Chapter Text
Fire and Library (Wreath and Lily)
Her hands are shaking.
No, it happens. It happens. These things… they happen.
Her hands are shaking and her vision is wet with tears, but at this point in her life there’s nothing new. Standing outside Paris’s library, her witch hat becoming dense and saggy with the misty rain, all Marinette can afford to do is stand in silence in the brisk, autumn rain. Waiting. Hoping. It’s quiet outside, just as much as it will be inside, and the silence stirs unease in her. There’s not much to hope for anymore, and merely a year ago, she’d be just the same as Alix and tearing running tracks into the muddy, soily ground, pacing back and forth wondering when the library doors will open, but she’s not the same anymore.
There’s a cavity in her heart. A painful, unbreathable cavity that hasn’t found an end after a year. Her shoulders are stiff from bad posture, her eyes are puffy from overcrying, and everything about her feels raw. Everything feels wrong, out of place, as if she’s tried buttoning up the front of her dress and is missing a few hooks and is left open. Grief is… hard to encompass. It is hard to understand and to be able to share with others. No metaphor at all could explain the ache and the misery she feels. All at the same time, she feels too big, and much too small, to be where she is now, unsure of anything that she is or could be.
Small.
Tiny.
Worthless.
Is she… truly a witch? Can she call herself someone capable of magic, when she couldn’t help treat her friend? At what point will people believe her that she’s capable of healing— at what point will anyone believe that a Ladybug is able to heal, if she’s like this? Unable to save her best friend… unable to save him from whatever had been causing him harm… she’s already cried herself to sleep so many times. So many nights, her parents catching her tears, knowing that she grieves at any instance.
To see wheat and think of his hair. Wheat has little use for her now except a reminder that time is passing, and things are changing, and wheat is still growing, and Adrien is long, long gone. She catches herself walking through them, whenever she can, brushing her fingertips against the long grains as if the touch would be reminiscent to his hair. The touches soothe. The touches remind.
To see books in her bedroom, dog-eared and bookmarked, at the places where they stopped and took a break when Adrien would feel too ill. She refuses to unravel the corner of the page. She refuses to admit that there will be no more chances to continue the book and continue reading. It’s uncomfortable and impolite to continue where she’s left off. So she closes the books. Keeps them stored away for the chance to have him there and help her re read them. Moving on feels wrong. Moving without him seems bad.
Her magic feels stilted, hiding in the crevices of her palms, doing nothing except sitting there like frozen jelly.
There’s no point in her using it.
There’s nothing to use it for. All she’d do is make yet another mistake with it.
The moments she would pour as much of her magic as possible into the lover-honey cookies over the last few months with him…
There’s nothing but shame and quietness now. She hasn’t performed spells in so long. Instead of practicing for her exam, she found herself bored at the idea. Lackluster. Uninterested. To hole herself up in her room and close the blinds, to stay hidden underneath her covers and let the days pass on, would be more beneficial to her heart. There’s no point in continuing. There’s no point in proceeding. No matter if her friends dragged her out of her room in order to make her reach the Library on time for the test. No matter if her parents had looked so disappointed with her state and the dark hollows beneath her eyes, that her mother was the one to dress her for the occasion.
She is dressed in her red dress. The one that Adrien had told her that made her look pretty. The one that she’d told him would be the dress she’d become a true, genuine witch in. It’s the color of luck and courage. It’s the color of success. It’s the color of her failure to save her friend, lying to everyone that she is a witch.
There’s nothing for her to say and nothing for her to do except watch Alix walk back and forth in aggravation, muddying her boots into something unrecognizable, watching the hem of her dress become soiled and dark.
“Alix,” she murmurs, barely hearing her own voice over the rain. “Your walking will create divots in the road. You might injure a horse if they trip over your path.”
“Aren’t you worried?” Alix looks back to her, pulling at the brim of her hat so it covers her ears. Her hair is the color of fire, wild and uncombed. The beads in her hair make her look like an exquisite naga fabric, ready to be made into a jacket. “They haven’t opened the door yet.”
“No one’s here. We’re really early.”
“It’s better to be early than late. Besides, we have ten minutes left…” Alix stops to check her pocket watch. There’s a button at the top that makes it click open, a noise that she hasn’t stopped hearing for the past who-knows-how-long as Alix continuously checks and rechecks the time. “How come you’re not running around with me, Mari?”
