[P] and I know this is a weakness;

[Florentine]

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

“Oh now that is intriguing.” The flower girl hums, her chin tilting, her smile growing. Florentine keeps her eyes closed, lost in a world so other, so different. It is Lysander’s world and one in which he is a god. It has no name, but it is mysterious and wonderful, his voice draws each detailed landscape, even with the small five words he affords her. “I knew that your own story would be far more interesting.”
 
She longs to peer at him, now she knows why she finds him so fascinating. Is his godliness some part of him that he kept hidden? If she looked again, would he glow like the morning sun? Would his eyes blaze like hot coals? Would the earth tremble at his feet. Would she remember him or anything at all?
 
Her golden skin tingles with anticipation, she feels the touch of air upon her skin and ah, it is no different now to how it usually feels. She is disappointed, but she smiles a secret smile nonetheless. “You say that as if you are no longer a god.” Her words fade away, for the temptation to open her eyes, to drink in this boy of earth and life, has become too much.
 
Florentine longs to name him, like he has her: Anthousai. She called him friend, lover, foolish and wise but Lysander claimed none of them. Intrigue and longing pull at the threads of her, like a needle picking at the threads of her.
 
Though she still longs to look at him, she does not. Her eyelids tremble with the effort, joining her body that trembles yet more with pain. Flora’s smile turns fragile, as delicate as a fledgling’s wing. It is effort to smile, when all her body burns with healing and pain and much spilled blood.
 
“Tell me how a god loses his divinity, Lysander.” Then an eye cracks open, weary and full of pain, but laced through with a mirth she will not let slip by her. The Dusk girl holds it tight, like day clings to the fading light. In that gaze she holds him, fierce like a too-tight grasp, soft like a caress. “Did you commit some terrible deed? Or were you careless and somehow lost it?”
 
In silence she drinks him in: his eyes, verdant as ivy, as bright as an emerald still hidden below the ground, the arches of his tines, cruel like thorns, graceful like the limbs of an ancient tree. “Are you a wicked god?” She asks in a whisper so soft one might be deceived into thinking her heart beats a little faster in fear. But no fear has never seized Florentine when stood before a god. Though her mind does not remember, her soul does, and intrigue seeps through her slender torso and settles like electricity deep, deep in her breast.
 
“Even the most beautiful gods can be terrible indeed.”

And slowly she rises, like a flower from the earth, fragile and slender. Her wing hangs in gold distress at her side, disjointed, wrong. She is a downed bird, a flower crumpled, adorned in her wilted petals. Her crown of forget-me-nots lies upon her head. She presses weight through her wounded limb, its scar stark and ugly where Florentine has never been ugly before.
 
Her crown of forget-me-nots lay upon her head. “I am not a queen,” Florentine says, thought this is the first time she has ever worn a crown. “And you are not a god, so what does that leave us as now?”



@Lysander 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world