pack, Yasha frees the only two books that she always carries with her. One is her gift from Molly with flowers pressed between the pages. The other is a book, a gift, handed to her on a quiet night. It’s a manual on flora from across the lands of Wildemount—spanning both the Empire and the Dynasty. Within its pages lay names, appearance, color, and common symbolic meanings to almost any flower one came across. She had had little use of the tome before, but she hoped it could come in handy now.

A few days after the storm that pulled Beau into Yasha’s room, the Aasimar visited Caduceus’ rooftop garden. She had spent hours pouring over the contents of her book, trying to find the perfect bloom for what she wanted to say. She wasn’t great with words, so Yasha was banking on this gesture being enough.

There had been quite a few flowers that represented the same thing, and it was all very confusing. But after much deliberation, Yasha finally made a choice.

Perusing the array of flowers that Caduceus somehow continued to coax into life, Yasha felt only mild surprise when she found the exact flower she was looking for. It sat nestled between a bush bearing bright yellow buds and what looked to be a rather healthy crop of mushrooms. The stems grew tall and proud until near the top, where it curved over itself like a shepherd’s crook. From the crook, several bell shaped blooms hung clustered around each other. The petals were long and waxy, curling daintily up at the ends to add to the bell like appearance.

They were perfect and beautiful—a rich indigo that Yasha thought suited Beau impeccably.

She had already spoken to Caduceus that morning and had gotten the okay from him and from the Wildmother to pluck the flowers. The Aasimar selected a handful of stems and tied them together with twine—simple but pretty. Carrying the blooms with delicate caution between her hands back down into the house, Yasha stopped at Jester and Beau’s door, knocking softly. Jester had told Yasha earlier that Beau was spending the afternoon going through her journals in the privacy of their room. She hated to interrupt, but Yasha wanted to do this before she lost her courage.

There was a quiet call from inside, and Yasha took it as her cue to enter, peering around the door to meet Beau’s curious gaze. The monk was cross-legged on her bed, papers strewn around her and a few journals flipped open among them. Yasha hadn’t realized how often Beau must stay up to scribble down things about their adventures each day. Maybe she would ask Beau to recount some things to her, just to see what went on in that wonderful head of hers.

“What’s up?” Beau set her notes aside and gave Yasha her attention. Her bright blue eyes flicked down to the flowers that Yasha immediately held out in her direction once the Aasimar had approached the bed. She stared at them for a moment before reaching out with hesitant fingers to take them from Yasha.

“What are these for?” Beau asked, looking every bit as flustered as she sounded.

“You were worried the other night,” Yasha reminded her, fingers twisting together. “About me leaving. These are uh…a promise. That I won’t leave. Uhm…yeah.”

Beau stared at Yasha, and then down at the flowers. Her lips twitched into a smile, and she laughed, soft and endeared. Yasha’s face flushed, her little courage from before long gone in the face of Beau’s smile.

“Thank you, Yasha,” Beau said as she looked back up at the Aasimar, eyes bright. Yasha was a goner.

“Yeah,” she choked out, awkward as ever. “Uhm, yep.” She fled the room, flustered.

And if Jester’s gushing and squealing about the ‘super pretty’ blue flowers in a vase in their room at dinner later made Yasha blush and duck her head, well that was no one’s business but her own.

purple hyacinth (hyacinthus orientalis) – please forgive me

Yasha still woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night sometimes. She never woke up screaming, though, so the only one who clued into her disturbed slumber was Caduceus. He had taken one look at her expression that shifted only a few degrees left of neutral, and next thing Yasha knew, she was sitting under the massive tree of their rooftop garden, being handed a cup of tea.

Caduceus didn’t push her—he never did—just sat with her until Yasha started talking.

“I keep having nightmares, of when I almost killed Beau.”

She would wake with an abrupt start, most times sitting bolt upright and sweating profusely. Her fingers would tremble, lacking the strength to even curl into a fist—to wrap around the hilt of her sword. For minutes after waking, Yasha could taste the salt of her tears on her tongue, smell the coppery tang of Beau’s blood. The blood was always the most vivid detail. It always smelled so harsh, always looked like communion wine creeping over the stones of the cathedral floor. But Beau’s blood was not her father’s wine; it did not wash away Yasha’s sins under the eyes of a god she didn’t believe in. It damned her, and it lingered around her even in the waking world.

“Have you apologized?” Caduceus’ gentle timbre tugged Yasha back to the garden. The herbal tea in her hands washed out the metallic scent from her nightmares.

“What?” Yasha croaked, having not registered what the cleric said.

“Have you apologized to Beau for what happened? Not that you have to,” Caduceus tagged on, making Yasha wince. “Your actions were not your own. But sometimes the mind needs to hear forgiveness it believes it needs, to trick it into moving on.”