Hard to believe that a year ago she’d been looking forward to this. It’s always been a dream of hers to make it here, to have to take her Witch’s Test in order to become a certified student, ready to learn the ways of the world— to become a proper Ladybug, one that Tikki would be proud of. All of her books, her studying, her long nights with the candle at her side, helping her create drafts and plans to practically any spell coming towards her…
Accumulating to this moment. Hollow, vacant, miserable and in pain.
“I’m tired,” Marinette sighs.
“Marinette—”
“I don’t want to be here,” she continues. She gives up standing, laying down on the single patch of grass in front of the Library, giving in as her dress and petticoats darken from water. There’s no overhang on this Library. It’s simply a tall stone building, with giant stained-glass windows— it’s foreboding, and massive, and she feels so helpless in front of it. Nothing about the sight gives her solace. Nothing about it gives her any chance of feeling hopeful. She feels sick, angered, and anguished— there’s bile at the back of her throat the more she thinks about her circumstances.
“But you need to take this test!”
“I don’t want to. I want to go home.”
“But Mari, what about you being Ladybug—”
“I want to give up.”
Something in Alix’s eyes harden. “He was my friend too, you know. You’re not the only person who lost a friend.”
“I failed him.”
“We both did. You’re not the only witch around here,” Alix replies as she pockets her watch. She walks towards her, boots sinking into the mud, fixing her cloak around her to give her some warmth. It’s cold. Breezy. The mist clings to them like glue, a gentle film over their clothes that makes their fabric look darker and glossy. When Alix reaches her, crunching the soggy grass beneath her feet, her witch’s hat’s droopy end almost touches the top of Marinette’s head as she leans down. “I’m a witch too.”
“You’re not specialized in healing.”
“No. I’m not. But I could’ve done something. Anything.”
“But you were busy with your family. You weren’t here every day— I don’t blame you. This wasn’t your burden. This was my fault. I used to see him every day.” She curls in. “I used to converse with him. I used to make him laugh. I used to see him. What’s the point in trying out for this test if I couldn’t save him?”
Alix stops, something sagging in her shoulders. “I miss him, Marinette.”
“I miss him, too. I never thought missing someone could be so hard. I never thought missing someone could hurt this much.”
They stay silent for a while, listening to the rain make puddles in the dirt, as Marinette’s hands continue to shake. They’re listening to their surroundings, taking in how everything is so loud yet so far away. Everything always sounds so quiet whenever she wears her hat, with all the little jewels and beads she’s sown in for good luck. She feels like an ant. Tiny, miniscule, unimportant. She feels homesick.
She feels…
“Saudade,” Alix murmurs, as she sits down with her on the grass. Marinette doesn’t bother telling her that she’ll get her clothes dirty. The two of them already look like they’ve been crawling through the forest on all fours. Hopefully the practitioner won’t find it strange that two young girls look like they’ve crawled out of hell. It’s probably expected of witches to be in poor states whenever they’re children. Always curious, always interested, never exactly doing the thing they’re supposed to be doing— a clean witch is a witch that isn’t doing their homework.
“What was that?”
“Saudade. It’s a word I learned from my dad, recently. When my mom had to go see my grandma, and I felt like I’d never see her again. It means homesick for someone.” They lean into each other. Alix is smaller than her. She weighs like nothing. She is about as heavy as the wistful air magic she specializes in— Marinette gets a mouthful of that pinkish, red hair when the brims of their hats smush together and they knock temples into one another. “I feel it. We all do. Every single one of us. You saw how Luka looked so pale. His mom told him that he’s not allowed back into the water until she’s positive he won’t accidentally drown somehow. He hurts. He sings every night, and I hear him, and I worry if he’ll be able to swim at all.”
It’s true… Luka’s beautiful blue color had faded into something grey and dark the moment he’d caught her running down by the beach. She’d been so caught up in her own convulsions and sobs that Luka had barely caught her before she’d tripped over a stone. She couldn’t see from how much tears had swam in her vision— no wonder Luka had quickly caught on to her emotions. Barely been able to explain to him what she’d seen without choking up.
A room.
A bed.
The bedsheets missing.
And a boy, gone.
Alix sighs when Marinette does nothing but sag against her. “I wish I could’ve said goodbye, Mari. I wish I could’ve been able to tell him that he’s a good friend. He always helped me clean my watches whenever I got them messy.”
