CYRENE
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
A ripple along the glass—the quaver of a spring leaf, the shaking of a carmine blossom—drew Cyrene’s gaze away from the rosebushes and to a girl of diaphanous, sunkissed gold. Florentine.
As the dazzling queen approached on soft hooves, eyes of glowing amber lingered for a fraction too long on her unlined face, her dulcet smile, her fluttering amethyst petals. Cyrene had heard the rumors—how young Florentine had been when she had accepted the throne from the previous sovereign, Rannveig, the Winter Wolf. Her tragic love story with the King of Night, a boy-king who had loved Florentine so much, so much—and then, golden scales for golden curls—not enough. Yet to see her, to meet her in the flesh… Cyrene did not think Florentine even a year older than she. How heavy the crown must weigh upon her head. The slim-ankled nymph could not imagine it.
But it was not the time nor the place for such stifling, nagging thoughts. As the watercolor sky shifted from cottony lilac to hazy gold, Cyrene smiled tender and bright at Dusk’s gentle queen. "Your Majesty,” she breathed, curls of sable red brushing the tops of her cheeks as she bowed lightly to her amethyst-eyed Sovereign.
With effortless grace did Florentine return her smile; and just like that, a wave of ease settled like a lace shawl around Cyrene’s slim shoulders. Unbeknownst to the girls wrapped in dusk's softest silk, an invisible hand had entwined the strings of their fates together under the twinkling gaze of the rose-and-crystal veranda.
As Florentine spoke, Cyrene could do little but nod in the spaces between one sentence and the next. Leaping lion’s eyes settled into a muted, solemn bronze as she listened quietly to the queen’s muted words. Lysander. Lysander. The name tore at her memory, until viscous, crimson blood dripped like a gruesome river across her eyes. It belonged to the boy she had found on the threshold of death, the midnight bells echoing like an omen through the vacant festival grounds. So much blood had flowed from the near-fatal wounds that littered his dark pelt—the scene came back to her vividly, and Cyrene could still feel the faint pulse that had nearly stopped beneath her fevered, soaked palms.
"I was the one who had found him—I did everything I could, but he was in a horrendous state. I cannot believe,” and carefully, delicately, her amber eyes caught Florentine’s own, "anyone would do that to him,” she finished, voice almost a whisper. She would not speak the Night King’s name, would not mention his Crows—she refused to push the knife ever deeper into Florentine’s bleeding heart. Was that the reason she had been summoned? For his sake, she hoped Lysander had awoken; so close had he come to the blades of Death’s cruel scythe.
But before she could ask, Florentine’s next words unraveled like a crinkling parchment before her. Before she had fully processed it, the true reason the young healer had been summoned was revealed.
“Could that be you, Cyrene?”
It was like something had grasped her chest and squeezed, until all the air in her lungs had been pushed out with a flourish. What… had Florentine said? The Emissary? Me?
"I—" she started, before her mouth closed again in shock. All her life, Cyrene had skillfully ran from her duties—frivolous and uncaring, she had brushed Máma’s scoldings and the healers’ collective sighs from her hands like mildly suffocating pollen. And when she had finally dipped her toes—and when that had not been enough, plunged herself—to her healing, she had not been able to control the cascading effect of her scrambling decisions. She had not been able to save them, not even my own sister. Would she ever be able to? Could she?
Yet as she stared, wavering and lost, Florentine’s sorrow crashed like thundering waves upon her worries. The young queen had tried her hardest to conceal it—but so had Cyrene with her own, for much too long. She could see the pain lining amethyst eyes as clearly as if it had been painted across her skin. In a way, it had been. And may the gods curse her for eternity, if she abandoned Florentine to the storm that had swallowed them both.
Cyrene looked away, briefly, towards the sky. She found her answer among the clouds. "I shall. I shall be your Emissary.” Wordlessly, she walked closer to the Sovereign, to the girl draped in tumbling, lavender petals. "And if you will let me, I shall be your strength.” May Vespera bless us with her protection.
"Then I will go and pack my belongings immediately. I’ve never visited the deserts of Solterra, so I admit I am quite curious for the journey,” she spoke brightly, a fluttering smile nestling back into its rightful place upon her lips.
Emissary. I hope I wear it well.
@Florentine
loong but flora x cy = power pair
she left pieces of herself,
in everything she used to love.
