[P] Dew in the Valley

[Florentine]

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Oh the echoes of arguments ring in her ears like the clamour of clashing cymbals. Her gaze lifts to catch the wrath of the gods, blazing with the bright of a flare star. Their shared anger, however, is but a flash, brilliant and bright. It sears the Dusk queen’s skin and is gone in a second. Its only remnant is the lurid red glow, lingering in her gaze– was that all the wrath of the gods was?
 
Their squabbles are no different to the mortals that Tempus tries to unite. “Would it not be wise to unite your children first? There is no god here worthy enough of our following. If they cannot find agreement themselves – how can they ask it of their followers?” Her chin is lifts in defiance, her gaze as sharp as her dagger that threatens to split the skies and send the gods falling from whatever plane they reside within.
 
How many worlds had she been to? How many gods had she met? The Time-traveller girl is too jaded – she has seen too many gods to ever again see them as divine. She has stood beside too many to ever wish to call one hers and bend her knee. Not even when Vespera’s voice rises above the rest is Florentine stirred. Not even then does her heart warm with love for Terrastella’s goddess.
 
Seraphina is wildfire. Fury falls, bright and devastating, down each silver cheek. Florentine watches Solterra’s grief painted upon its queen’s face. Laughter, as furious as Seraphina’s anger and as ugly as beautiful Cyrene’s smile, gathers in Flora’s throat. She casts a hidden look to her brother for now she understands his tales of too-righteous gods that sought to unite their people in cruel ways. It was in vain then, would it be now too? In silence the Time-traveller girl regards a Time god who cannot even unite his own children.
 
As Tempus’ earthquake groans and rattles the foundations of his mountain, as the gate crumbles in with a roar of shattering stone and a gust of swirling dust, the gilt queen stands like a statue. In the darkness that follows, she catches the flash of Bexley’s shadowed eyes before light pours out from nothingness. Beneath the glow of the girl’s new magic their eyes catch.
 
Bexley’s pain is still a lance in Florentine’s heart. No appropriate words can be spoken here, not now. But in the silent space between the gilded girls, in the blue-purple of their shared gaze, words press in all the same. They are private and warming and so full of love.
 
As one the regimes all test the rubble. Magics meld and drift and flow. They push and pull, the air static with unearthly power. With ears tight upon her poll, with petals falling to adorn the rubble, Florentine moves to stand beside Cyrene and Seraphina. Her brother, stood close by, is a comfort with the warmth of his star-strewn skin. A smile curls her satin lips for Florentine had once before loved a star-born boy, but it had been the wrong love and the wrong boy.
 
Her own telekinesis moves to aid Cyrene as she loosens a stone, her dagger a warm, insistent press upon her chest. “I could open up a window, one so close to the sun it will hopefully melt the stones.” The fae-girl says slowly, wonderingly. Releasing the dagger about her throat, she raises it high above the pile and presses it deep into the air. A cut forms, thin and bright and wicked hot. Florentine does not dwell too long upon it, not when she replaces her dagger and rejoins the effort of pulling stones free.
 
Amethyst eyes roll, gleaming in the dark as the words of the Night Court’s Emissary ring around them. It was a jarring contrast to the fury of the Day Queen and the quiet sincerity of the Dawn Court.  All the same, Florentine’s lips tip into a smirk, devilishly playful and wickedly sharp, “That can most definitely be arranged, boys. I even know who to ask...”  Her eyes tip up, settling upon Bexley. The scar is lit upon her face and for her comment Florentine is full of apology. However, the Dusk girl is not blind. Ahead of the meeting only a few could have missed the way the Solterran girl watched and met with the Crow who wronged her. It seemed attraction was a strange and twisted master.

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world