“I’m not sure… if saying goodbye would’ve been beneficial. Saying goodbye means you’ve accepted it. That it’s permanent.” She can’t believe what she’s saying. She licks her lips in the silence. “Maybe… maybe it’s better this way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Saying goodbye could’ve given us closure, it could’ve. But what if…”
“Do you hear yourself? Of course it’s permanent. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“There was no funeral,” she murmurs, pulling her head away when Alix turns to look at her in the eye with trepidation. There’s something hurtful glimmering in Alix’s eyes, like she’s not sure if she should stop Marinette from talking or not. “I— I don’t accept his death. I can’t. I won’t. His father never held a funeral, which makes me feel like he’s not dead at all. If he’s truly in the forest of souls right now, I hope he finds his way out, but I don’t think he ever made it there.”
“Marinette, that’s crazy talk.”
“He can’t be gone.”
“Mari—”
“I’ll prove it. This isn’t permanent.” The wobble in her lip stops. “I know it. He’s not gone.”
He’d been so caught up with the newest spell his father’s been teaching him, something from a book that is weathered and ancient and aged and makes him sneeze, that he almost jumps out of his chair in surprise when the heavy door creaks open and his mother comes through in a haze. Oh. Oh. He wasn’t expecting her to be here so quickly.
He’s been taking his time, rounding out his o’s like he’s supposed to, doing his best to keep himself steady and not catch the curtains on fire, ears going straight up when he sees the look of surprise on his mother’s face. She’s inconsolable, with something that plagues the sides of her eyes with tears, something shifting on her poppy-seed face that makes her have an expression he cannot read. There is joy in it. There is somberness in it. There is wistfulness— there is also clearly the look that she gets whenever he has headaches, a certain inevitability, like she cannot help no matter how hard she tries.
She’s quiet.
That’s not a good sign.
“Poppy? What is it, what is the news? How is she?” his father asks, placing his hands down, turning to her as she paces against the rug and wrings her hands as if they cause her grief. The green and gold and black endekagram in the air in front of him dissipates like mist, becoming nothing but shadow and air— Chat himself feels the magic in his palms blister into something warm now that his father’s magic recedes a bit and gives his own enough space to breathe.
Whatever the answer may be, Chat prepares himself for it. His mother has been restless for days leading up to now, waking up early enough to be available for when he wants to go to the gardens in the morning. It bothers his father, and he knows it, to find his bed empty and cold at his side instead of having Chat’s mother under his arm. He knows that his father is uncomfortable with it, because he tells him almost every day when Chat is attempting to catch up with his father’s strides on the way to the Library, attempting to perfect another spell, trying to be just as prolific as everyone else in his life.
She’s barely been able to eat, too.
Instead, she looks out of the windows in the kitchens, barely eating anything at all. Chat knows that she’s a god, and does not need to eat as frequently as him— both his parents make sure to tell him that he’s a growing boy, and growing boys need to eat all they can in order to be as tall as their fathers— but the table is stilted with conversation whenever his mother isn’t paying attention. She’s gone, lost to a dreamland, as if she only resides at the table physically but not at all there mentally. It worries him to see his mother so distant and gone.
Has she passed? Has the girl that his mother has been hopeful to carry on her name in the overworld been successful? The girl that his mother calls Ladybug, even though she has no official title, the one that his father always says is brilliant for her age and his mother always says is a blessing they will never understand? He is always so curious about this girl who can’t be any older than him, catching his parent’s attention in such a succinct and interesting way. His mother has been chewing her nails over this girl he’s never met, worrying if she’ll pass.
How important is she to his mother, anyway?
There is no jealousy in Chat when he thinks of her— this human girl who’s caught the attention of his mother, who apparently does not know how to write her own name in Latin but attempts it often enough to make his mother laugh when she reads over some of the scrolls she has access to. There is no jealousy when he thinks of her— she does not have teachers, unlike him. Her parents are not gods. It’s a tall order to fill, being the champion of a god, with no one in her corner to be there and support her.
So he feels… obligated. Convinced. Persuaded to be in her corner.
