Private Lantern Flowers [M]

Of course, it’s flamboyant. Garrod was a godsdamned duelist. Duelists never dress like they plan to survive the fight. If they have an audience to watch them die beautifully, they would dress up for that.

“He’s a duelist. Comes with the trade. Flashy bastards, all of ’em.” Her tone was lazy, but there was a small curl at the edge of her lip.

Daniyah flicked a glance down at the black-and-gold doublet. She smoothed a hand down the sleeve. The gold embroidery still stubbornly bright despite the years. The wraithbinder was not complaining. It was warm, it fit well enough, and, though she’d never confess it out loud, it felt… comforting because it smelled like him. Of steel polish and some lingering note of resin. Too fine a thing for a cazador.

Her eyebrow lifted, slow as a drawbridge. The girl’s excuse tumbled out, hangry, of all things. Daniyah huffed through her nose. “…Right,” Daniyah said. The word dropped like a pebble into still water. No splash, no fuss. “Hunger will make monsters of us all.”

She stepped forward, one hand curling around the broom’s shaft. “Give me that.” Brinda held on for half a heartbeat, reflex, pride, habit, then let it go. Daniyah leaned it against the wall with a hollow thunk. “Fuck sweeping,” she said. Brinda blinked up at her, startled. “This place is a lost cause. Save the broom for something useful... like beating the rats.”

Daniyah jerked her chin toward the kitchen, where garlic and roasted chilies thickened the air. “Let’s go see if there’s anything to eat.”

Daniyah padded down the hall, Brinda hesitated only a heartbeat before trailing after her. The kitchen glowed with firelight, a battered pot bubbling on the stove. Steam curled toward the rafters in lazy spirals. Garrod’s back was turned, stirring with the sort of concentration. "Your stray’s about to eat the broom if you don’t feed her soon..."

“Protégé. Sure... Dress it up however you want." Bold fucking move, calling the girl that. A dangerous one. But Daniyah was outnumbered in this house; no point in arguing. Did not need to fight a child, a ghost, and a duelist at the same time. Flicked Brinda a sidelong look. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just a look.

Domestic bliss, she thought. About as comfortable as wearing someone else’s skin.

But places like this, warm kitchens, steady hands, kids who expected to be fed, those were for other people. Brinda devoured her food like a half-starved pup, and Garrod fussed over pans and knives. Ordinary motions. Faintly comforting ones. The sort of thing you only notice if you’d never had them.

"Pues, eres toda una vista"

"A sight, huh?"

Daniyah took a slow breath, letting it out in a quiet hiss. Leaned against the splintered counter, the wood rough under her forearms, and let her eyes flick to Garrod and then to the girl. Pale eyes narrowed just a fraction as Brinda grabbed the cup. She didn’t care if the girl took a drink. There were worse things than a little fire in her belly.

Plenty in this world isn’t for you, brat, she thought. Recklessness in the blood, that lack of self-control. It had consequences. Daniyah had learned that the hard way. The price of impulses. Daniyah let her eyes flick to Garrod as he fussed over Brinda and the drink. Coaxing, guiding, smoothing over the girl’s impatience with ease. How natural he seemed, fatherly, how instinctive. Like he’d been born to this, to coddle, guide, protect.

What the fuck is even this? I could be anywhere, be at the tavern down the road, rolling dice with the leftover coin from the horse bets… anything but standing here pretending to care about a kid learning not to dip into every glass standing on the table.

She shifted on her feet, feeling the tug of unease. This domestic, warm, firelit mess, this wasn’t her natural habitat. And yet, here she was, breathing it in, keeping her hands bored and empty of violence. A snack landed in her palms. She took a slow bite, licking chili from her lip.

Watch him as he stood over the pot, stirring with an easy rhythm. Steam curled around him, gilding him in the fire’s glow. His shoulders were loose. And his face… there was that faint smile. Small, warm, the kind that slipped out when you weren’t thinking about it.

Daniyah felt the tug of something soft and stupid in her chest.

He looks… happy.

Happy. Content. Here, in this ruined house with its broken windows and drafts. With a lightning-scarred stray wandering circles around the table. With a woman who’d dragged hurt into his life. And he was smiling. For a moment she forgot the rats in the walls, the creaking ghost, the uneasy tightness in her shoulders that had been there since the door opened. She forgot how out of place she felt. Seeing him at peace made her feel… good.