Staring at the serene Firbolg across from her as he sipped at his tea, Yasha figured he had a point. Though she did not agree with them, the rest of the Nein seemed insistent that everything she did with Obann was not her fault. Realistically, Yasha supposed she understood that—but it was hard to forgive herself for things she remembered doing.

It was worth a shot, though.

After consulting her book and a well-known flower vendor in the markets of Rosohna, Yasha made her way back toward the house, a small bouquet bundled in her hands. The blooms were lovely, vibrant in their violet hue, the petals waxy and curling in toward one another to make the bushels look fuller. Yasha couldn’t help but to admire them as she walked, tracing reverent fingertips over the delicate flowers.

The seller had mentioned something about a myth behind the origin of the flowers, but Yasha hadn’t been interested in fairytales. The Aasimar cared more about the meaning she had found in her book and asked the vendor to confirm.

Arriving at the house, Yasha hesitated at the walk, her courage suddenly waning.

What if Beau was with someone else and Yasha had to pull her away? She loved her friends, but they were nosy as anything and Yasha didn’t want to handle their curiosity right now. Not when she was trying to apologize to Beau about something that still stung like a vulnerable sore spot.

Fate seemed to be on her side today, though. As Yasha stood outside their house, contemplating the merits of hiding the flowers and waiting until later that night, she heard a noise from around the far side of the house. Following it to the source revealed Beau—alone—working out in the open space of their lawn.

Seizing the opportunity, Yasha made her way over and waited for Beau to notice her. She didn’t have to stand there long before Beau was leaping to her feet to begin another exercise and caught sight of Yasha. Beau visibly brightened, and she opened her mouth to greet the other. Before her nerves crumbled, or she got distracted, Yasha closed the distance between them in a few strides and thrust the purple hyacinth toward Beau.

Blinking, Beau hesitated a moment before taking the bundle from Yasha, offering a confused, “thank you?”

“I got them for you.” Duh. “I wanted to apologize, since I haven’t yet, because I uhm…I hurt you pretty bad. And that makes me feel very, very terrible.” Yasha looked down, twisting her fingers together anxiously now that her hands were empty.

Beau looked up from the flowers, confusion written across her features. Yasha saw the moment it clicked. It shocked the Aasimar to realize that the victim could almost forget something so pivotal that left Yasha so gut-wrenchingly guilty. Nightmares plagued her, and Beau had catalogued it as another scar to her multitude and moved on.

Yasha felt a flash of concern for that fact, but she found herself more stunned by that thought than anything.

“Oh, that, pfft,” Beau waved one hand, eyes flicking downward. She fumbled over her words, trying to sound nonchalant but ending up tongue-twisted. “Don’t-don’t worry about it.”

Yasha stood there, brow furrowed. Don’t worry about it? That was all she had been doing for days on end. She had questioned how she would earn back Beau’s trust – but apparently she had never lost it.

“Still,” Yasha managed, trying to save the situation, trying to get Beau to understand that this apology would be good for both of them. She reached out a nervous hand and laid it overtop where Beau’s was wrapped around the bouquet. Giving the flowers a little push closer to the monk, Yasha felt herself blush a little under her war paint.

“I want you to have those, so you know that I am sorry. That I don’t want – nor do I intend to hurt you again.”

Beau stared at Yasha, quiet, before giving her a slow smile and a simple, “okay.”

sweet william (dianthus barbatus) – grant me one smile

It had been days since their brief stint in Kamordah, and Beau’s attitude did not improve much. It seemed like it had in brief flashes, but she was forcing false bravado with such obvious tells that it made Yasha’s chest ache.

She loved to see her friends’ smiles, and Beau’s was one of her favorites to witness. The monk looked more her age when she smiled, less tense, less angry at the world. It read like magic to watch Beau’s bitterness fade into the curve of upturned lips, a slight scrunch of her nose, and banished by the twinkle in her eyes.

Yasha knew the exact number of days it had been since she last saw Beau’s genuine smile.

They holed up in Nicodranas for the time being. With Veth’s restoration complete, they were now just killing time until the armada left. Yasha spent a night out on the beach, plucking at her harp and making mindless music. Her thoughts wandered to Beau, knowing that the other woman was spending a decent amount of their downtime on her own.

When she wore out her fixation of her harp, Yasha spent some time by candlelight flipping through her book on flowers in the Chateau’s tavern. Nearly three-quarters of the way through the book, she had found what she was looking for. In the morning, Marion had been kind enough to point her in the market's direction.

Now the Aasimar wandered through the thoroughfare of Nicodranas, eyes scanning. Marion had assured her there would be a vendor selling what Yasha was after. If anyone in all of Nicodranas knew which flowers one could get there, it was Jester’s mother.

