[AW] where does the good go

[Florentine]

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

There, in the tight of their embrace, Florentine feels his magic flow stronger and wilder. In answer the whisper wood rouses. Flowers and leaves knit together before her eyes. The magic paints them in unearthly colours that not even this time-traveller-girl could begin to imagine them. Oh this boy’s magic is a wondrous thing that slips as rich as golden vines along the silk of her skin. Florentine relishes it for it is as cool water upon the burning of her skin.
 
Then her eyes close, for to hear a wild wood grow is more fascinating that to see it too. Scents bloom, cathedral rich and it is too much to keep her eyes in the dark. So they open, amethyst bright and drink in the trees that turn from charcoal black to sated mahogany. Bark grows rough and vibrant and drifting ash is swallowed in the air, replaced with swirling pollen.
 
He asks as he works and his magic slows. Beneath her cheek, against her shoulder, across every part of her that touches him, she feels his muscles slacken. His weariness bleeds into her and her wing reaches over him, sheltering, strengthening. “You are right.” She agrees with him, her voice gold to line and gild every part of him that weakens. “I have not come to see a dead forest. I have come to see a living one, and I am.” Her smile is against his cheek, her breath pressing life into him. Oh if only could give the energy of her own magic! “I shall bring you seeds from other worlds, Po.” She hums, her eyes electric bright, filled with wonder and splendor. “Yours will be a wood none have ever seen before. Come and see a world with me? Pick the flowers you wish to grow here..”
 
Her invitation hangs. It is overflowing with its joy, laden with its hope that he might join her. “I want to give my child a flower of their own. One from another world, but, I would not know how to make it grow here, in Novus.” She pulls back a step, her eyes seeking her friend’s, holding, hoping. “Would you help me to make it grow here?” Her gaze follows the curve of his flower diadem, it trails like a finger along each fine petal edge. “I know of no-one better.”
 
And despite her hope, despite the joy that simmers with her words, with the declaration of her impending motherhood, Ipomoea’s grief still lies upon his spine, heavier than the world. Oh she feels it, where her wing bends over his back. “IF you had come, what exactly would you have done? What could you have done? I did not come to you either, Po. Do not carry this guilt, it will eat you alive.”
 
No longer is the smile upon her lips, but a sanguine curve of her gilded mouth. Her eyes are dark with warning, sadness heavy as an ocean.

@Ipomoea

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world