Blume Mir Peau

Phrase

Translation: Flower at the Skin

Definition: meaning to have emotions or sensations close to the surface, as if blooming right from the skin. It conveys a state where feelings are intense and barely contained, mirroring the delicate emergence of a flower on the skin.

"May I sit?"

Her voice broke his thought, soft yet cutting through the sound of the waves with ease. Mediah turned his head, his gaze settling on her figure silhouetted against the faint glow of the moons. She stood draped in a heavy blanket, holding a small empty jar in her hands. The blanket folds wrapped tightly around her shoulders and head.

He didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of surprise. It was as if he'd been expecting her all along. With a shrug, he gestured toward the sand beside him. "Do I have a choice?"

"The second moon finally rose," she replied instead. Her mismatched eyes glinted in the silver light as she stepped forward. The blanket whispered against the sand as she moved. She settled beside him without hesitation, her presence both intrusive and strangely inevitable.

"I want to believe you have a choice," she said, "You can say no… and I'll leave."

"You already sat down."

Without waiting for a further comeback, she slid the blanket out of her shoulders and, leaning closer, draped it over Mediah. The warmth of the heavy cloth was sinking into him before he could react.

"It's cold," she added simply. "I'll leave the door open if you change your mind."

Before she could stand, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, she dropped the jar into the sand. It wasn't planned, no thought behind the motion—just instinct, a reflex born of something deeper than reason.

The warmth of her skin against his palm jolted him like a spark, grounding him for a fleeting moment. He didn't tighten his grip, didn't pull her closer, but he wanted.

"Please stay." The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.

With a small nod, she folded her legs and pulled them close to her chest. Her arms wrapped loosely around her knees as she settled beside him.

Without a word, Mediah adjusted the blanket draped over his shoulders, lifting one side and spreading it to cover her. "It's cold," he said.

"Muru is going to return 249 days before the sun rises." The statement hung in the air, unprompted, as if she were answering a question he hadn't asked—or dared to ask.

Mediah turned his head, catching the glow of her mismatched eyes as she looked out over the horizon. And then, she added, "You're more than welcome to stay. Or, if you prefer to leave, I can let Muru know you passed by."

"How did you know I was here?" he asked, "The beach is… big. I could be anywhere."

"It is big." she agreed, getting closer to him. "But you are always here, always in this spot."

"I can't stay," he said. "It would be disrespectful to Muru. I'm not that sort of man. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone, not even my enemies!"

"Well, then you should go," she said, her tone even, almost indifferent, as she drew her side of the blanket tighter around herself. "But there are no boats to the Turtle District tonight." Her shrug was resigned. "You have a room waiting for you at home. Tomorrow morning, you leave, and I'll let Muru know so he can contact you. I will try to convince him to sponsor the Trial. I can't promise it will work. But I'll try."

Her eyes finally met his, steady but devoid of expectation. "I'm not going to lead you on. That was never my plan. Or force you into something you don't want to do. I wouldn't wish this upon anyone, not even my enemies."

"What is my answer?"

"Your answer?"

"How many times did I stay? How many times did I leave?"

Doriana tightened her grip on the blanket, her fingers clutching the fabric as her eyes dropped to her bare feet, half-buried in the cool sand. "As I said," she murmured, restrained, "it's not up to me to decide. But…"

The moons illuminated her complexion in a way that made the sadness in her expression seem almost ethereal. She was breathtaking. Noctavia's beauty would fade next to Doriana's.

"But?" he prompted.

"But I guess I'll meet you next time," she said, her lips curving into the saddest smile he ever saw.

She was so close that he could feel her breath against his skin, their noses almost brushing. The space between them was barely a whisper. Mediah's gaze locked onto hers, and for the first time in his life, he found himself utterly powerless—unable, unwilling to look away. How he managed the strength not to pull her lips against his was a mystery he would never understand.

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It wasn't just desire, though, that burned brightly enough to make his pulse quicken. It was more than that—something vast, consuming, and impossible to name. He didn't just want her; he wanted everything—he wanted to be part of her.

"Maybe this helps."

Doriana's fingers brushed against his as she took his hand, her touch lingering just long enough to leave his skin tingling. She placed a small object in his palm, closing his fingers gently around it.

Before he could respond, she rose gracefully to her feet, the blanket slipping from her shoulders and settling over his lap. The sudden absence of her warmth made the cool night air feel more acute.

"Well," she said, brushing the sand from her skirt, "I'm going home. I'm not sure if I should wish you goodnight or goodbye, but… It was nice to meet you… again."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and began walking away. The soft crunch of her bare feet on the sand faded with each step, leaving Mediah alone with the hum of the waves and the small object clenched in his hand.

He turned it over between his fingers, it was a coin.

He chuckled to himself, a dry, humourless sound that was swallowed by the sound of the waves. The irony wasn't lost on him. Xendrix never really understood the meaning of the coin, although he tried and tried to teach him.