She looked away quickly, as if caught staring. She didn’t trust herself not to break it. Don’t ruin this, she warned herself. Don’t open your mouth and spoil the air.

Daniyah caught the lime Garrod tossed her, more out of reflex than grace. It was a small wonder the man was still upright. After all he had been through tonight, he still managed to cook food for them all. He had been shaken up by her, half-spent by the devil, prophesied by a death priest ...not to mention his leg. But here he was, hip-bumping her and fussing over the fire like some stubborn tavern cook who didn’t know when to lie down. He would sleep like stone tonight.

She squeezed the lime, let the sting bite her tongue. Took the cup he offered and tipped what was left of the tequila down her throat. Burned clean. Brinda raised her cup in that cocky, crooked little toast of her and earned a flash of teeth from Daniyah. Smiling, she set the empty cup on the table. Cleared her throat.

“Ven acá,” Daniyah said and Brinda froze mid-chew.

Daniyah dragged the basket closer, the woven reeds creaking under the weight of blooms bought from the stall. She tipped the basket so Brinda could see inside. Peonies with their pink folds. Blood-red roses still slick with dew and the cempasúchil, flowers of the dead.

“We’re setting the altar. Help me.”

On her way to the small table that had been designated to be transformed into an altar, she hooked an arm around his waist. "Huele bien." Words behind his ear.

Brinda drained the cup. Eyes shriveled and squint, like lime halves squeezed to the last drop. La tequila quemó algo feo. All the way down. She clacked the cup against the table and coughed some.

The house groaned. All wail and shake.

Brinda's brow raised. Looked about. Wheezed her way through the coughs to smile. "Like a mountain's ass!" she hissed. And she would know. Buzzed a few hunts down the slope of a mountain with old Jesper. All black rock and hell holes. Smelled like soot for a month after that!

A click of teeth. "Chamaca necia," Garrod said without so much as turning around,

Didn't right know what Garrod had said, but, had a sense for it. Wrong move. Thump thumped her chest with her gearwork arm, small pieces of it clicked, clinked, and wound up with the stuttery motion.

Mouth half stuffed, she didn't expect the witch... Daniyah, to call her over. Looked to Garrod who just, lumbered over the cookfire, as he so liked to do. Crablegs. She groaned internally.

Though, she had never had them the way he got them smelling now. All fiery and full of garlic and onion. Most they ever had out on the hunts was some salt. Pepper if they were lucky. And they were still... good. If not a mess to eat. But oh, right!

Her head turned to find Daniyah, and she let her little cup down. Moseyed on over to the big basket full of flowers. Stared at them a moment.

"We're setting the altar. Help me"

"The altar?" her eyes fixed on the petals so bunched together. Beads of dew, stinky with musky pollen strong enough to smell a mile away! And she would know. Grabbed up the dead give away basket. "What for?" she couldn't help but ask.

A hand wound around him."Huele bien." All warm rumble against his bone.

He hummed, to match the tone that worked down through him. Heat of her breath still swirled against his ear like a spell pulling him closer. "Pues claro," he said eye following after her. "You took a bath after all," all hint of teeth. Could still smell the lavendar and honey trailing off of her.

The crab half served into a wide dish. The red juices of the broth, pooling at its basin, molten and steaming with a shimmering heat. His hands mid reach to snag up another spiny limb.

"Hey, you are one to talk, Garrod," Brinda stuck out. "Looking like a cat's old prize, and then some!" she grinned. Stuck a flower on the table. A long stemmed rose. Then a peony. Set her eyes down to the basket. "Talking about a lady's scent," shook her head. "It's just rude." laid down a fat headed marigold. Bright as the sun as it glowed.

Brinda blinked, belly warm from the tequila. "Woah,"

"Yeah, teach him some manners, Brinda!" Daniyah grinned as she spread a white tablecloth over the small table. The tablecloth was decorated with colorful embroidery of flowers and hummingbirds. Tradition said the dead liked beauty. Sweet things. Warm color. The living did too, she supposed.

"The altar? What for?"

