[AW] shadows seeping into skin

[Florentine]

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

Viridae Forest had changed. It was not just the turn of the seasons – that stripping of verdant leaves from trees and the yellowing of meadow flowers – it was something more. The forest was hush, as if its voice of bees and chirping birds was lost. All hung silently, its breath held, its spirit broken.
 
Florentine stepped, slowly, slowly. Twigs snagged in her tail, leaves fell like tears from the trees above and in her mind she remembers. If she closes her eyes (each forest step careful in the dark of her mind) an owl swoops from a tree. It’s wings are outstretched and it glides in silence and beauty. The dawn light slides along its feathers, it pours liquid gold upon the bird and below Florentine smiles at the wild, free creature.
 
Then there is Po. Oh, beautiful Ipomoea with his smiles, with his wings at his ankles. His flowers are bright and vibrant, every part of him is born within this forest. From it he is carved, his joy is reflected in the vitality of the woodland. But then Flora remembers their last meeting. She steps into the clearing she last saw him in. The ground, when her eyes opens, is littered with flowers, they are more mature, a ray of rainbow light in a forest, grey with recovery.
 
No longer does Florentine’s wing hang, broken and listless at her side. Now it is bent up and held tight to her side by a binding cloth. It wraps the girl about her stomach and holds her wing up. It is comfortable and yet, it chafes with the heat. Already that white bandage is dirtied and worn.
 
It had taken only days to fly here before, but to come upon foot took weeks. She is weary, road beaten and her eyes are glossy lilac. But as her golden lashes bend up, her gaze peering through the clearing, a voice comes, beautiful and light. Someone is watching.
 
Florentine pauses, a slim limb held bent, ready to step, ready to run. Her heart stutters in her chest. “Are they?” the flower girl asks the stranger and peers around. Slowly she steps toward the source of the voice, weaving between laden tree boughs, stepping over raised roots.
 
When her gaze settles upon the stranger, it was no woodland imp as Flora might have once wondered. No, this girl, this creature is wreathed in a crimson cloak that hangs like pouring water from her back. Her horns are gold and lavish, her face painted, her body bejeweled.
 
Florentine pauses, for there is no elegance of her to match, she has only petals that tumble and roll playfully toward the stranger. Not even her dagger hangs around Flora’s throat, it is safe with Lysander, Florentine knows, though now she yearns for it. Now she begs for its hungry silver, desperate to slice between worlds.
 
Shadows were crawling, and Florentine’s heart is a tattoo against her ribs. “I do not believe we have met – are you new?” The girl asks of the stranger.

@Forseti <3 It has been too long. I miss your words, so much 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world