Her laughter resonates about the mountain. It dances with the wind, swirling this way that that. It might have died, or been stolen away upon the breeze, if she stopped, but she doesn’t. The girl wonders if she might ever stop laughing in Ulric’s presence.
“Oh, most probably.” Florentine declares with an impish smile curling the gold of her lips. She is caramel here, warm and soft and bright, against the jagged grey of the mountain’s face.
Her wing still tingles where they touched, her heart still thunders in her chest, but her eyes still blaze with the memory of his, burning like suns – startled and wild. She does not linger to consider his words, for already his scarf is between her teeth and she is running.
Her fae-feet skitter as she flees, gazelle-light, over rock and stone. She weaves between coarse grasses and over snow-capped ridges. Behind her, Ulric’s scarf ripples out, amethyst and bright. It calls for its owner, snagged upon the wind, but the thief carries it on with her, her heart a wild tattoo in her chest as she hears him take up pursuit.
Florentine recalls the memory of his pursed lips, his words to show how he had missed her. They were spoken with a serious honesty she hoped to change. And she does. For soon his feet are gaining, the mountain clattering with the sounds of their twin descents. The Dusk Queen pushes harder, her eyes widening, for there was always a tinge of fear with being chased and it sets her body ablaze. Her skin tingles, her nerves become wildfire and through it all she laughs and runs and laughs and runs. On and on the Dusk girl goes.
But Ulric is close, close. So close in fact, she feels the heat of him, the rush of his breath against her side. She would cry out, if she had any more breath to give. Yet she is laughing and breathing and running and there is no space in her for anything else. They are a blur of colour and motion. So fast Flora does not even register when he draws level, and when she does, she is too regrettably slow. Their shoulders meet in a shove, rough in play, and Florentine staggers, unbalanced and startled.
It is only moments, split seconds, that the girl is unbalanced, but up here, with the whole of Novus stretched out miles below, Florentine feels like its an eternity of struggle. Though finally she stops, finally she finds her balance. Even that moment of peril and fear was not enough to stop her laughter, or relinquish her prize.
Deftly, she leaps into the air and releases his scarf. Her telekinesis keeps it close. Between them, around them, it moves with the wind. It makes something invisible, visible, and she watches as it swirls, as it dances with this high-altitude air. There is a grace to the wind and its new partner that Florentine has never seen before.
She lets the elegant scarf dance, swirling close to her friend before the wind pulls it away. It flies between them, around them, close enough to touch, quick enough to never be caught. The fae-girl keeps it with them, but away from its master and slowly she takes it from the wind to hang temptingly close to Ulric.
There are no words, just a dare for him to take it. And a brow that rises in challenge before she finally says, though a grin and a laugh, “Think you got what it takes, hmm, Ulric?”
@
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
