[P] let there be light, oh let me be right;

[Florentine]

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

Never has she longed to take something from Lysander like she does now. Upon that day, even as she hung her dagger about her throat, she knew that moments like this would come: moments when she feels so utterly detached, only one piece of a pair. Her dagger is a part of her missing and how her magic howls like a wolf to its dagger moon!
 
The child is a vibrant thing. It twists and turns, coiling and unfurling like the volcano’s breath that blots the sky. The magic that blooms here, at this volcano’s stirring, is nothing like what novus has known before. But Florentine knows it. This is a girl born into and raised upon wicked, changeable magic. There is no normal without a world ready to change and twist and morph itself into something so dangerously other.
 
Is she the only one smiling upon the beach? Is she the only creature that stands upon the edge of the cliff, leaning out as it crumbles in warning beneath her feet. Stone cascade into the thrusting sea, they rattle their voices like bars upon a cage. How loudly they urge her back and warn her, even as the roaring sea rises up to swallow them down, down, down beneath their frothing breakers.
 
Her heart is a storm summoner, it roils in her chest with the lightning, it laughs in her veins like thunder. Her head twists and swings, wild, imploring, keen. Exhileration makes her numb, it steals her breath and makes her ragged. She rears and the electric lightning strking from the volcano’s lungs illuminate her in a picture. An image that turns her into a statue, fierce and beautiful and pulled out of some other-world temple.
 
Other worlds are speaking, they are roaring through their volcanic mouthpiece and oh Florentine hangs upon their every word. She might have spread her wings then, she might have dared to throw herself from the cliff and fly as near as she could to the terrible island, were it not for Asterion.
 
He comes, steady as a rock to the wild of her sea. She turns to him with a gaze as bright as stars, she moves to his side, pressing against him, breaking upon her brother with the loyal adoration of an ocean upon land. In her ears is the crescendo of her blood and it is more than a hurricane’s howl yet she manages to hear him still.
 
What comes next?
 
She laughs timeless, endless. When did she begin laughing – was she always laughing? Would she ever stop this chiming laughter that ripples like bells and resounds like falling stars? “Who knows.” She says into his skin as her eyes close and she drinks in the smell of her brother. He is night and day and everything in between. He is the dank of the swamp and the gypsy dark of the Night Markets.
 
“But I think I have far more frightening news.” Florentine says, breathless and bright. She steps from him, to where she can hold him in the amethyst of her gaze, turning him into a boy held by petals and leaves. “You are to be an uncle and Lysander doesn’t yet know.” She smiles but there is a darkness behind it, worry for a father that has no idea of his destiny.
 
But, ever changeable, ever so easily distracted, she returns her gaze to the volcano. “This is the most normal I have felt in a long time. Things are meant for change, always. Enjoy what the magic brings us.”

@Asterion Flora and I are the most happy. <3

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world