A Fallen Blossom

Rammah pulled open the tiny piece of paper and tsked while a pit formed in his stomach, took hold.

“What news, big brother?” asked Rammah’s half-sister, Lamia, her mouth was parted curiously in a small “o” shape. She held onto his sleeve. “News of the succession?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, feeding the pigeon a crumb of bread from his sandwich. He attempted to shoo the bird away, flapping his sleeves at it, but the idiot bird did not alight.

She gave him a look, her I-know-you’re-hiding-bad-news look. “Is it something we can control?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Welp—” she slapped her hands together, “—I guess we’ll just have to eat then. No sense in letting anything spoil our appetites.”

“Yes, Lammy, let’s continue our picnic.”

Lamia practically dove into the picnic basket, wiggling back and forth as she looked for something. The pit in Rammah’s stomach slowly dissipated as he watched her rummage and took nibbles of his own sandwich. When she came up for air, she held in her hands a thin rectangular package wrapped in foil.

“If somebody has to die, though,” she said as she peeled open the foil, “I’m going to start with dessert.”

He watched her eat, savoring the moment of peace. For someone with such a small mouth, Lamia took surprisingly large bites, then spent a significant amount of time looking like a chipmunk as she chewed. Or maybe she took several bites in succession and he’d never noticed? That struck him as unlikely. In this case, the little parcel had a long row of chocolate bonbons which she popped into her mouth by twos.

She really did look like a chipmunk which made Rammah chuckle to himself. Rammah chewed on a bonbon thoughtfully until it melted in his mouth.

As they sat there pecking at (or shoveling in) bonbons, Rammah lamented the time he hadn’t been able to spend with her. Talking to his half sister had always calmed him, centered him. He wished he could take that feeling with him. Sadly, the circumstances of their familial dynamics prevented it. He commanded the troops while she — being the legitimate child — though young, commanded everyone else including Rammah.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lamia took up a couple of the cherry blossoms which fell on the picnic blanket and stuffed them in her water cup, then in Rammah’s cup. She told him to give it a minute before trying the drink and that it would be good — she’d done this before. They finished the bonbons and resumed work on the sandwiches.

When the sandwiches were gone and all they had left were the pickled vegetables Lamia gave permission to drink the sakura beverages. The floral notes danced on Rammah’s palette. He’d never thought to consume the petals and now the inside of his mouth tasted the way outside his mouth smelled.

“This is a treat, Lammy,” he said.

“I know.” It wasn’t arrogant, just a statement of fact. Lamia didn’t have the luxury of arrogance; too many enemies were closing in on her.

They sat in silence a moment.

“Big brother,” Lamia said, “what did the note say?”

He handed the note to her. There was one word scribbled across it in handwriting that was too elegant to be anyone but their half-brother, Cyrus the Usurper. The note said, “Now.”

Lamia read the note, the word, and laughed. “That’s it? ‘Now?’ As if that’s a signal?” She looked at Rammah. “Am I to believe you’re going to kill me now? You won’t.”

Once again, not arrogant, just a statement of fact. And she was right. Rammah would not raise a hand to his sister; it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest: not his own, not their people, not even Cyrus’.

She pulled a stiletto knife from somewhere and pricked her finger. A small bead of blood welled up and she smeared it across the word on the page.

“There. Now I am ‘dead.’ Cyrus will invite you to his place to thank you — and probably frame you for my murder.”

She tied the bloody scrap of paper to the pigeon’s leg and fed it more crumbs of sandwich bread.

“Or he would,” she said as she waved a pickled carrot at the pigeon, “if I hadn’t already sent someone in your stead to act as you.” When the bird did not take it she tossed the pickled carrot into her mouth.

A chill ran up Rammah’s spine; he set down his beverage.

An explosion sounded in the distance and the pigeon took off, carrying the bloody scrap of paper tied to its leg.

“Blood for blood,” Lamia said. “Whomsoever receives that pigeon will also be the hands that cradle Cyrus’ remains.”

The chill ran back down Rammah’s spine.

Rammah considered his sister: the bright, cheery young woman who would often act both much younger and much older than her twenty-two years. Things had always worked out for her in some way or another, but he’d credited that to luck.

The pit in his stomach turned to a stone and sank to his bowels.

Lamia sat on the picnic blanket, drinking her makeshift cherry blossom tea. No nerves, no anger, no trepidation.

Calm. Only calm…

Rammah wondered if there could have been another way.