Trashes of the Counts' Families || Trash of the Count's Family || OC

43

Adara walked down the streets of the Capital. She was in her disguise, pale skin, no scars. Cale was not with her. He was waiting for her at the Residence. She wanted to do something before she entered the Plaza of Glory tomorrow.

She looked up at the building she had been walking to. The big white building, with its magnificence and cleanliness. It was dark, people still littering the streets. She took her eyes off the bright building, choosing to observe the happiness around her.

In some ways, she believed she was cursed. Cursed to silently observe, never to interact.

She could never be one of those people, the ones who sat at a bar and laughed with their friends as they took a swig of their beer. She could never be so at ease, so happy to be surrounded by people. So... unguarded. Not in a public place.

She turned round without another thought, walking up the stairs to the Temple of Death.

She met the guards at the door. Luckily for her, Sir Isac was at the door. He noticed her immediately, recognising her despite her disguise. He let her in with a smile, following behind her.

She raised an eyebrow. "Is your duty not to guard the door?" she asked.

Sir Isac put his sword into his scabbard. "Priest Bede has instructed I redirect you to his quarters if I see you."

Adara snorted. "Please go find him, Sir Isac, and tell him I will be in the garden."

Sir Isac was not one to argue, so he simply nodded and went to find Bede, wishing her a nice night as he went.

Adara silently made her way down to the gardens, not making a sound as she walked. The inside of the Temple was as quiet as death, she did not want to disrupt the quietness of it.

Upon reaching the garden, she took a moment to watch it. There was a peculiar flower that was commonly attributed to the God of Death. The Night Poppy. It was used in the Milk of the Poppy, the peasant version of a healing potion. The concoction gave you a dreamless sleep, it made sense it would be attributed to the God of Death, seeing as sleep was the closest to death.

In the garden, people could plant Night Poppies. It was an offering to the God of Death. Sometimes they prayed someone close to them would live a bit longer, sometimes they wished their enemies to live a bit shorter. Sometimes they planted a Night Poppy in honour of a deceased one, sometimes in remembrance.

The Night Poppy had big petals, the petals a blinding white. The stem was a green so dark it appeared black. The colours most associated with Death. White and black. White, the colour of Death. Black, the colour of death. It was truly not a wonder it is associated with the God of Death.

The garden was a large opening, the moon shining down. Among the green grass, hundreds of white flowers lit up the area, the petals catching the moonlight. She sat down on a piece of grass that did not have a flower planted.

She sat there, admiring the garden, for a while. It was beautiful and quiet. She loved the quiet. It was so peaceful. She didn't like it when it was loud. It hurt her ears. But the quiet she enjoyed.

It was never truly quiet, obviously. There was the whispering of the wind, the rustling of the grass, the muffled sounds coming from the windows of humans, the chirping of the crickets. But it was quieter than usual. And that was enough for her.

Muted footsteps approached her, the footsteps stopped a distance from her. She recognised the footsteps, did not fear them. After a second, the footsteps came closer. 

Bede sat next to her, watching the garden as well.

After a few moments of admiring, Bede spoke up. "Do you want to plant a Night Poppy?"