“I love,” he says simply, and the corners of his mouth curve up like branches reaching for sunlight. “I love many things, in fact. But I don’t know that I’ve been in love – have you had occasion to learn the difference, Florentine?” He meets her gaze, eyes too green, a jungle in full summer. Does she know how easily she wears her emotions, bright as colored scarves?

Lysander does not answer whether or not he has a heart; he only laughs, soft silver on the air.

But he considers his heartbeat, bold against his ribs, as he moves to follow her. He cannot decide if it feels more like a promise or a clock winding down.

The snowflakes drift and tumble and his marveling gaze follows them as they walk. Lysander had never set foot into the Winter Court, and had done his best to avoid the lands that shifted colder, that froze the water and froze the growth of the fauna he loved. But he is not cold now, and the snow is a lovely thing as it settles silently on Florentine’s golden coat and his dark russet one.

An ear remains trained on her, even as he takes in the world around them, and when she asks of those long-ago people his smile turns thinner, as though he were thinking of secrets, and he dips his chin before responding.

“They came because they wanted to forget, or because they believed they could find their true self again.” A pause; he glances over at her, searching for understanding, even as he continues. “Some people cannot be in love without giving a piece of themselves away.” But not all; Florentine, is seems to him, is still wholly herself. Less changed by this strange world than he might have worried.

When their lips meet, when their breath mingles warm and sweet, he closes his eyes for a breath. It is a cage of ribs he sees rising around them, the bones of a whale curving skyward, like some hollowed-out castle. She was brave then, insatiably curious, and free, free, free.

The world smells of winter again, when she pulls away, brisk and clean. There are no memories here, on this windswept plain, save the ones yet to come.

It is easy to picture the boy she mentions, the words she uses to describe him. “He sounds as wild as you,” Lysander says, but when she mentions another’s curls, he only smiles at her retreating back.



@Florentine

Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual 
Oh, but it calms me down