Chapter Text
VI.
Three words.
Just three words.
Just three words, and they had been enough to bring him to his knees. Enough to shatter his heart in a thousand pieces.
Just three words.
“Who are you?” Deryn had asked, genuine confusion on the face he had missed so much…
Explanations came later, even if they were useless. He didn't listen to any of the words that Dr. Barlow said. The story was completed as soon as he was shown the white flower, the same species that Deryn had asked about in Istanbul for apparently no reason, and his world exploded once again.
Of course Alek knew about hanahaki disease. It had been the main argument to plead on his parents’ case, as everyone in the high spheres of European society figured out that Franz Ferdinand had developed it at a staggering pace. His grand uncle's acceptance of the marriage had not been a decision based on kindness: it was a way to avoid another succession crisis, as the named heir brought himself to the verge of death for a love below his station, and none of the other candidates for the throne seemed adequate.
Of course he knew how powerful the implications of the disease could be. It had forced the hand of an emperor. But he had been an oblivious idiot, too focused on the illusion of purpose, of a greater destiny, to see the actual world around him.
He had been blind to it, but Deryn had loved him, enough for flowers to grow on her chest for him.
And in turn, he left her to chase a mirage of power that betrayed him in the end.
And now it was already too late.
And of course she chose the surgery, after how he had treated her in his blindness, after how he took her for granted. He had been so sure she would always wait for him. He had been an entitled, barking idiot.
Strong, proud Deryn Sharp would never sacrifice herself for anyone unworthy, even if she had loved him.
And the worst thing was that a part of him was glad she did so, even if it’d taken away his best friend, if that meant she would live a long life freely, and not die young while being suffocated on her feelings.
He had been a fool, and this was the best outcome he could expect now.
It was too late to change things.
And so, he also deserved the flowers he began to cough.
VII.
It was painful, like hell on earth. Not only coughing flowers, not only the increasing difficulty to breathe, but they had thorns too: thorns that tore his throat apart and made him bleed.
For they ended up giving the other the flowers of their homelands. In his case, thistles. Of course. Pride and strength, just like her.
He couldn’t help but remember an old motto associated with those flowers, one he had read in passing when he was a child and the world hadn’t been broken yet.
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
Nobody provokes me with impunity.
In other words, revenge. Very fitting for this case.
Well, it was fine with him. He was a man with no family and a ruler with no kingdom, holding a love that didn't have anywhere to go. Not anymore.
The world would not lose anything of value if he just let these flowers grow. It was the least she deserved; she, the one in his memories, and not the one who lived now.
She did not owe him anything.
She deserved to be free.