[P] I have lost my pearls

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

They cut through the meadow, he a brush of lilac and she, gold. The tips of her wings drift through the wild flowers. Feathers, soft as satin, touch petals like whimsical fingers might.
 
The cool of the willow tree is a respite from an unwavering sun. For a long while now the meadow has trembled before her eyes, for its heat is too much. Not even the breeze, called down from the mountain pass, can cool the grasses that grow dry and brittle.
 
Florentine thinks of rain as she walks. She wonders if her brother might ever be able to command water again. Then her mind strays to the Stormsinger, the only one she knows who can bring the rain here. Ah, such a fantasy it is that has her spine already feeling cold, phantom drops of rain falling along her spine.
 
If the flower girl knows how the boy snuffles in her wake, searching for her errant petals, she does not show it. Though an ear listens to him, to the way his breath stirs the grasses and his feet disturb the business of bees.
 
It is only when the cool of the willow engulfs her, its crown enough to hide her from the sun, that the gilded girl turns back to the night child. A smile, one only found upon the lips of those who know too much – a smile reserved for travellers found in mystical books – curls across her lips. “I hope the sea was easy on you Florestan.” And behind those eyes are imaginings of this lilac boy tangled in seaweed and dusted with sand. “You were made of the earth, not the sea.”
 
Her lips touch his cheek; a kiss for kin, those made of flowers and earth. It was also a kiss for mothers lost. Flora’s had not made flowers, but rendered them to ash and raged in the fires of her anguish. This girl’s parents were ash and water; the only thing that could have ever grown from them was flowers.
 
The Dusk girl does not blink, does not even flinch or even feel the pain of her unspooled heart when the boy talks of Denocte. She should be pleased, but what joy was there in feeling nothing? “You have come a long way from the Night Court then.” A sigh of wind pulls a petal from her mane. It dances and swirls before them, toyed with by an invisible wind. Flora wonders what it might be to see the wind move – she knows its touch, at least, beneath the feathers of her wings.
 
“I hear Denocte’s gates have closed.” There are mountains that smoked with the ice of dragonfire. All was ash and dead along the mountain pass. Merchants caught in the frostfire, a capital divided. There had been asylum seekers they say. Florentine’s eyes betray nothing of her musings – she was learning, her heart was no longer upon her sleeve, though the threads of it still remain, loose and ragged. She has been pulled free and drifts now, like an errant flag caught in the winds. How much of the flower girl would remain by the time she became what a real queen should be?
 
Slowly her gaze returns to the seasalt boy. He is earthbound, but for that horn that yearns for the sky. “I live in Terrastella, in the Dusk Court. My name is Florentine.” She pauses and wonders what fate this might be that brings a boy born of flowers before a girl made of them. The girl begins to smile, for she knows it is the same fate that awarded them such similar names. “I think we might share more than just a similar name Florestan.”
 
And she wonders of all that fate might have them share.


@Florestan - eeee first post back after my break. Please forgive my rustiness! <3

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world