[P] and I know this is a weakness;

[Florentine]

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Ah she is torn, in body and mind (yet not in soul). Her rent flesh cries like needles, hot like fire and wet with worry. She knows their pain, their constant throb. It is, after all, easier to ignore her wounds when their ache is constant and her heart is filled with wonder. So it is her mind she focuses on, and how it is two halves: the part that drives her heart faster for want of a boy who cast aside divinity as though it were dust upon his skin and the other that twists her stomach tight for selfish worry that he might so easily be plucked from her grasp (oh, such fragile mortality!).
 
Florentine studies the fallen god for but a moment before her lips are upon the groove of his throat. There they feel the pulse, the beat of a heart fragile and striving. She wonders what a divine heart might feel like and how spilled ichor would glisten. Would it be black, silver or red, like her own?
 
Against the groove of his throat (strong, elegant, familiar) Flora wonders, “Would you take your divinity back if you were offered it?” Was there anything a time traveller could not do? She knows of so many things, but they all seems small and insignificant when she considers how she can take a boy back and make him a god again. Time was her lover and her god, in it she could do anything.
 
She is stood, swaying like leaves in autumn’s breeze. Her gold is pale as a new dawn, her eyes as wide as the foal he likens her ascent to. Lysander touches when he should have chided her. Florentine stands when she might have shied away. It is easy to trust him and impossible to imagine a world in which he might hurt her. Foolish; she smiles whilst her stitched heart forgets its scars.
 
He is more wicked now, or so he says. Florentine believes his every word as they pour like spring from his lips. Yet still she does not draw away, “It would be boring if you weren’t wicked, Lysander.” The girl says with a smile that turns impish, with a laugh that is wicked and beautiful.
 
His nose rests upon her cheek though her scar still remembers him and her wing the touch of his breath. What use is there in keeping her eyes open? They close, heavy and content, but her lips still smile – until he steals that too. What will he leave her with?
 
Nothing. Florentine knows this and does not fear it, even though she knows just how Lysander will chide her and warn her with a faraway smile and eyes that both pull her in and push her away.
 
Free.
 
The Dusk girl smiles with him, her smile a mirror to his own. It is in pain (one she cannot name) that she pulls her cheek from the curve of his smile. “Do you promise?” She breathes as she drinks in his curls, his arching antlers, his every mortal inch. It would be easy to think she asks of him a profound promise, so it is a blessing, may be, when she clarifies playfully, “Do you promise to forever hound me? Because, until now, I thought I was hounding you.”
 
And, quite suddenly, their past, their present and their future seemed, all at once, so very different.

@Lysander - hahahahaha, oh man, this is bad. Please excuse me whilst i remember how to write words.

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world