After all, Chat Noirs and Ladybugs are usually good friends…
“She passed her test,” his mother answers, finally stopping in front of Chat in order to pick him up out of the chair with a bubbling laugh. She lifts him up with her large arms, pressing Chat towards her in a way that makes him laugh and snicker as she presses her nose into his ear and kisses his hair. “She passed, starlight, she did it, she— oh—”
“That’s wonderful!” Chat calls out, laughing when she spins him with joy. The room blurs around them as they twirl, something about the act making his stomach feel like he’s falling or flying. He hears his father’s chair lift as he stands, rounding the table to meet her, but all he can focus on is reaching up with his hands to wipe the tears out of his mother’s eyes. He’s gentle not to use his claws on her. “I’m so happy, Mom! This is amazing news!”
There is a Ladybug. He has a companion. Even if they are to never meet in this lifetime, he has an equal out there. Officially. A human girl with enough power to pass and be certified as a Ladybug, but not much else. Yet. His mother is already sprouting off plans and ideas on how to help supplement the Ladybug’s magical teachings, thinking of all the books she should send and in which order, looking around them in the Library for which direction she should go.
There are millions of books. Billions. Chat’s not even sure if his father has finished reading all of them. There are books on history, agriculture, law, and humanities, all the way down to the extensiveness of Hell’s plumbing and waste system. There’ll be something for the new Ladybug.
“I never doubted her for a second,” Plagg smiles, arms wide to accommodate having both of them in his arms when they’re done spinning. Chat doesn’t flinch when his father kisses her, gentle and sweet, but he feels rather shy watching the interaction. “Congratulations, my love.”
Is she excited? Chat imagines a faceless girl, cheering with her equally faceless parents, about the resolution of a test she must’ve studied ages for. She must’ve been preparing for this moment ever since Tikki had decided to give her a chance. He knows that this is a big deal…
“I can’t contain the excitement,” Tikki whispers, as if she’s telling a secret to them both. She hides her face back into Chat’s hair, hiding her blushing face, desperate to make him erupt into more laughter by the way she kisses him over and over on the ear. “If I were less excited, I’d know what to say at this moment, but little star— I have a prodigy now. It’s been years since I’ve had one, years since I’ve been able to cultivate a champion, but she’s available. I have one, she was able to do it, she was able to succeed!”
Plagg pulls away first. He’s the only one able to escape Tikki’s arms— Chat is under the unfortunate circumstance to be at the will of his mother’s kisses and love for longer as he watches the two with a smile. Chat is helpless to purr, a sound so strong and evident from the barreling in his chest, as Tikki wraps his legs around her solid waist.
He watches. Gently. Lovingly. Chat cannot escape the way his mother snorts at his hairline as she cheers. “Will you be giving her your gifts?”
“Yes, yes! The wreaths! I’ll deliver them to her tonight,” Tikki nods, finding a way to catch Chat’s attention with the way her hair twinkles. There are beads embroidered into her plaited hair, ending at the hip. It’s impossible to tame her hair, just as it’s impossible to tame Chat’s, but sometimes she makes the effort to comb her curls and wrap it in patterns that make it long and ropelike. “Something small, to not overwhelm her? The notes from the practitioner— I was able to read them just before I didn’t have access to them anymore, sealed away and I know better than to go digging through human belongings— said that there was conviction in her eyes like no other… that she was the most impressive witch he’s ever seen— the poor dear must be exhausted.”
Chat perks. “Wait, I have something I’d like for you to give her. I worked on it for a while— is that okay for you to give her now?”
“You have a gift for her?” his mother turns to look at him, blue eyes sparkling in silent curiosity. Even his father makes a noise, raising an elegant brow up to his hairline as he rubs at his beard, when Chat nods enough to pop something loose from his head. “Whatever for, starlight? Is there something you wish to give her…? We’d never even known you had anything at all for her.”
He grins. “I’ve been working on it when you two were asleep!”
His father makes a noise. There is curiosity in the ancient’s eyes, something that swirls green and dark. “While we were asleep?”
“I used magic,” he explains, turning back to his mother whose eyes are wide and crystal. “But I didn’t want either of you to know about it until it was ready, so I would wake up while you both were sleeping and work on it. Father told me that Ladybugs and Chat Noirs are friends, and I thought it would be good to give her a gift for completing the witch trials. My father…”
Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t keep mentioning his dad. There’s something between the two of them as he says it, like he’s walking right into a riddle or puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve. His father seems to stiffen when Tikki looks at him, something of a smile catching at the sides of his wide lips. His large, powerful tail swishes behind him, catching Chat’s attention— not to mention his laughter as it booms in the Library, twitching Chat’s ears into something familiar. His father brushes at his robes as if he’s trying to get rid of any dust, appearing sheepish. “What is it, Poppy? You look at me as if I’ve done a misdeed.”