She didn’t answer Brinda right away. Words like these weren’t meant to be tossed around plain as water. You had to set them down right. With care. And simple enough for a child to understand. She pulled out a handful marigolds, their gold bright they sting the eye, and began to weave them with careful fingers. Her hands knew how to do this, muscle memory. Twist the stem. Fold. Tuck. Soon she was holding a crown of flowers, and she tenderly placed it on the girl's white-streaked hair.

“It’s the day the door between worlds opens.” Her hand hovered over the basket, gathering petals with slow, ritualistic motions. Marigold dust clung to her fingers like powdered sunlight. “When someone dies, they still wander awhile. They follow scents, memories, and things they loved in life. If we feed the dead, honor them, guide them…” she continued quietly, “they can stop clawing at the living. Or at least… loosen their grip.”

She lifted a marigold between two fingers. "But the dead needed guidance. Marigolds for their path. A way home. A way out." The flower's color bright enough to cut through shadows. "Offerings. Bread, fruit, salt, candles. " She laid the flower on the altar. Leaving the flower decoration to the girl.

"And... they need permission. To rest." Her eyes flicked toward Garrod before they climbed up to the rafters, the stains on the walls, the corners where cold still clung. The house had never forgotten the man who died here.

“This house has held onto a spirit too long.” She spoke the way people did around graves and old wounds, careful. “Cazadore Artorias Sins.” She dragged her thumb through a scattering of petals. “Tonight, we give him a way to leave.” Hopefully, unless Garrod had some emotional tantrum ...

"Ask Garrod about Sinns. I've heard the man set his boots on fire once..."

"Yeah, teach him some manners, Brinda!"

A laugh, clicked through the proud grin that bloomed across the kid's face.

And Garrod couldn't help but smile along with the ugly glee. A laugh, bubbled up from the pit of him. Lifted his head up and let out a cackle.

Brinda's eyes dart to him. Wide, lips still curled. "What?!" she asked him as Daniyah set out the cloth.

He just shook his head. Cheeks red with the heat of laughter. "What was that look on your face?" he asked through small bounces in his bones.

"What?!" she reached for a bit of ammunition from the basket as Garrod mimed the look. Felt the soft give of the flowers. Gasped. Remembered something. Looked back to Daniyah who wound so carefully the bright flowers by their stems.

It was mesmerizing.

And no sooner had she started looking, did she find herself crowned by the glowing blooms. Pollen dusting down gentle as fat and easy snow.
She sneezed.

Garrod stood back and watched. Leaned at the old cracked up counter. Crab legs steamed behind him in their red clay pot, atop an old round of wood. All the other things prepped about. Warm across the face. Could blame it on the tequila. Or the fire. Had a feeling the dicing with the red devil wouldn't do him any good. Pero, fregado.

For all the truth in Daniyah's steel, her hands worked with true ease and grace about the most delicate things. Pulling and twisting the fragile flower stalks to braids. Enough to make Garrod jealous of the affection she showed them. Enough to have him laugh at his own foolishness. Have him feel like nothing else mattered. Not the next day. Not their hunts or their hurts.

Just glad to see her there, teaching Brinda something that mattered more than all the songs and coin and glory they had found along their rondillas. Traditions. Culture. Cuentos. Cosas que merecían ser recordadas.

He had caught Daniyah's look, and he gave her a sure nod. Moved to ready the plates of food for the altar.

"Permission?" Brinda asked, voice full of awe for all she had heard. All she had seen. Like the lighting of a fire. A thing of breath and spark. Small moments. Each one as meaningless as the last when taken alone. But together. The fire came lit. Just as the flower glowed. All the way down from Daniyah's hand, down to the alter.

Made the girl gasp. A whole breathless moment.

Brinda's hands, mismatched as they were, were half done with a messy crown of their own. Loose, and just braided. But still, coming together. She put it down in the basket, and took up the flowers. Laid them down in an arrangement that felt like... something. Like rest. Back to back. About a fire. Close enough to each other to tell stories. To hear the laughs soft beneath the breath.

Tonight we give him a way to leave.

Brinda was already scattering petals toward the door. Toward the road. Where she had seen all the cempaxochitle.

Ask Garrod about Sinns. I've heard the man set his boots on fire once...

