f l o r e n t i n e
It saturates the air, drifting, floating, dancing. It seeps into her mind changing all it touches. Such a magnet it becomes and Flora is little more than a fleck of metal beneath its overwhelming allure.
It turns her, tips her wings and pulls her down, down. The music is a virus upon the wind and Florentine is its ever susceptible and willing host. Within her, this music, like a cancer, grows.
Falling, falling, this girl of flowers is tumbling. Down from the sky so smeared with bloody light and bruised shadow. Down through the smoke strewn air. Down and down to the Court below, into their sea of bodies awash in revelry.
Petals rain like snow, swirling through the twining smoke that rises up, up as the girl cascades down, down. Amethyst flowers shed and shed, until the winds pull no more and the girl is tangled here in the party’s heart.
Bodies push and bodies sway and Florentine drifts with them. Her wings caress, push and pull as the din swallows her laughter and her smiles. This girl, forged of ice and fire, is made to dance and she does until her feet begin to hurt, until her dagger bruises her chest and yet still she does not stop!
On and on and on, this place of gaiety does not stop. Wildly Flora sinks into this heavy crowd; dusk blending into night. Her Dusk Court is forgotten. Should she be ashamed? How easy is it to forget a home so new?
Too easy.
A voice rises above the cacophony of sound and Florentine would not have heard it, had the crowds not swayed in his direction. He stands before them, proud, wild and raw. Florentine has stood before many kings, before many gods and she is laughing in the babble of voices.
Denocte He says. The Night Court..
And the toasts are vociferous and feverish.
Florentine knows now where she is, and her amethyst eyes are open at last. Open to the dark flung skies, open to the breathing shadow and the lives that thrive where so many fall to rest. More words slither from a serpent’s tongue and Flora’s gaze shifts from mercurial silver to beetle black and back to silver. Her lips part, words toying upon her tongue, but another voice cuts through the melee, and like a child her attention flits away.
More words from another tongue; ones of adoration and respect. The girl takes a breath, amethyst eyes gleaming from beneath the tangle of her flower-strewn mane. “In that case,” She chimes, “I believe congratulations are in order, Your Majesty.” She drops into a bow, graceful and swift, her wings flaring out - a golden skirt rimmed in orange. It is with mischievous humour that her lips tip into a smile.
It is still there, wicked and sweet, as Florentine rises. “Now, any of you boys want to tell me who this Calligo is?”
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
