And this flower is called smeraldo pt2

“Oh, youth. Doesn't your generation have any interest in anything at all? You don't know the truth,” the grey-haired man grumbled. “Grant, why don't you go into my bedroom and get a book?”

“The one you read so often?” The guy pulled away from the magic, the clumps of fanciful fire falling onto the logs, lost in the flames of the real fire.

Gisborne nodded, and Circul reluctantly got to his feet and walked upstairs, shooting me a reproachful look that said, ‘This is all because of you. Why have you started this conversation? I'm supposed to have a lazy day today, not all this...’ I didn't think any further. I just prepared myself with a wry smile to greet him when he returned.

The guy soon arrived with a leather-bound folio. The book was so large that it was difficult to read without the special stand Grant had brought.

On the front cover and along the spine was an ornate pattern that looked like flower buds. I would have ignored it, but the shape and number of petals with silvery veins, serrated leaves and thin thorns – my heart squeezed, I recognised these creations of a non-existent nature. They were the ones growing in the Garden of Nameless Flowers. They were the ones I had admired in Virtul when I first met Grant Circul.

“So it was here somewhere...” Asanor rustled the pages and looked at the book with anticipation. “Here it is, the story my first wife loved. She read the story almost every day,” his blue eyes twinkled with a touch of nostalgia. “Young girls like to sob over a nice fairy tale now and then, especially if it's a sad and fragrant love story...” He gave me a mocking look from under his bushy eyebrows.

I sat comfortably, ready to listen to every word. And? Valuable quality literary ‘glass’ has always been in vogue. Like a drug, it corroded the soul and painfully clenched the heart in agony and withdrawal, I wanted more and more desperately, stronger and more emotional. Once you have experienced the charm and the essence of psychic torment, the great and merciless ‘angst’, you cannot return to the side of warm and easy ‘fluff’.

Grant snuggled up next to me and took the blackie from me. His allergies, though showing signs, were not as aggressive as we had feared. So the purring charm won out and Circul Junior surrendered without a fight, capitulating to the mercy of the loudly purring lump and stoically enduring itchy eyes and a tickle in his nose.

“This legend is about the First World. The one where the gods gave mankind the gift of eternal life,” grandfather Asanor said.

“The world that was called Born?” Kai interrupted.

“Ah, well. At least you know that,” Gisborne grinned approvingly.

“They told us that in primary school.” The blonde-haired guy shrugged his shoulders.

I frowned as I remembered. In the farthest corner of my memory, where no thought had gone before, a memory appeared.

‘Every life a world. Every purpose a destiny. Every soul a gift. The Universe has wisely divided all stages of our existence into four parts. In the first world you simply cultivate the soil and plant a small seed of your soul. In the second, you tend that seed to make it grow. In the third, you carefully pluck the plant you've nurtured. And in the fourth... you savour its fragrance...’

‘Mum, why do we have to go to the magicians to find out which life we are living now? The worlds also have an order: first, second, third...’

‘That's a good question, my dear. That's what people used to think. Until one day the worlds turned upside down, order turned to chaos, shattering the way things used to be...’

In the world of Born, people didn't die. They lived in eternity until Time appeared.

I've always been frightened by the concept of this world. Living forever with no way of dying. No choice. No ability to close your eyes and walk away.

“The Demiurge created a beautiful world, endowed it with plants and living things. He divided his essence into seven parts, from which were born the seven gods who would rule this world...” Gisborne began. His hoarse voice carried through the living room, setting a lyrical mood. “And the Demiurge finally created, as the crowning glory of his creation, a magnificent garden where the most wonderful plants grew. He loved this garden most of all, enjoyed blooming in it and resting from his work.

But the time had come for him to leave his land to build new worlds. He told the gods to look after the flowers, to cherish them as the apple of his eye, but never to pluck his favourite creation.

However, one flower in the Demiurge's garden so enchanted the Elder God that he wished to possess it. At sunset, he plucked the bud he had grown so fond of. Immediately, an earthquake shook the world, and winds of fury swept through the garden, uprooting the plants and parching the earth.

Great was the wrath of the Creator at that time. The gods are cruel and skilful in their punishments. The Demiurge is just but pitiless. The Creator promised the guilty god that none of his descendants would know forgetfulness and would suffer in immortality. The God was crushed, remorse overwhelmed, but the crime was committed.

But the Demiurge had mercy. Only one man could suffer the fate of many. Only one man could be punished, but only he who, like a god, would break the supreme law…” That was the preface. Now for the legend itself.”

Gisborne cleared his throat, looked around with a keen eye and began: “Once upon a time, there was a prince who had everything, the whole world was at his feet, many great deeds were performed before his eyes, the best scholars, magicians and officials taught him the art of ruling and organising the lives of his subjects.

But the heir to the throne was bored, he did not like high society with all its entertainments and comforts, boredom overcame him in the evenings when he sat in the garden, carefree, resting after all his affairs.

And what do you think happened? He met a girl who, with her smile and the mischief in her ever-cheerful eyes, could brighten the grey of his days.

But she was destined for someone else, the chosen one and favourite of the gods, a thief and a rogue whom fate had generously showered with a handful of good fortune.

What happened next? Our prince fell in love, though of course at first he suppressed the impulses of his heart, rejecting thoughts of love and other tender feelings.

But selfishness and the madness of love took their toll, and the prince kidnapped the girl, hid her against her will in a safe mansion, and gradually began to tame her. She no longer looked at him so wildly when he went down to the garden in the evening, her favourite place, to listen to her sing, to welcome the sublime chill of the night and the buzzing of the mosquitoes at the fountain.