And the house shook. Almost a laugh, with how warm the sound seemed.

Garrod smirked. Shook his head. Plate ready, he brought it to the altar. Set it down, where there was some space clear of all the glowing beauty. The crablegs steamed in their angry red broth. Tan lleno de savor que quemava tan rico con dolor. Cada jalada de los pulmones, picados con pacion.

"Well?" Brinda asked. Blinking as she watched the steam swirl around him. "Is it true, Garrod?"

He chuffed a laugh. "Better pour him a drink, less we want him angry at us for letting you steal it," Garrod let easy.

Brinda scurried off.

"Permission?" The girl asked.

“Spirits don’t always stay because they want to. Most don’t. They linger because someone alive… can't let go.” she continued softly. Daniyah didn’t look at the girl at first. She let her fingers trail through the petals, they glowed like slivers of captured dusk. “Sometimes we’re the ones haunting them.” voice steady as a lit lantern in the dark.

“Love is a powerful tether. So is hate and guilt. So is grief and sorrow. I've seen children crying in their sleep, calling back their mothers." She looked at Brinda's handiwork, a bright path of petals leading toward the door, toward the night, toward release.

While the girl scurried off and Garrod placed the plate on the altar, Daniyah reached into the basket again, fingers brushing through the flowers until she found the smooth shapes hidden beneath their petals and leaves. The mazacoins, old silver, worn thin, edges kissed soft by time. She dropped them carefully on the altar. Then Daniyah pulled out the little paper creature, crinkled, hand-painted, no taller than her palm. An alebrije, its shape somewhere between a peacock and a horned serpent, with translucent wings that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. A guide. A guardian for the monster hunter. For a man who chased nightmares with a smirk and a blade. Wanderer.

She set the tiny figurine atop the folded cloth, adjusting one wing so it stood proud, ready to take to the air. No one should walk the darkness alone. Daniyah straightened and reached for a few of the candles. pale as bone. She set four on the altar.

One candle lit.
Then another.
And another.
And the last.

Firelight spread across the altar, catching on copper bowls, on the glistening crab shells, on the wet rose petals, on the silver coins that gleamed like tiny moons. The alebrije cast a strange shadow, long-winged and wild. Brinda placed a glass, filled to the brim with tequila, on the altar.

“This,” Daniyah said, watching the girl wiping her fingers on her shirt, “is how you show a spirit respect. You remember who they were, not just how they died.”

But Daniyah was not stone.
Her hand rose, and she placed her palm against Garrod’s neck. Her thumb brushed the tense line of muscle, and her other fingers slid into his hair, combing softly through the strands at his nape. When Brinda asked about the boots and a laugh escaped Garrod, her hand fell away.

"And there I was, scared shitless..."
Daniyah huffed. He still looks like that sometimes, scared and stubborn in the same breath.

The table was crooked, two legs shorter than the others, but Brinda had earlier braced it with a pair of flat river stones and declared it “good enough.”

While Garrod told the rest of the story, dinner was ladled into mismatched bowls, steam curling. Red broth, bright with onion, garlic, and fire, shimmered under the shroudlights. Tortillas were stacked in a folded cloth to keep them warm. The three of them gathered around the small table, boots knocking against chair legs, the scrape of wood on tile filling the quiet between Garrod’s words. Brinda dug in first, all slurps and elbows. Flower crown slightly crooked.

Spoons dipped, clinked, stirred. Daniyah took her first bite.
Stew looked innocent enough.
It wasn’t.

The broth hit her like a hammer, chilies, garlic, tomatoes, lime, heat bright enough to bring water to her eyes. Warmth spread through her throat down to her chest. Her lashes fluttered. Her breath halted. A betraying warmth crept into her cheeks. She tried for a second spoonful. "It’s got a kick.” she rasped.

Soft, easy touches. Fingers through his hair. Callouses nicked scars. Scraped across tension, like a reminder to breath. Pressed like promises, that it would be alright.

Even after they had fallen away. He could feel their wake spreading over his skin. All raised hair and sparks. Rubbed his own fingers there, as the story fell out of him. Craned to the memory of touch with a roll of his neck. They moved to the table.