It didn’t take long at all for Yasha to find a young half-Elf man hawking his massive array of flora. There were two broad carts on either side of the man, each overflowing with vibrant looking sprouts that immediately drew Yasha’s attention. She stood by one cart, mismatched eyes scanning over the various options, as she waited for the vendor to finish his transaction with another customer.

Reaching out, she brushed her fingers across some brightly colored daisies, smiling to herself.

“Can I help you?” The half-Elf’s voice from near her shoulder drew Yasha’s attention. He looked pleasant enough, but the nervous press of his lips served as a harsh reminder of Yasha’s height and appearance. She told herself to give him a tiny smile, trying to ease the tension.

“Yes, please,” Yasha answered. “I’m looking for something specific.”

She found Beau near the surf, the monk’s bedroll and backpack a little ways up the sandy slope so they didn’t get caught in the water. The individual in question had stripped off her boots and socks, rolled her pants to just below her knees, and was standing shin deep in the tide. Her back was to the beach, and to Yasha, facing the open ocean and just…standing.

Yasha hated to interrupt her, but she had been sitting by Beau’s things for almost twenty minutes now. She wanted to wait until Beau saw her, but the monk hadn’t moved at all in that time, save for to shift her feet whenever she sunk too much into the wet sand. At this rate, Yasha would be here the rest of the day. That wasn’t an issue, but she wanted to give Beau the flowers before then at least.

Making an executive decision, Yasha tugged off her boots and hiked her pants up, too. Scooping up the cheerful bundle of flowers she had gotten from the vendor in the market, Yasha carefully made her way down the warm sand towards Beau. Her bare feet catalogued the shift from packed, dry grain to the loose, shifting chill of water-soaked sand. The Aasimar took a moment to revel in the sensation, having never experienced this before.

The sounds of her delighted inhale and her feet against the wet sand alerted Beau to her presence. Beau twisted quickly, feet stuck in the shifting sand from where she had sunk to her ankles. She relaxed almost immediately upon realizing it was just Yasha, alarm fading into fond amusement with just the tiniest uptick at the corner of her mouth.

Not a smile—but a start.

“Sorry,” Yasha said, sheepish, shifting closer to Beau. She held out the flowers without preamble and delighted quietly in the pink that dusted the monk’s cheeks as her eyes widened.

“What are these for?” Beau breathed, cupping the bouquet delicately, like it was Frumpkin the One Ounce Owl. Her eyes scanned over the various, vibrant array of pinks that created the miniature bouquet of a flower Yasha learned was called Sweet William. (She wasn’t sure who William was, but Yasha thought he had excellent taste in flowers.) The petals were smooth and delicate, ranging from a deep, almost purple-pink shade to a paler blush color. A few of the blooms sported a white outlining the fringes of their petals, adding a pop of pattern to an otherwise solid color arrangement.

Yasha watched Beau take it in. What once was barely a smirk, was now a full grin. Her lips tugged up at both corners, lips parting to reveal Beau’s teeth as she turned the flowers this way and that to take them in. She realized recently, that while Beau despised wearing the color pink, the monk still found enjoyment in the strength and vivacity of said color.

“They’re just for you,” Yasha answered after a moment of observing Beau’s delight. “To cheer you up.”

Beau looked up, startled, and Yasha felt a quiet moment of fear that she had messed up. She worried that Beau might try to push down her smile out of self-consciousness, but was rewarded with a more bashful grin. Tugging her ankles free of the sucking sand, Beau worked her way closer to Yasha and reached out to squeeze Yasha’s elbow in a gesture of gratitude.

“Thank you, Yash,” Beau murmured. “They’re beautiful.”

“No problem,” Yasha murmured back, glancing down at her fidgeting hands.

They were quiet a while longer before Beau spoke up again.

“Do you want to stay and watch the sunset with me? It’s pretty nice from this part of the beach—and I know you like color, so you should enjoy it.”

Yasha met Beau’s genuine smile with one of her own.

“I’d like that.”

red tulips (tulipa) – declaration of love blue violets (viola) – faithfulness; I’ll always be true [historically the flower Sappho gave her female lover]

She hates to admit it, but Yasha agonized over this decision for far too long. It had gotten to where she forced herself to swallow her embarrassment so she could recruit assistance from Jester, Veth, and Caduceus. Things went about as well as expected, but the trio had eventually helped Yasha to decide.

Now all that remained was to hope Beau liked it.

Yasha sat on Beau’s bed, perched on the very edge of the mattress and fiddling with the vibrant, voluminous bouquet that Jester had helped put together. The Tiefling had proclaimed that her mother always received extravagant floral arrangements at the Chateau, and therefore she knew the basics of arranging flowers into a stunning array. Given how gorgeous Yasha thought this bundle was, she was inclined to believe Jester.

