[AW] we drew in revelry;

[Florentine]

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

Theodosia descends upon the cushions. She is all swan grace, her nape arched with the curves of a crescent moon. Her antlers are like frost chandeliers rising for the sky in sharp grace. Over their endless arcs Florentine’s gaze wanders and upon the paper she draws them back. Sweeping paint, sweeping emotions and Florentine is in so many places.
 
She feels sorrow, across the room and here close. Her eyes flit through candlelight and shadow, through smiling lips and dancing bodies, to where her brother stands and draws Moira Tonnerre. His lips are a line – was his paper a litany of lines also?
 
Florentine might rise, might move to his side and press her shoulder against his and ask in a voice soft as whispers what his sorrow is… She would have, if she still bore the vestiges of youth. Yet she feels their loss and merely sighs, a breath deep, deep enough to quieten the hum of alcohol in her veins. Ah they make her nerves mute and their electricity is gone, little more than an electric laugh that sizzles in her aching limbs.
 
Her gaze returns to Theo, to the bruise in the warrior’s eyes. What paints might capture it? What steepened curves would capture the hurting shape of that girl’s gaze? Florentine’s eyes close, slow, slow. She does not cease her drawing but continues to make shapes despite the black of her eyes.
 
“I hope you fight better than you lie, Theo. Or else there is no hope for Dusk.” The once-queen says softly, warmly. There is no thread she bears, no reprimand or prying look.  Her lips do not tip into a smile, not here, not now.
 
“I am as well as I can be, I suppose. Lysander has gone to chase a dictator in Day and I am learning what it means to sit back and support him from the fringes…” Her breath is lead within her lungs, it is a sea full of worries and sorrow. It holds her down, it drowns her from the inside. Loss is deep, it is unraveling within her.
 
“Do you ever think… worry, about dying on the battlefield. About those you love who might be left behind?” Florentine’s voice is soft, barely heard above the din of their small corner of the festival. But it’s loud enough, just, for Theodosia.


@Theodosia 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world