After everything, he was the one questioning it—the tangled emotions, the inexplicable pull toward her—and it all came back to this—Coin. The very reason he'd returned to the Fisherman District in the first place—Coin.

He continued to roll the coin between his thumb and forefinger. He should get up. He should leave. The docks weren't far, and by morning, the first boat would be waiting to carry him away from all of this—away from her. The idea of staying any longer gnawed at him. Things had already gone sideways, unravelling faster than he could piece them together. Staying could only make it worse.

"For fuck sake, you are a Headmaster! Focus!"

And yet, his feet didn't move. The logical part of him screamed to stand, to take that first step back toward safety and certainty. But something deeper, quieter, kept him sitting there, the coin flipping effortlessly through his fingers.

He didn't know why. Or maybe he did and just didn't want to admit it. Either way, he remained in the same spot.

Mediah's gaze drifted upward, caught by the twin moons glowing brightly in the dark expanse of the sky. He couldn't look away, mesmerised by its sheer beauty, a sight that seemed to demand awe and celebration.

And yet, the beach remained silent. No shouts of wonder, no songs to honour the return of the second moon. The world seemed indifferent, going about its quiet rhythms as if nothing extraordinary was happening above.

Why isn't anyone shouting? he thought, a flicker of frustration bubbling beneath the surface. If not for the weight pressing on his chest, grounding him in his own self-pity, he might have been the first to cry out, to celebrate the beauty that hung so plainly in the sky.

When was the last time he'd seen the sky with its nine moons? The memory came slowly, like an old song playing in the distance. Back then, in front of the Meerio, when it was still a river. He could almost feel the rough wood of the bench beneath him with a beer bottle in his hand. Jaer had been beside him, laughing too loudly and talking about girls.

He could hear Jaer's teasing tone. They had worked so hard then, harder than they ever should have needed to, but it hadn't mattered. Everything had felt simpler until Xendrix.

"This is all Yeso's doing, convincing us there's an impossible love destined for each of us."

"What the fuck are you doing, dude? Just go." His hands flexed against the grains, the cool grit slipping through his fingers as the question lingered: Go where?

He knew the answer. Of course, he knew. But it wasn't the right answer. A Magi doesn't turn against another Magi. That was the rule. And yet… Muru had abandoned his robe. Walked away without explanation, leaving behind the principles they had once upheld together.

But Muru was still his friend. Wasn't he? Even though the years had passed in silence, with no letters, no word of where he was or what had become of him. Mediah hadn't even known about the marriage until he stood face-to-face with her.

His saat—his very essence—felt stretched to the breaking point, torn between what he wanted and what he knew he should do.

He glanced down at the coin resting in his palm. Head, I stay. Tail, I go, he decided.

With a flick of his thumb, the coin sailed into the air, spinning in the silver light. For a brief moment, it seemed time hung with it, suspended mid-flight. As it fell, Mediah reached to catch it, but the coin slipped past his fingers, landing with a muffled thud in the sand.

He leaned closer, peering at the spot where it had landed, but the moonlight failed to reveal whether it was head or tail. Frowning, he shifted, the blanket slipping slightly from his shoulders as his feet shuffled through the cool sand. He reached for the coin, his fingers brushing over the grains.

But it wasn't there.

His movements became frantic, his hand sweeping over the spot where it should have been. The sand felt smooth and undisturbed, as though the coin had simply vanished. He searched again, his heart quickening, but no matter how he shifted or how the light caught the grains, the coin was gone. Disbelief settled over him like the blanket now slipping further off his shoulders.

Mediah froze, his hand still brushing through the sand. A quiet realisation settled over him like the gentle crash of the waves. He didn't need to see the coin to know its answer—he already knew what he wanted it to be. Head.

The blanket draped over his arm as he gathered it, rolling it tightly while juggling the weight of his bag with his other hand.

With one final glance toward the water, the twin moons casting their glow over the endless waves, he turned away leaving behind an empty jar.

The door was ajar, its faint creak barely audible as Mediah pushed it open and stepped inside without hesitation. He let his bag drop unceremoniously in the middle of the hallway, its dull thud echoing before silence reclaimed the space. From the shadows, Gale emerged, his round glasses catching the glow of the house's candles. The goatman didn't say a word, just pointed a cloven hand toward the small dining room down the hall. Mediah followed as though walking a path he hadn't entirely chosen. In the dining room, a single plate sat on the table beside a modest platter of mashed sweet potatoes. To his right, a coin gleamed in the muted light—tail. He stared at it, his heart skipping a beat. His eyes flicked around the room, scanning the corners for any sign of another presence. Nothing. Slowly, almost mechanically, he reached out and flipped the coin, turning it to his head.

The average healthy pregnancy spans approximately 249 days. What is particularly fascinating is that this duration seems universal, transcending racial boundaries—whether human, elf, Menschen, orc, or other beings. Across these diverse lineages, the cycle remains consistent. A curious detail, to be sure, and one I felt compelled to share with my readers. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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