“You asked him to make something for Ladybug?”
“I haven’t even brought the topic up,” his father responds. “I promise, my dear. Chimaeram decided to do this on his own— I have no idea what the item or gift even is. Is it an envelope or a letter filled with magic? Do you wish to tell her something?”
“Tell her something?” Chat tilts his head as his mother sets him back down on the floor. The rug feels funny against his paws. “Oh. No, I don’t think so. I thought you told me she can’t read Latin.”
“She speaks French,” his mother instructs him, as he closes his textbooks. “Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to learn, as well. Just in case she—”
“Yes, yes,” Plagg muses. “Just in case, of course.”
“Behave. I only mean that a Ladybug and a Chat Noir being able to converse is crucial for their friendship.”
His ears flatten against his head. “Oh. What’s wrong with me being her friend?”
Didn’t they talk about how it would be great if a Chat Noir and a Ladybug being friends would be good? After all, if they are equals, wouldn’t it be good for both of them to talk to each other? Know one another? If either of them need help with something, wouldn’t they be able to help one another?
“Nothing’s wrong with being her friend. In fact, it would be beneficial to you both. Your father is just teasing me about my excitement.”
“Technically—”
“Plagg, please, you aren’t going to start with the semantics at the moment, are you?”
“It will only take a couple of minutes to explain.”
“If that’s the case, can I go get it?” he asks, frowning hard when his parents accidentally ignore him, continuing their conversation. Ah well. No answer at all, in this case, must mean it’s alright.
So he tucks his books underneath his arm and flees from the Library, leaving his parents conversing between themselves, sprinting down the hall to get his gift ready. He should’ve had this more prepared… then again, he hadn’t been sure at all he’d want to give it to anyone until just now. How was he supposed to know he’d want to take this risk?
He takes many lefts, and an equal amount of rights, down the corridors that spiral and dip into a maze that only those who live and those who work are knowledgeable of. It’s hard to run with such heavy textbooks, and his pawsteps are heavy against the stone floors as he passes sconces that light above him from his magic, but he makes his way rather quickly. He finds his room, pushing into the heavy wood with his shoulder until it creaks, tossing his books onto his desk with a slam. He pays no mind to the book that flips open from the momentum, pages flipping open to the last-used spell, instead focusing on digging through his storage space for his leather bag.
“Where are you?” he calls out, searching for it with a frenzy. The object won’t respond— it has no sentience— but it feels good to whisper its name as if it’s a friend. “I know who your owner is, now. I think you’ll be excited to meet her. She’s someone good, and kind, and will definitely be able to keep you alive for longer than me.”
He’s greeted again with silence.
“She’s pretty,” he tries again, even though he’s not actually sure if he’s telling the truth or not. “I mean, she must be. She’s a human girl, and I’ve heard that they’re usually quite lovely.”
Maybe that’s not what his gift is interested in.
“She passed her test today. She’s incredibly talented. The practitioner”—whoever that may be—“stated that she was one of the smartest and most talented…est… witch’s he’s ever had the pleasure of testing.”
He finds the leather bag. It’s small, about the size of his hand, with needled designs filled with swirls and stars in order to make the pouch more interesting. The strings are usually long enough to wrap around his hips if he wants to use it as a pocket, but since he’s made the gift he’s left it alone and in the back corner of his cabinet in order to keep curious people away.
“There you are!” He calls, excited at his findings.
His eyes widen at the soot and ash that stains the top lip of the pouch, and how the strings take a shadowy appearance, but doesn’t think too much of it as he smiles triumphantly. He keeps the pouch closed as he leaves his room, hurrying his way back to the Library, hopeful that he doesn’t miss his mother before she sends her gift. The shadows around the sconces warp as he passes, flames flickering out from his influence, sending the hallway into a darkness that he’s still not completely comfortable with, but it’s more doable now.
“Here it is,” he announces, when he reaches the Library again. His parents stop talking, both looking over with a look that reads that they hadn’t even noticed his disappearance, too caught up in whatever they were discussing, both bending at the knees to look closer into his bag. His father’s eyes are wide in alarm, ear stiff and upright, as Chat opens the pouch and miasma puffs out like a cloud. It warps in the air, an endekagram of his own, a beautiful shape before disappearing into nothing at all.
