archiveofarethusa: (Cyprian Corvo)
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Cyprian loved all flowers, even the assholes. Asters were something different. Cyprian loathed silence, and if asters had ever uttered a word not even other flowers could say. They communicated in shocks of emotion and impression and spectral color.

Cyprian had asked, once, why this was so, and received a succession of images: a woman, her spine in a perfect, unnatural arc, an aster drinking up her tears. A dark, hazy sepia burning into a black than was more than black. Howling gusts, and the shape of those who were listening beyond them.

Cyprian loved all flowers. He feared for only one.

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