[AW] where does the good go

[Florentine]

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They talk of floods and the grief in Flora’s heart is enough to drown them both. It is a rushing river, wild and churning, biting and thrashing. “It did,” Flora breathes. But I did not see it. She does not say. For that grief holds her fast, quickly tying her tight and pulling her under its wild flood. Florentine was bed ridden when her court was failing, she woke only to give her brother her crown when all around them was falling to ruin. Terrastella was at its lowest and she abandoned it.
 
Her eyes close tight, lashes pressed upon her cheeks as knees before an altar. If she closes her eyes hard enough, if she prays fiercely enough, could she wish it all away? Her breath rattles in her chest, the chain of a thurible pulled tight. Her sorrow is the incense of Po’s fragrant meadow.
 
Ipomea’s sorrow is bitter upon her tongue, she tastes it with the clarity of sweet spring grasses. But there is nothing glorious in their meeting this day. Flora sways towards the flower boy, his presence an embrace into which she would truly fall. 
 
“No,” She agrees. “It cannot.” Her eyes open, to settle her bruised gaze upon Ipomoea. A Dawn boy before a Dusk girl, their sun shining above the horizon. Was it rising? Was it setting? “But you tried, Po. Hope is a flowering meadow and hope always springs from ash.”
 
Tell me something good.
 
Florentine touches him, lips beneath the red of his eyes and her forehead against the curve of his shoulder. What words does she have for him, her oldest friend? What good can she bring him now? 
 
There are no gods within Florentine’s heart (except a once-god, and not even he will bring her to her knees in worship). She is a godless girl and she prays to none as she lays her head against her dearest friend. Yet she wishes she might, just then. She wishes she could hold a god tight and beg they hear her call. But she calls to magic and begs for something more than grief…
 
Her eyes open as a shadow flies and her eyes tip up, up, up. Flora lifts her head from Po’s side and smiles into the sky. “Look!” The girl implores her friend, “Not all is lost.” And an eagle flies idly above, its dark eyes searching far below. It watches the flower horses below and maybe it recognizes them, from the day Ipomoea first met Florentine.


@Ipomoea 

florentine
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