"I had been caught out by a pair of elven assassins," he poured out the soup, red liquid sloshing like hot blood. "Leg sliced something ugly, after I had been hit by a poison dart. Their sword came down right across the calf," he grinned down at Brinda, who stared at him wide eyed. She looked to Daniyah. Garrod looked to her too. "Had me at sword's point, the bastards did," he held his chin up, eye narrowed, as if he stared down the steel. "Arrogance, or mercy, hard to tell really,"

Passed the first bowl to the kid, and poured another helping.

"Y ayi es cuando llego el viejo ,"

The bay of an unseen wind sounded through the of the house. The markings across the horned serpent glowed to life. Its translucent wings shimmered bright. Shook. As its body rippled with the slow stirrings of coming to wake.

Garrod swooped one hand onto the other with a clap. Laughed. Passed the second bowl to Daniyah.

"All bird on the dive! Sword lashed out, terrible beak that it is, chopped one of the elves' arm's clean off!" poured his own bowl. "Whirled round with a wrath cut twist that was all dragon fire trailing from his blade!" Took up a spoon, dipped it into the broth. "The way the sun glowed off its runes as it swept up!"

The horned serpent struck to the air, and coiled about the great monster slayer blade rested against the wall beside the hearth. Runes lighting with pride. As if the memory of their glory was enough spell to summon old power.

Brinda couldn't get her next spoonful in. Imagining the sight. Seeing the Alebrije. "What about the boots!" she asked. Face all red. Eyes teary, as she pant breath from the heat.

"Right, the boots," he said as little gems flit through the cracked windows.

"It's got a kick" all red faced and blushing.

Garrod grinned, proud of his work. "Pues claro, mi reyna," he said with a wink, leaned toward her. "No half measures in this house," he said playful as he pulled breath through bared teeth.

A knock came at the door. Garrod's eye turned to look. Blinked. Double took to Brinda and Daniyah. Got up to open the door. Another knock. Loud and heavy handed. "Un momento!" he called out, reached out and opened the door.

In bolted a shape that was all magma and sunset. Pawprints burning across the floor, and cooling to colors of stormclouds and night.

"What-" Garrod choked.

In trailed another little being. Rainclouds and river streams. Pulsing like rapids, and the glitter of sunrise across emerald waves. Yip,yap, yapping until it found a lime peel Garrod had left husked on the floor. Wasted no time in chewing it up.

"Woah! What the hell are those!" Brinda said, all big eyed and grinning.

Catrinas and Catrins sauntered on up the way of glowing cempasúchil. Pedro, Marisol, Efrain and Jelena, old Mariachis y cantantes the old man loved to haunt around with, playing their strings, and bright old brass, still gleaming proud as the sun. In they all went. Some straight through the one eyed wreck of a man who was the boy they once knew. Others, still flesh and bone, pat pat him on the shoulder. Jugs of drink under the arms. Canastes de tamales braced in others. Panes dulces.

"Who the hell are all these people!" Brinda asked, all looking around.

"El peublin, chiquilla!" A familiar voice called out from the door.

Garrod blinked, and stared at his old friend, who just smiled with her gap toothed grin. "Consuelo?"

She smacked his chest. "Pues si, pendejo!" she laughed. "I heard some chamacos put petals up the way, and well," tapped the side of her head with a wink. "Put a couple of things together," she peaked into the house. Eyed Daniyah and smiled all the wider. "Aye, mira," she said loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. "Tu brujita, brujo?" she elbowed him. "Esta chula, eh?" she said to him with a grin. Nodded over her shoulder to a raven haired man, face painted in elaborate calavaera. "You remember Ernesto?"

Garrod rubbed the hurt out of his ribs as he laughed, the party swirling about inside to the jaunty whines of fiddles, and silver string corrido of las guitaras. "Of course," he said witha nod.

Ernesto stood beside Consuelo. "Been a while, aguilita,"

A laugh. "Too long,"

"Pues! Invitanos adentro, rudo!" Consuelo said, shameless.

Brinda was already laughing, dancing around with the techichi's as the spirits set to stepping, and los musicos made their ofrenda of music.

Garrod looked to Daniyah. All smile. Back to the pair of them. Bones about to fall. He could feel the music hold him up. "Pasenle, pues,"

Consuelo laughed. "About time, cabron!" she shoved him. "And you owe me a new shawl!"

