Delicate Flower - A Hilda Fanzine

PETALS ACROSS SEASONS
ANONYMOUS WORDSMITH
Spring extends into her months to watch over the late blooming flowers;
he pushes peonies and lavender and daisies down the stream that separates
their houses and in front of where Hilda spends most of her days. She picks
them up to leave them at her side for later. Every morning finds her there,
sitting on the river bank with her feet in the water and her white linen dress
blowing in the wind, as carefree as the birds that sing about the passing
of time.
There is never much for her to do, not when the other seasons do their
tasks so perfectly — Claude had always been on better terms with the sun,
the two of them arranged to melt away winter’s cold as soon as the time was
right and bring life to the plants and wildlife that had been hiding under the
protective snow. She finds the sun intimidating, a little too tall and serious
for her liking despite the warmth that it radiates, so when spring moves
into summer and Claude passes her the responsibility of handling the sun,
Hilda will simply leave it be.
“Will you do me a favor, handsome,” she begins every year without fail, “I see
no reason to direct how much you shine. There’s no one better than you to
know how much is too much, right? I would be forever grateful.”
The people can be picky. Too hot, too cold, too much sun or never enough,
always bordering the thin line between comfort and discomfort and praying
to their statues for one more day of light, one less day of heat. Hilda has come
to the conclusion long ago that they will always be disappointed no matter
what they’re given — perhaps it comes with being a deity, or the fragility
of the balance between their seasons, but she sees no reason to ever lift
a finger.
The sun can shine all it wants because it should know better than her, and
Claude brings back the spring breeze when the heat gets too much. He did
scold her at first; according to him the sun does his tasks too eagerly, and the
temperatures become unbearable. Hilda weaves his flowers into a garland
and floats it back to him with a smile over the river when the waters are
stilled, a “you tell him”, happy with the grumble she gets in response. Even
the seasons that work incessantly deserve their rest.
So the sun shines high in the air, Hilda weaves her flowers into accessories,
and the rain peeks at her over autumn’s fence asking if they can come out
and play already. No way. Rain would mean going back inside — it would
mean not seeing the others, no playful smile on spring’s lips, nor the freckles
autumn bears, nor the rare occasions where winter isn’t napping and gathers
them all to talk about the old times when the earth was frozen and only
he existed. Her months of the year are the only time when neither of them
are busy.
Hilda isn’t busy because she doesn’t want to be; all Claude has to do is
supervise his flowers and the couples he’s pushed together, and Ashe
doesn’t offer his bounty to the harvests nor paints colors onto the leaves until
the days grow shorter. Linhardt, always wrapped in blankets to stay warm
no matter how much power the sun puts into its shine, doesn’t know what
being busy means. Winter is nothing but a long sleep of life, and the rest of
them are there to make sure it doesn’t last forever.
“Sleep is necessary,” Linhardt says while letting Hilda braid flowers into his
hair one morning, while Claude and Ashe are having a heated discussion on
what fruit represents love the best. All of them, she thinks, if they’re made
into a cake, but watching them bicker over something so inconsequential
has her heart floating. She almost doesn’t realize Linhardt is talking for once.
Another lily goes into Linhardt’s hair, another braid, Hilda’s practiced hands
don’t tug even a single strand. She spots some white hairs here and there
that Claude must’ve missed when he dyed it last time.
“Is it?” she asks, curious what he has to say. Even Ashe and Claude have
stopped their argument to listen.
“Think about it,” Linhardt continues, “be it the smallest plant or the largest
animal you can imagine. Sadness, hunger, worries, exhaustion, sleep takes
all those things away, it makes it easier to face them when you next open
your eyes.”
“We don’t sleep,” Ashe says. “Except you.”
“Exactly. How do you deal with the things that weigh on your heart?”
Worries. Hilda is convinced she doesn’t have anything like that; if she doesn’t
need to sleep by nature nor has she ever considered doing it, it must mean
that there’s no need for it, that Linhardt was simply on one of his observational
tangents that in the end lead to nothing. Even so, his words do cause her
to think about herself beyond what she would ever consider comfortable.
Some days she stares at the sun, who makes sure not to harm her,
and wonders if there is something she did wrong.
People will always be disappointed, no matter what they do; Claude who
brings color and life and love, Ashe who brings families and food and peace,
and Linhardt with his mantles of snow and beauty and rest. Too much, not
enough, never enough —so Hilda will never bring anything, never listen to
the voices of their prayers, the sadness, the begging. The garland of white
roses by her feet look about to wilt, laid forgotten for the weeks her mind has
been elsewhere. Is it really sleep she needs or will that make her risk it again?
Disappointment stings like a poison that could kill her, slow and agonizing,
and she has been watching the other three drink it without worry and rinse
and repeat with every passing year. She forgets about the roses, and the new
flowers Claude is sending her, and rests her head on her knees; the sun’s
warmth embraces her and the rain falls silent. Hilda, summer, beautiful and