“In all my years,” Plagg murmurs, as Chat pulls out the item from the pouch, producing it in front of his parents with a grin and twitchy ears. “I have never seen this happen before in my life.”
While his father is surprised, his mother is outright shell-shocked. There is nothing but white in her eyes as she stares at the item between Chat’s fingers, red brows insistent on touching in the middle of her face, fingers curled between her chest. She speaks hesitantly, as if afraid of spooking the item in his hand. “Chat Noir, were you the one to make this?”
He panics. He looks it over, trying to check to see if there are any defects. Sure, it’s not like his mother’s, but it’s similar, and that means something. Right? Surely this isn’t as botched as they say— he’d read the book about how Chat Noir’s could produce this… it had taken him months to learn, it’s true, but isn’t it this? He looks back up to his parents, eyes wide with confusion, ears sagging, and exclaiming: “Oh, uhm. Is this not what I was supposed to do? Did I do something wrong?”
“Chimaeram, on the contrary. If this is what I think it is— and judging by the state of the pouch it was in, my theory is correct— you’re holding an—”
“—Umbra lily,” his mother finishes for him, exhaling hard like it’s hurt her to speak it. “Well, the coloring is closer to a penumbra lily, but… no. The state of your hands and the bag speak otherwise. And— and you made it yourself? At this stage of your development, starlight…”
They seem… conflicted. Chat even more so. He expected his parents to be proud, or even chiding for attempting to do magic on his own at such a young age without his parent’s supervision— he’s done it before, at the amusement of his father, so he didn’t think this would be a problem. And yet the way his father gently reaches for it, asking for permission before Chat places the stem into his hand, looks guarded. Cautious. Like he doesn’t want the stem to break or snap in his grip.
It’s a lily, it is, but it’s smaller than the ones that his mother brings home from the above world. A sprout. A seedling. Chat had spent so many nights trying to produce a flower in his hand. If Ladybug is capable of doing it, surely a Chat Noir can do it too? After all, a previous Chat Noir was able to pull the Sun out of the sky— how hard is it to grow a flower? And yet even for its size, the blossom is heavy. It has no dew like a fire lily, but something equally as buttery and honey-like leaks from the petals. Something gold that stains Chat’s fingers into something yellow and pretty, almost the color of his hair. It’s this gold that stains his father’s hand, too, when he looks at the petals carefully and gently.
“I copied a textbook,” Chat offers quietly into the silence. He shifts from one paw to the other, feeling lost in the emptiness. “The readings said that only Chat Noirs and people who use the King’s magic can produce these, so I spent forever trying to make it. It was really hard. I almost caught my desk on fire— the point is, my book said that it means ‘continuation’ in the language of flowers, and—”
“It means endurance,” his father corrects him, looking at him with something glittering in those hypnotic eyes. Wonder. Brilliance. Chat has never claimed to be fluent in his father’s entropy, a puzzle that it is, but Chat’s always liked a good riddle or two. “Endurance and perseverance. This flower means the ability to push through the inevitable.”
An apt meaning. The endurance Chat had gone through in order to make this blasted little flower…
“She’s inevitably going to have a lot to do, now that she’s Ladybug,” Chat grins, laughing at his own play on words and expecting his parents to follow, but they’re silent. Still curious. Still in amazement. He tapers off with a hum. “I just thought that, maybe… you could give it to her. Since she’s going to be able to produce flowers, too, just like you since she’s your champion… but if it’s a bad present, I—”
“No, this isn’t a bad gift at all.” There are tears in his mother’s eyes again. “Is this what you want me to give her, starlight?”
“I gave the original to your mother a long time ago,” his father murmurs. “Long before Chat Noirs were even a concept to have. I gave it to her because I thought I’d never see her again. It’s a marker. A… gift. It’s how she was able to find me again. It’s so rare to find these— I believe the last time we saw one of these flowers was thousands of years ago— and a Chat Noir being able to produce this is even rarer. Are you willing to give this away?”
Is it really that rare? If that’s the case, of course he does. He worked so hard on it— Ladybug is a curator of plants, after all, so she will be just as excited to see this as his parents are. “Yes, please. It’s not mine to keep. It’s Ladybug’s.”
“Then it shall be,” his mother nods. “An umbra lily for Ladybug.”