i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls
check out my pretty flower curls
Bexley Briar
The name still curls itself through the library. It dances on the breeze that pushes in through the open windows. Florentine drinks in the messenger, stood in the doorway of the grand library. Her heart stutters in her chest, a strange staccato beat.
Bexley Briar
The name is no longer whispering and swirling through the library, but it drifts through her mind. Over and over it goes as she slips down the winding staircase. Petals and feathers fall away like the tears Florentine has shed over a girl with such a name.
Bexley Briar
The name is stolen from her mind and presses upon her lips. But Florentine does not speak it, not even when her eyes at last fall on a summertime gold, bright enough to match her own.
Florentine is greedy as she drinks in the Solterran girl. How long has it been? Their last meeting was fraught; it had wound nerves tight and stretched the Dusk girl thin like gossamer.
But…Oh Bexley Briar, who are you now? The question lingers in Florentine’s mind as she studies the picture of a girl so shy. Where was the brave and bold creature that once so won the flower-girl’s attention? This creature, stood before Flora now, is golden curls and woven skin, but oh she is so quiet with her fringe pulled forward and a timid look within her eye.
“Bexley Briar,” Florentine says at last, and drops her head just an inch, a small smile playing across her lips. There is a hope that never dies within her, it flares from ember to flame each time they meet. Oh its hope is so palpable within her now. It burns, it burns, it burns.
You were right. All along, you were right. Such confessions beg to be spoken, but she holds them back even as they drive against her like waves upon the cliff face. Was this the time to speak of a Night King and Bexley’s fierce warning?
How many times had she shed tears before this girl? How many times had Bexley brought justice down upon her like a whip? Such words! Such stinging, hurtful words and Florentine knows now that she deserved them all.
Oh yes, you were so very right, Bexley Briar.
But Florentine does not speak, not when her gaze is tumbling down the sorrowful curve of satin lips, not when she drinks in the pointed tip of a dark, angry mark hidden beneath a wash of tangled fringe and not when she takes in the retiring, nervous stance of Solterra’s boldest girl.
Dusk’s queen steps forward, to press lips to a cheek she already knows is smooth like silk. When she steps back, she beckons the sun-girl into the shade of her home. “Come, I have missed you.”
And the truth has never rung so true.
@
florentine
rocking your pretty flower world
rocking your pretty flower world
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
