the drowned prince
As he opened his eyes, Florestan realized that he was in the presence of an Angel. But weren't angels supposed to be white? Florestan blinked at her dumbly, his pale eyelashes fluttering against his soft cheeks with an uncertainty inherent to the youthful and the untried. A halo of harsh summer sunlight framed a golden face and purple flowers punctuated a soft, curly mane. Gilded wings the very same color of her body rose from delicate shoulder blades. The shadow she cast over him was a cool respite from a tyrannical sun; he almost felt blessed despite the strange and, quite frankly, nightmarish circumstances. The nymph almost reminded him of his mother: they were both delicate and whimsical, flowers tangled haphazardly in their hair. They belonged to other worlds, places filled with birdsong and sunshine—places where flowers never died and where the only rain that fell was gentle and sweet. Vaguely, he wondered if he had finally found that world. Somehow, he doubted it, but he reveled in her presence all the same. He rolled onto his belly, forelegs tucked awkwardly beneath his chest. The angel-fairy (whatever she was) favored him with a smile, a small gesture that filled her already lovely face with a radiance he had seen only on sunlit summer days. He tilted his chin upwards towards her, desperately trying to catch the melody of her voice with his mortal ears; the petal slipped off his nose and fell onto the grass between his knobby knees. Dark-rimmed ears tilted backwards when she gestured towards the tree with her wing. Florestan turned his blue gaze towards the aforementioned willow, squinting into the sunlight. How had he not seen it before? The flower girl was right—perhaps it would have been better to nap in the shade. In fact, he could already feel the sting of the sun's kiss on the tender flesh of his nose. Bashfully, his eyes returned to her's, watching her with childlike innocence as she continued her (as of yet) one-sided conversation. He enjoyed listening to the music of her voice—it was like the happy babble of a little brook, pristine and merry. Her lilac eyes regarded him curiously, full of mischief and mirth. Florestan almost said something, but felt utterly unworthy of doing so. In a swift, graceless movement, the rain boy lurched to his feet, careful to not brush against the gilt girl. For a few heartbeats, he swayed on his cloven hooves, thoroughly undecided, blades of grass and clods of dry dirt slipping from his sleek sides. The trance broke; he finally decided to break his silence. "Should we go, then?" he wondered aloud, as if to no one in particular, although the question was clearly addressed to her. He turned towards the tree, although his blue gaze never left her. The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a most timid smile. "Do you always wear so many flowers?" |
@
still getting used to him @__@