The bedroom door creaked open and Yasha was on her feet before she even registered moving. She reminded herself to breathe.

Beau blinked with surprise at the sight of Yasha standing in the middle of the bedroom, a half-eaten apple in one hand. Then she seemed to notice the flowers clutched in the Aasimar’s hands. The monk sighed, looking like she was fighting a smile as she shut the door behind her and made her way over to Yasha.

“I was wondering why Veth and Jester were giggling and following me around downstairs. Now I guess I know.” Beau sets the apple down on the table by her bed and faces Yasha, studying her.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Beau asks, coming close enough that she can smooth the waxy, red tulip petals between her fingers. There are a few violets scattered among them, organized carefully by Jester’s dexterous hand, a rich blue that borders on cobalt. Yasha catches Beau eyeing them appreciatively.

“I’m not so good…with words,” Yasha fumbles to begin. She had agonized over her declaration almost as much as she had the flowers. “You know that I like flowers, that they mean a lot to me. I have been letting them do the talking for a while now, so…”

She trails off and passes the bouquet to Beau’s hands. Letting her fingers linger where they cup around the monk’s calloused hands, Yasha focused on keeping them from shaking.

“These are for you, because this is me saying I love you.”

Beau blinks—first at the flowers, then up at Yasha, then back down to the flowers. Yasha can feel Beau’s fingers tighten around the stems bundled together beneath her own hands. The silence stretches and Yasha grows more and more nervous with each passing, thundering beat of her heart.

“You love me?” Beau all but whispers. Her eyes, when they look up at Yasha, are almost as blue as the violets. Those eyes look so vulnerable and hopeful it leaves Yasha breathless.

“I do,” Yasha breathes, afraid to speak any louder for fear of shattering this fragile tension between them.

“Why?”

Yasha doesn’t even hesitate.

“You’ve never judged me for the things I have done, for the person I have become. You have only ever believed in me and have never given up on me. I think you are funny, I think you are smart, clever, and I know you are driven. I admire you, and I’m drawn to how bright you are. I have never seen you give up or stop fighting. You aren’t afraid to ask questions, or find creative ways to get the answers you want when the direct route does not work. I realized that you were always excited to see me come back, but it took me too long to realize why. I hope I’m not too late.”

Beau’s eyes are watering by the end of Yasha’s brief speech. She slowly sets the flowers down on the bed beside them. Her arms wrap around Yasha’s neck in one of the strongest hugs Yasha has ever been on the receiving end of.

Yasha’s arms wind around Beau’s waist before she even has to think about it. The monk’s face presses into the juncture of Yasha’s neck, and Yasha is more than content to tuck her face into Beau’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a few moments that stretch into infinity.

Beau pulls back first, hands sliding against Yasha’s skin so she can frame the Aasimar’s face. Yasha can do nothing but stare back at the woman in her arms, feeling far too many emotions to even begin putting names to them.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Beau says, giving Yasha a moment to process, to reject her. Yasha doesn’t.

Beau’s lips press against Yasha’s, chapped and warm, and Yasha presses into the embrace. She imagined kissing Beau before, but this is nothing like her daydreams. If she is honest with herself, Yasha probably put a little too much of her past experience into those daydreams. She should have known that Beau would kiss the way she fights—just a little reckless and with every ounce of passion in her soul.

They don’t linger long, and before Yasha knows it, Beau is tucked back into her shoulder. She clings to Yasha like she never left the crook of the Aasimar’s neck in the first place.

“Yasha?” Beau’s muffled voice speaks up after a few moments.

“Yeah?” Yasha breathes against Beau’s shoulder, the monk shivering in response.

“I love you, too.”

Yasha doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.

ambrosia (ambrosia artemisiifolia) – your love is reciprocated

Her book on flowers had been missing for all of a day and a half before Yasha finds it again. Someone had left it neatly atop her pillow; a clump of tall, yellow blooms tied off with string perched on the cover. The buds are small and golden, looking more like flowers that had yet to bloom, but Yasha recognized the plant from her book easily. Most considered it to be a weed, but it was still rather beautiful all the same.

Yasha scooped up the bundle and smiled as she set them carefully down on the table by her bedside. They were a pop of color in her otherwise monotone room, blending in well with the mural Jester had painted for her.

Curious, Yasha flipped to the page she remembered seeing the flower on to look up the meaning.

She went to kiss Beau mere moments later, cheeks pink for most of the afternoon.

#cr #critical role #beauyasha #beauregard #beauregard lionett #yasha #beauyashaweek2020 #writing #my writing #flowers #vignette

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