A ripple along the glass—the quaver of a spring leaf, the shaking of a carmine blossom—drew Cyrene’s gaze away from the rosebushes and to a girl of diaphanous, sunkissed gold. Florentine.
As the dazzling queen approached on soft hooves, eyes of glowing amber lingered for a fraction too long on her unlined face, her dulcet smile, her fluttering amethyst petals. Cyrene had heard the rumors—how young Florentine had been when she had accepted the throne from the previous sovereign, Rannveig, the Winter Wolf. Her tragic love story with the King of Night, a boy-king who had loved Florentine so much, so much—and then, golden scales for golden curls—not enough. Yet to see her, to meet her in the flesh… Cyrene did not think Florentine even a year older than she. How heavy the crown must weigh upon her head. The slim-ankled nymph could not imagine it.
But it was not the time nor the place for such stifling, nagging thoughts. As the watercolor sky shifted from cottony lilac to hazy gold, Cyrene smiled tender and bright at Dusk’s gentle queen. "Your Majesty,” she breathed, curls of sable red brushing the tops of her cheeks as she bowed lightly to her amethyst-eyed Sovereign.
With effortless grace did Florentine return her smile; and just like that, a wave of ease settled like a lace shawl around Cyrene’s slim shoulders. Unbeknownst to the girls wrapped in dusk's softest silk, an invisible hand had entwined the strings of their fates together under the twinkling gaze of the rose-and-crystal veranda.
As Florentine spoke, Cyrene could do little but nod in the spaces between one sentence and the next. Leaping lion’s eyes settled into a muted, solemn bronze as she listened quietly to the queen’s muted words. Lysander. Lysander. The name tore at her memory, until viscous, crimson blood dripped like a gruesome river across her eyes. It belonged to the boy she had found on the threshold of death, the midnight bells echoing like an omen through the vacant festival grounds. So much blood had flowed from the near-fatal wounds that littered his dark pelt—the scene came back to her vividly, and Cyrene could still feel the faint pulse that had nearly stopped beneath her fevered, soaked palms.
"I was the one who had found him—I did everything I could, but he was in a horrendous state. I cannot believe,” and carefully, delicately, her amber eyes caught Florentine’s own, "anyone would do that to him,” she finished, voice almost a whisper. She would not speak the Night King’s name, would not mention his Crows—she refused to push the knife ever deeper into Florentine’s bleeding heart. Was that the reason she had been summoned? For his sake, she hoped Lysander had awoken; so close had he come to the blades of Death’s cruel scythe.
But before she could ask, Florentine’s next words unraveled like a crinkling parchment before her. Before she had fully processed it, the true reason the young healer had been summoned was revealed.
“Could that be you, Cyrene?”
It was like something had grasped her chest and squeezed, until all the air in her lungs had been pushed out with a flourish. What… had Florentine said? The Emissary? Me?
"I—" she started, before her mouth closed again in shock. All her life, Cyrene had skillfully ran from her duties—frivolous and uncaring, she had brushed Máma’s scoldings and the healers’ collective sighs from her hands like mildly suffocating pollen. And when she had finally dipped her toes—and when that had not been enough, plunged herself—to her healing, she had not been able to control the cascading effect of her scrambling decisions. She had not been able to save them, not even my own sister. Would she ever be able to? Could she?
Yet as she stared, wavering and lost, Florentine’s sorrow crashed like thundering waves upon her worries. The young queen had tried her hardest to conceal it—but so had Cyrene with her own, for much too long. She could see the pain lining amethyst eyes as clearly as if it had been painted across her skin. In a way, it had been. And may the gods curse her for eternity, if she abandoned Florentine to the storm that had swallowed them both.
Cyrene looked away, briefly, towards the sky. She found her answer among the clouds. "I shall. I shall be your Emissary.” Wordlessly, she walked closer to the Sovereign, to the girl draped in tumbling, lavender petals. "And if you will let me, I shall be your strength.” May Vespera bless us with her protection.
"Then I will go and pack my belongings immediately. I’ve never visited the deserts of Solterra, so I admit I am quite curious for the journey,” she spoke brightly, a fluttering smile nestling back into its rightful place upon her lips.
Emissary. I hope I wear it well.
@
loong but flora x cy = power pair
