𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, ( nihachu )

over the wide skies up above (and the earth below) - i

REQUEST|  No  (this idea came to be a really long time ago by lea making a great connection between niki's character study from the first chapter to this story in a server we were in, adding a prompt onto it. despite the long ass time it took me to get enough motivation for this, i'm still very thankful for your help.)

CC| c!Niki, brief mentions of other CC's

CW: brief mention of battles, blood and fire

⸻IT IS A FRIDAY MORNING, the first day of Winter. The sky is cloudy and grey, and snowflakes flutter down from the pale grey sky, looking soft and heavy and fluffy, landing on the snow banks that have been there for days, if not weeks, in Dream's SMP. It was almost peaceful. But you weren't stepping onto this patch of land for a mere stroll. 

There is a war brewing within this nation.

It seeps into the earth like the blood previously spilled from old conflicts, dyeing the soil a faint tinge of russet. It was in the weight of the axe slung on your back, the sword strapped to your hip - sharpened to a point, it's leather grip faded with use, forever stained by the invisible streams of red seeping from gapind wounds and unknown faces. It was ingrained into your skin as the scent of ash and gunpowder and dirt, one that seemed to persist despite the many showers you took. It was confirmed by your presence alone.

You walked down the cobbled streets of the town, give a passing glance to the odd buildings that stick out of the ground like a sore thumb, splashed with bright colors and interesting designs, to say the least.

This town was remarkable, every bit as unique as the descriptions in the letter tucked neatly within your satchel. You find yourself holding a frown back, brows furrowing. The unremarkable towns were always overlooked. In your line of work, that meant they were the safest.

This town was far from it, along with its people.

Throughout your walk, the eyes have not strayed. 

Your reputation as the Herald precedes you. Wherever you go, there are always whispers of your name, rumors of your immortality or your wealth or your bloodied legacy. It has caused you a good deal of trouble, but it also made sure most people would leave you alone.

Most of the time.

---

You meet on the same Friday morning, on the first day of Winter, under the same snowy overcast sky.

It's a collision only barely avoided; you swerve, but the white petals — sticking out every which way — still brush against your cheek, not as easily dodged as the one carrying them, stumbling around the corner without any particular concern or hesitation to slow. The collision hardly stops there, because the resulting stream of clumsy steps and sharp intakes of breath nearly mask what comes next: an apology that somehow manages to sound soft and sincere, one that holds no trace of alarm.

The words float in the air and settle low in your chest, the accent behind them a comfort you can almost remember. The thought doesn't make any sense, but you hardly have time to consider its meaning because it's followed so quickly by a scent — floral and strong and overwhelming and familiar — that turns the world over on itself, shifts the seasons, melts the ice around you. 

"Sorry! I've got so many of these things that I can barely see and I've got to place them in my flower shop in five minutes and I'm running a bit late and are you okay?"