f l o r e n t i n e
She climbs up and up. With each step taken, the oxygen in her lungs is stripped thinner and thinner. Winds swirl the paltry air around sharp rock and rubble, then up, over the snow capped crown of the great mountain. The mountainous winds get rougher and wilder as they circle the girl of dusk and earth. There is nothing unique about the honey-coloured girl, but the flowers she brings, offerings for the gods, are like none they have ever seen up here upon the mountainside. Their touch is rough as they tug at petals, pulling them free to toss, to play, to throw across the mountainside.
The dusk girl ignores the wild, curious winds and the petals they steal. Her attention, her eyes, are on other things for there, before her, lies a cathedral of stone and flowers. Florentine stands at its mouth, a creature of golden sunlight and wild lavender. She brings earth and light to this dark and grand temple.
She enters, bolder and braver than she had any right to be. Petals scatter hither and thither into a cathedral train that ripples behind her. Her grazed limbs and tangled mane are the wild clothes she wears with bold, bold pride. It is no god she comes to marry, no illicit romance to find in the shadowed corners of this hallowed place. No, she comes to sate her curiosity – this girl who cannot believe.
Beneath towering arches she walks, fingertip wings trailing along the smooth, cold stone. Her breath is a weak wind in her lungs, her heart a fluttering of feathers against her ribcage.
Believe, it beats, it begs.
This girl of fine bone and slender torso stands, so diminutive, at the center of Novus’ sacred, beating heart. She is so small here, but oh, Florentine is the bird that will not be caged, the weed that will not stop growing, the sun that will not stop shining; but ultimately, she is the girl that cannot start believing.
She drinks in the inscribed names of each god, plays them across her tongue and tries to find a place for them in her too-full heart. Beneath each name she lays her apologies in flowers and petals for her heart aches only for Time itself. That too-full heart twinges and her wings quiver. Those gods press in, their names reaching for her…
But Flora is the bird that will not be caged and in a flurry of tangled hair and wild-flower incense, she spins to run, to fly, to flee.
But the night is there, cloaked in Calligo’s dark. It is guilt that has her lashes lowering to hide her amethyst eyes as she passes the night court sovereign in a rough caress of feathers and lavender scent like incense. Her wings flare to fly, to run and to escape these trapping gods. But suddenly she pauses as she passes him, a breathless question playing upon her lips as she smiles wryly, “You won’t tell anyone there was a non-believer here, will you?”
@Reichenbach
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
The dusk girl ignores the wild, curious winds and the petals they steal. Her attention, her eyes, are on other things for there, before her, lies a cathedral of stone and flowers. Florentine stands at its mouth, a creature of golden sunlight and wild lavender. She brings earth and light to this dark and grand temple.
She enters, bolder and braver than she had any right to be. Petals scatter hither and thither into a cathedral train that ripples behind her. Her grazed limbs and tangled mane are the wild clothes she wears with bold, bold pride. It is no god she comes to marry, no illicit romance to find in the shadowed corners of this hallowed place. No, she comes to sate her curiosity – this girl who cannot believe.
Beneath towering arches she walks, fingertip wings trailing along the smooth, cold stone. Her breath is a weak wind in her lungs, her heart a fluttering of feathers against her ribcage.
Believe, it beats, it begs.
This girl of fine bone and slender torso stands, so diminutive, at the center of Novus’ sacred, beating heart. She is so small here, but oh, Florentine is the bird that will not be caged, the weed that will not stop growing, the sun that will not stop shining; but ultimately, she is the girl that cannot start believing.
She drinks in the inscribed names of each god, plays them across her tongue and tries to find a place for them in her too-full heart. Beneath each name she lays her apologies in flowers and petals for her heart aches only for Time itself. That too-full heart twinges and her wings quiver. Those gods press in, their names reaching for her…
But Flora is the bird that will not be caged and in a flurry of tangled hair and wild-flower incense, she spins to run, to fly, to flee.
But the night is there, cloaked in Calligo’s dark. It is guilt that has her lashes lowering to hide her amethyst eyes as she passes the night court sovereign in a rough caress of feathers and lavender scent like incense. Her wings flare to fly, to run and to escape these trapping gods. But suddenly she pauses as she passes him, a breathless question playing upon her lips as she smiles wryly, “You won’t tell anyone there was a non-believer here, will you?”
@Reichenbach
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