Long conversations by the fire with a cup of hot tea or coffee, pages of thick books from the library, each paragraph and sentence nourishing the mind and giving rise to heated discussions until the throat was hoarse, until it was husky, but they loved to argue and learn new facets of each other in these verbal battles.

Late breakfasts (because they are both sleepyheads) that flowed smoothly into lunches, horse riding in the woods, catching crucian carp on the lake, hiding in the field with rye, quiet afternoons in the summerhouse where she painted and he read reports from the capital.

Day by day, her heart softened, love sprouted and blossomed.

But the gods can't stand it when humans ruin their plans, and they promise a terrible punishment to the one who separates the destined, who takes what is not rightfully theirs – not oblivion, but existence in eternal suffering.

But the inhabitants of the heavens are cunning; they send a punishment that should be man's voluntary choice, to blame himself for his decision.

“Healer, please tell me what's wrong with Eri. Why did she faint today? Is she sick? Can you cure her?” It was the first time the prince was so afraid, he had never imagined it could happen: another person's life means more than his own.

“Your Highness, I regret that my efforts here will be in vain. The girl is fading, though she loves you, away from her true mate, her body and soul are withering, I fear her inner fire will soon be extinguished. If you don't return her to her rightful lover, her spirit will fade.”

The prince clutched the arms of his chair with anger and resentment against the world and fate. No, he would not give up so easily. He would find a way to keep her alive without letting her go.

And as soon as the family doctor left his office, the lord of the manor hurried to the library, to the section where forbidden spells and rituals were kept. The prince had a gift, and there was no magic that would not find a way out of any difficulty; he was prepared to sacrifice everything he had, to pay any price, just to keep his beloved alive.

The solution was found almost immediately, in the first volume. An ancient curse on two lovers, seemingly harmless, but condemning them to endless rebirths.

She would become a beautiful flower, returning to her human form at sunset and to a fragile plant at dawn, while he... for every breath she took, he would have to give a part of his soul, and when the summers of the world were over, his soul would become part of the wind, his body would be scattered in ashes, and the gods would be satisfied with their vengeance.

“So much...” the prince groaned, leaning back in his chair, “my soul and the impossibility of being reborn to see her smile, feel her touch, hear her laugh and inhale the scent of her favourite perfume while I am still alive.”

One soul in exchange for another. The prince looked at the wall, decorated with sunbeams dancing through the hazel leaves, covered his eyes for a moment and returned to the book.

He decided to perform a blood ritual tonight, cursing them both, sacrificing eternal life for love, and perhaps the gods would have mercy and give him and his beloved a second chance.

How did it end? A few moons later.

The prince collapsed on the steps leading to the garden. The mansion towered silently over its master, watching, waiting – soon to absorb the remaining crumbs of power that flowed in scarlet drops of blood from the hand clutching the flower.

The bluish-lilac bud with white veins on the petals was almost wilted, the serrated dragon-green leaves twisted back to the base, hanging on with a last effort, threatening to fall at the feet of whoever was holding them with every gust of wind.

“Eri, I am sorry... forgive me,” the barely audible words fell from his lips. They went on and on, each time softer, whispered, then silent.

Suddenly the young man's fine features were distorted with pain.

“Aaaaagh,” a scream of agony echoed through the garden.

Prince Drago put his hands to his chest where his heart was bursting. His heart that he had guarded so carefully for decades, not allowing it to soften or harden immensely.

The flower slipped from his trembling fingers, hit the stone tiles, a gust of wind picked it up and pushed it closer to the edge. The bud overhung the step and fell onto the evenly mown lawn, where it remained motionless, protected from the breeze by the granite balustrade and the figure of a young man in agony.

But then his cry changed to a weak, exhausted, long moan, punctuated by a startled cry, “No! Where is she?”

The prince looked around frantically, felt for the surface of the stairs, tried to get up, grabbed the balustrade. He stumbled, off balance, and fell face down on the grass. But again, with tenacity, Drago lifted his head and crawled forward.

“I feel you are here somewhere... why did you leave me?” he mumbled through his tears, barely moving his arms and legs. “Why did even you leave me?”

His fingertips brushed the velvet of the petal, and with the ecstasy of a man who had found meaning in life, he grasped the stem, brought the flower to his face, inhaled the faint scent. He kissed it wildly, tears streaming down his tattered shirt to his wrist, and blood staining it.

“Forgive me, my love, forgive me... I swear, I swear on my soul, I will beg the gods to bring me back to this world. I'll get back to you.”

Gritting his teeth in pain, the prince touched the petals to his lips one last time. His frozen limbs no longer obeyed him, clenching in death spasms.

The last bright ray of the setting sun had faded beyond the horizon, darkness crept from behind the trees and covered the lawn with a chilly silence, even the ever-chirping birds on the branches had fallen silent, and the wind had hidden in the ravine.

A scream.

The kind of scream that made your knees buckle, that made you want to run, to go deaf, not to hear, not to feel the echoes of suffering in the ringing air. The young man sighed heavily and froze. His eyes were covered with the blindness of tears. Strength left every cell, evaporated from his bones, melted the light from his hair.

The last drop dripped onto the ground. The prince burst into flames and scattered into a myriad of night moths. The wind returned to its meadow and carried the butterflies away, far from the looming mansion and the girl who slept in the soft, low grass where the petals of the fallen bud had glistened before.

No one will wake her up that night and grumble about how soundly she slept.

No one will sing a lullaby that night to the prince who loved to hear her voice so much.

…