f l o r e n t i n e
The water barely stirred for him. The soft babble of the night-strewn liquid upon the smooth serpentine curves of his torso was an easy noise to miss. Florentine would almost not have known he was there, but for the sigh of breath before he spoke aloud.
An ear, tangled in her mane of honey threads and lavender flowers, twists to better hear him. Though her eyes do not fall from the star-flung skies above. It is quieter here, today. There is no revelry and Florentine is allowed to be quiet, to be sad for a power that has slipped away from her as fast as water through grasping fingers.
Time was not hers to travel anymore.
Her heart gave a wounded twinge and she wonders, idly, if he heard it. “You have seen me before.” Florentine confirms, the melancholy song sounding strange upon her lyrical voice. She longs to reprimand him for calling her a child, in the defensive way only an adult just out of puberty would, but she does not have the heart. Not today, not tonight.
Her eyes, at last, tumble from the skies to fall upon the smooth lines of his face. She spends a long moment here, unabashed by the time that tries to draw itself out awkwardly between them. Her eyes and body move like liquid, small movements, unceasing, forever changing. She is like the water she stands in, and like water, she soothes the burn of her rude staring.
His earless head invites her eyes to cascade down the arch of his neck, the undulations of his spine and the twists of his serpentine markings. They follow the bones and joints of his wings. Outstretched and aloft they would surely be like the ribbed vaults of a grand cathedral; if only she believed in gods. “I have never seen anyone quite like you.” She sighs and she lies, for she is already forgetting the past she can no longer return to and a serpent boy who lives there with his torso of warm, warm scales.
But Flora does remember him in part and finds comfort in Lothaire’s serpentine appearance.
The girl who stands in the water this night is not the vivacious girl Lothaire had met at Reichenbach’s coronation, though the wild tangles of her mane and the dirtied scuffs of her body beg him to remember her so.
A wing dips into the inky water, spreading ripples, setting the fallen petals of her mane dancing. Those petals spin and swirl, bumping into him, bumping into her, before drifting out, colourless in the silver of the moonlight.
“Have you come to tell me to leave, Boy of Night?” She asks in a whisper, her amethyst eyes drowning him in the purple bruise of dusk.
@Lothaire - sorry he has just had to experience Flora's first ever mopey post. My apologies!!
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
An ear, tangled in her mane of honey threads and lavender flowers, twists to better hear him. Though her eyes do not fall from the star-flung skies above. It is quieter here, today. There is no revelry and Florentine is allowed to be quiet, to be sad for a power that has slipped away from her as fast as water through grasping fingers.
Time was not hers to travel anymore.
Her heart gave a wounded twinge and she wonders, idly, if he heard it. “You have seen me before.” Florentine confirms, the melancholy song sounding strange upon her lyrical voice. She longs to reprimand him for calling her a child, in the defensive way only an adult just out of puberty would, but she does not have the heart. Not today, not tonight.
Her eyes, at last, tumble from the skies to fall upon the smooth lines of his face. She spends a long moment here, unabashed by the time that tries to draw itself out awkwardly between them. Her eyes and body move like liquid, small movements, unceasing, forever changing. She is like the water she stands in, and like water, she soothes the burn of her rude staring.
His earless head invites her eyes to cascade down the arch of his neck, the undulations of his spine and the twists of his serpentine markings. They follow the bones and joints of his wings. Outstretched and aloft they would surely be like the ribbed vaults of a grand cathedral; if only she believed in gods. “I have never seen anyone quite like you.” She sighs and she lies, for she is already forgetting the past she can no longer return to and a serpent boy who lives there with his torso of warm, warm scales.
But Flora does remember him in part and finds comfort in Lothaire’s serpentine appearance.
The girl who stands in the water this night is not the vivacious girl Lothaire had met at Reichenbach’s coronation, though the wild tangles of her mane and the dirtied scuffs of her body beg him to remember her so.
A wing dips into the inky water, spreading ripples, setting the fallen petals of her mane dancing. Those petals spin and swirl, bumping into him, bumping into her, before drifting out, colourless in the silver of the moonlight.
“Have you come to tell me to leave, Boy of Night?” She asks in a whisper, her amethyst eyes drowning him in the purple bruise of dusk.
@Lothaire - sorry he has just had to experience Flora's first ever mopey post. My apologies!!
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