Ernesto smirked, and nod his head as he followed in.

Consuelo wasted little time in cutting through the crowd to Daniyah. "On behalf of el pueblin," she said with a bow. "Sorry for all his pendejadas," hurried off to offer up her ofrendas to the old Cazadore. Chiles rojos. Una botella de mezcal. Y una copa de sal.

Garrod limped on over. Laughed over the raucus cheer that surged and swelled between the old bricks of the house. Offered up a hand to Daniyah. "Bailamos,"

Daniyah smiled at the arriving guests as she discreetly pushed her bowl a little to the side. Her tongue had gone numb.

The door swung open as if nudged by a courteous breeze, and there he stood, Rey del Hueso. Tall, elegant, every inch the charming catrín he prided himself on being. Bone-white paint traced the fine lines of his cheekbones. Buttons gleamed on his black charro jacket, his hat, wide-brimmed, immaculate, tilted at an angle.

“Mis queridos,” he announced warmly, spreading his arms as if embracing the whole room. He clapped Garrod on the shoulder in passing. “Ay, muchacho, still alive? Good, good... I've betted on it.” He carried a folded stack of papel picados. Without a word, he unfurled them between his skeletal fingers and began tying them to the roof beams.

Daniyah blinked up at Garrod. He stood there with his hand out, eyes bright. “Oh… damn it.” She could not dance. So she reached for the nearest salvation: a tiny shot glass placed in front of her by one of the laughing guests. And she threw it back. Tequila hit her tongue like a burning arrow. She wiped her lips with her thumb and set the empty glass on a table overflowing with food, like tamales, candied pecans, and grinning little sugar skulls. Daniyah took his hand.

Faded plaster drew itself together, smoothing over like healed skin. The peeling paint lifted, curled once, and dissolved into motes of light before re-forming in soft yellows, reds, and blues, sunrise colors. Colors bleed slowly back into this place. A crooked doorway straightened. The dusty floor took on a warm luster as though freshly swept and polished by unseen hands.

Brinda darted between the party guests and drifting spirits. The small spiritdogs yipped at her heels, chasing her like tiny dust-clouds with teeth. Her flower crown had slid half off her head, glowing petals bouncing with every step she took. She skidded to a stop beside Garrod and Daniyah. The girl’s eyes were huge, reflecting every shimmer of candlelight, every ripple of spectral color that played along the walls.

“Oye,” she said, breathless, tugging at Garrod’s sleeve. “If everyone’s here, where’s Sinns?

Somewhere beyond the crumbling walls, past the open doorway and the drifting cempasúchil petals, the sky tore itself open. Lightning jagged across the clouds, silver veins lancing down toward the distant hills. Thunder followed, a low rumble.

Daniyah moved because he moved.
That was the truth of it.
Agility filled in the gaps where grace didn’t live.
The world shifted in bright, dizzy ways.

She had never learned any dance steps. The cult had taught her how to kneel, how to carry offerings, how to carve runes into cold flesh for a creature that only demanded obedience. No music. That never existed in crypt chambers, only chanting. And the years after that had been steel, grit, and the long, lonely road of a cazador. No warm hands guiding hers over floors like this.

His forehead pressed to hers. Soft words curling warm against her ear, star-chasing romance. Seemed like he’d forgotten she had knives tucked everywhere and no training in… whatever this emotional footwork was supposed to be. Daniyah’s smile was small, lopsided, and almost teasing. She was no duelist. No dancer. She just tried not to step on his feet.

“…follow the one you want to keep.”
And then...
“I should have followed you to the ends of the stars.”

A hit that landed deeper. A strange, sharp ache fluttered beneath her ribs. The sort of quick feeling. Just enough that she felt it, and hoped to every hungry god that he did not notice it. Daniyah turned her face slightly, just enough so Garrod wouldn’t see the thin line tightening her jaw.

Then the lightning cracked through the chimney and Sinns stepped out, grand and flamboyant. Sinns’ boots threw sparks. Brinda shrieked with delight. She slipped her hand from his, not abruptly, not cold, just… letting go.

“Vamos, Garrod,” she said, steady and warm. “Your maestro just walked out of the fire. Go to him." She nodded toward Sinns.