He is right.
There is no world in which Florentine would let him die with secrets still upon his lips.
This girl would follow him to the back gates of Hell, just to get an answer to her question. There is no world she is unafraid of, alive or dead. Florentine has never feared death, not until it faced her in the eyes of another; one she loved and could not allow to be taken from her so soon. Yet to be stubborn enough to follow him into the afterlife, and to possess skill enough to save him, were two separate things.
The fae-girl smiles when he challenges her, though her head shakes, incredulous. He licks his lips and looks away and what small smile played across her lips, fades like ghosts in the rain. “Look at me.” She says softly, demandingly. Only when his gaze returns, does she then lean closer to him. They are close, that her skin is sure it feels the touch of his. But there is no intimacy here, not beyond the privacy of her anger to be shared just with him. Florentine offers him no smile, nor spark of humour within her eyes. Even dying, Lysander will know how much he secrets cost her. “I think a part of you had better hope you don’t survive, Lysander. For to keep this information from me until now…” She trails off, for there is nothing more to be said. There is a hurt so deep and he has added to it. Her sorrow feels infinite – a well with no bottom – a universe with no end.
But maybe it was the dare she needed.
For when she steps back from him, her low voice ebbing into nothing, she takes a breath to steady her ragged nerves. Oh she wishes she could just smile at him now, but her smiles have become harder and harder to find. She will save this boy of vines and light. Who charmed the child she once was with tales of anthousai and flowers.
However, once more he does not help her. Again he throws away her worries and does not face them. She is both glad he does and furious at how easily he smoothes over the gravity of the moment. It is all done with a smile and a throw-away remark; clever and infuriating boy.
All the same, he finds her smile for her. It comes after a quip, delivered with dare and warning, “We do, but the world within you may end up being bigger and messier than most, Flower Boy.” There is a laugh that breathes upon her lips; it is little more than a sigh and a smile.
I am desperate and faithful. What words does she have to answer those? She searches herself and comes up empty. But that feeling, helpless and lost will not abate. Oh to have him brush over the gravity of his condition again! Those words might haunt her for forever. “You give me no choice do you?” Florentine whispers with sadness’ small voice.
Their fear is shared. Their fear is there in the racing of her heart, the burning of her skin. She trembles so much she may turn to dust before his eyes.
I am desperate and faithful. I want to live. Already they are ghosts in her mind. Already they haunt Florentine as her dagger begins to tremble too. What does it mean to save this boy?
She wants to know, a question burning in her mind. What gods does this boy of other worlds worship? How can he worship any? Like he, Flora has met so many and found herself kneeling before none. “Faithful to who?” The fae-girl breathes and thinks she might find him in the afterlife just to know an answer to that alone.
Invisible hands unfurl the bandages and the cut is deep and ugly. It refuses to heal, like Lysander it hides its secrets deep, but this is one secret she could uncover.
“Then pray we see each other on the other side, Lysander.” Her lips brush his and she hopes that it will not become a ghost too.
Florentine knows now, that, should he die she will still go to the Riftlands and find the truth. But then, oh then she will find him. Wherever he goes, whatever life awaits him beyond this, she vows to find him and make Lysander reveal the secrets he never told her. If their lives were long alive, she would make them longer in death.
It is with that vow in her heart and the ghost of a kiss in her lips that she lowers the dagger to his skin. She begs it not to be subtle or magical. She begs it not to send him home or off to some other world. For once, she begs it to be plain and ordinary, untouched by any magic that might have ever graced its silver blade.
Florentine cries when red blood flows – so much, so fast. She weeps when worlds do not rise to her like they always do. She sighs at the song of metal upon metal and the staining of her dagger, red, red, red.
The trembling starts when the piece of broken dagger drops into a bowl and it does not stop until she leaves the boy unconscious. It is only outside, away from him, that the girl lets her tears join the water that washes his blood from her dagger.
Only then does Florentine dare to believe that Lysander will live to see another day.
@Lysander <3
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
