f l o r e n t i n e
How should I know, I’ve only just met you.
Nope, this potential courtship was really not going to plan.
Lifting her chin in an effort to restore her pride, Flora retaliates, albeit more meekly than she might have hoped. “Well there is such a thing as love at first sight you know.” Her voice, for all its natural melody, ends roughly - a verbal jab between the ribs for Pretty Boy. “I thought for a moment you might have been truck by it.”
Her mother has suffered with ‘Love at First Sightis’ (as Flora had enjoyed referring to it as a child). Apparently it was real though Florentine was rather disappointed Pretty Boy hadn’t been struck dumb with a case of it. She hoped to encounter it one day.
With her pride a little wounded, Florentine valiantly keeps her pace along the beach. Since his dismissal of her, where there had once been uncertainty about waiting for Pretty Boy to catch up or charging on ahead and making him work, she had very much decided to make him work to be in her company. A twang of pleasure ripples through her chest as, from the corner of her eye, she spies him scrambling to keep up with her.
Her stride lengthens.
“Hint’s in the name, Lover Boy.” The retort is sharp, yet Flora, being of a near perpetually jovial disposition, cannot help the gentler tones that begin to slip in undetected. Her eyes, like a hawk, watch for that indignant quiver of his nostrils, hoping for something more. All is fair in love and war after all and if this is not going to be potential love, then it would be war.
Well, Flora’s version of war…
However, love and war and bruised egos are forgotten in the wake of her terrible dagger revelation. Hot, wet, snuffly tears replace sass as the agony of her lost power burns deep, deep into her chest. Florentine did not know when exactly her dagger and its power had become so much a part of her, yet the agony of losing it is so sharp it steals the breath from her lungs.
Pretty Boy’s awkwardness is lost to overwhelming tide of Flora’s sadness and not even the lovely girl of flowers and gold can make crying beautiful. Petals fall like snow, a lament for the Winter Court of her childhood and the homeland that she may never see again.
Tears turn to honey upon the cream of her cheeks, Pretty Boy’s touch upon her shoulder was a phantom gesture of sympathy. But it was not and would never be enough for Florentine. Grief has her falling and tangling. She throws herself against her awkward sympathizer as sobs come in earnest. Her face buries into Charlemagne’s skin, her wet cheeks ruining the dry of his hair.
Is there someone you can go see?
She could not longer get home. She could no longer get to her parents. A dejected “No.” muffles against his skin amidst hiccups and snivels. Pretty Boy was a far cry from the comfort of her parents, but he was here and she was desperate. Flora would make him work.
Eventually the tears subside and Florentine steps back, her tear-sticky lashes held together in small, spikey groups. It is unclear how much time she spent lost in grief: seconds, minutes?
A wing fans gently near his skin, incase of any tear-stained patches. There is no charming smile upon her lips, no mischievous twinkle in her eye. The girl of flowers feels but a small part of who she was. Now she is only one half of a whole. The other half of her has been ripped away. Pan knew they were stuck before she did and the pain of realization is razor sharp in her heart.
With a shuddering breath and a valiant effort, she fixes a raw little smile upon her lips and asks, “So, do you want a walk through Amare Creek to your new home, Lover Boy? I can let you hold my dagger if it will make you feel safer.”
@Charlemagne
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Nope, this potential courtship was really not going to plan.
Lifting her chin in an effort to restore her pride, Flora retaliates, albeit more meekly than she might have hoped. “Well there is such a thing as love at first sight you know.” Her voice, for all its natural melody, ends roughly - a verbal jab between the ribs for Pretty Boy. “I thought for a moment you might have been truck by it.”
Her mother has suffered with ‘Love at First Sightis’ (as Flora had enjoyed referring to it as a child). Apparently it was real though Florentine was rather disappointed Pretty Boy hadn’t been struck dumb with a case of it. She hoped to encounter it one day.
With her pride a little wounded, Florentine valiantly keeps her pace along the beach. Since his dismissal of her, where there had once been uncertainty about waiting for Pretty Boy to catch up or charging on ahead and making him work, she had very much decided to make him work to be in her company. A twang of pleasure ripples through her chest as, from the corner of her eye, she spies him scrambling to keep up with her.
Her stride lengthens.
“Hint’s in the name, Lover Boy.” The retort is sharp, yet Flora, being of a near perpetually jovial disposition, cannot help the gentler tones that begin to slip in undetected. Her eyes, like a hawk, watch for that indignant quiver of his nostrils, hoping for something more. All is fair in love and war after all and if this is not going to be potential love, then it would be war.
Well, Flora’s version of war…
However, love and war and bruised egos are forgotten in the wake of her terrible dagger revelation. Hot, wet, snuffly tears replace sass as the agony of her lost power burns deep, deep into her chest. Florentine did not know when exactly her dagger and its power had become so much a part of her, yet the agony of losing it is so sharp it steals the breath from her lungs.
Pretty Boy’s awkwardness is lost to overwhelming tide of Flora’s sadness and not even the lovely girl of flowers and gold can make crying beautiful. Petals fall like snow, a lament for the Winter Court of her childhood and the homeland that she may never see again.
Tears turn to honey upon the cream of her cheeks, Pretty Boy’s touch upon her shoulder was a phantom gesture of sympathy. But it was not and would never be enough for Florentine. Grief has her falling and tangling. She throws herself against her awkward sympathizer as sobs come in earnest. Her face buries into Charlemagne’s skin, her wet cheeks ruining the dry of his hair.
Is there someone you can go see?
She could not longer get home. She could no longer get to her parents. A dejected “No.” muffles against his skin amidst hiccups and snivels. Pretty Boy was a far cry from the comfort of her parents, but he was here and she was desperate. Flora would make him work.
Eventually the tears subside and Florentine steps back, her tear-sticky lashes held together in small, spikey groups. It is unclear how much time she spent lost in grief: seconds, minutes?
A wing fans gently near his skin, incase of any tear-stained patches. There is no charming smile upon her lips, no mischievous twinkle in her eye. The girl of flowers feels but a small part of who she was. Now she is only one half of a whole. The other half of her has been ripped away. Pan knew they were stuck before she did and the pain of realization is razor sharp in her heart.
With a shuddering breath and a valiant effort, she fixes a raw little smile upon her lips and asks, “So, do you want a walk through Amare Creek to your new home, Lover Boy? I can let you hold my dagger if it will make you feel safer.”
@Charlemagne
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
