[quote pid='1797' dateline='1499858710']
f l o r e n t i n e
He says so little. The silence draws itself between them, palpable and as keen as the trembling notes of a violin. But there is no trembling note to hear, only their mingling breaths to layer the song of bubbling waters.
Where Lothaire had been raised beneath the suffocating veil of hatred and anger, so Florentine had been like a seed and her parents the sunlight and water. She had flourished outward, Lothaire only inward. They are yin and yang beneath the moonlight; they should rub, they should abrade, but the water soothes.
She feels the nothingness of him and tastes the impassiveness of a heart that has gathered too much dust. Like he does not know the emotions he feels upon her, so she does not know the ones she feels upon him. Their ignorance is kin.
Water drips and drops from a solitary feather as she lifts her wing from the water at last. She watches the way the droplets shatter the silver moonlight and set the water to shiver as they fall.
She has begun to grow cold here, in the cool of the silver moon and its inky waters. Not even the swaddling heat of the summer’s night can warm her anymore and her body, greedy for heat, leans towards his own; the water protests – a ripple, a push, a slosh.
“I wish you would be so thoughtless.” She says, to the melody of the breaking waters that begin their lament, for she has no doubt failed his test. “I may quite like you for it.” She adds insult to injury, though her small smile is as fragile as the waters between them.
Then, with a breath, long and slow, she maybe, just maybe, saves herself of his scrutiny. “I belong nowhere.” Her eyes lift, rising through pitch and stars and moonlight. She was once a kite without tether but now, the very thing that gave her flight, keeps her chained to this earth – to Novus. “Do you ever dream of worlds beyond this?” She asks him then, suddenly wild like the tangles of her mane, the dirt of her honeyed skin. Her amethyst eyes fall back to Lothaire’s, sinking into their chasm of black, black night only to burn and burn like the final throes of a dusk-dying sun.
Then, there, she fancies she hears the subtle whispers of her knife, its humming against her breast. But oh, it was there just a moment – a fleeting little thing maybe born of imagination and whimsy.
And the dusk girl dares to hope, for her dagger has already been too quiet, too long.
@Lothaire <3
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Where Lothaire had been raised beneath the suffocating veil of hatred and anger, so Florentine had been like a seed and her parents the sunlight and water. She had flourished outward, Lothaire only inward. They are yin and yang beneath the moonlight; they should rub, they should abrade, but the water soothes.
She feels the nothingness of him and tastes the impassiveness of a heart that has gathered too much dust. Like he does not know the emotions he feels upon her, so she does not know the ones she feels upon him. Their ignorance is kin.
Water drips and drops from a solitary feather as she lifts her wing from the water at last. She watches the way the droplets shatter the silver moonlight and set the water to shiver as they fall.
She has begun to grow cold here, in the cool of the silver moon and its inky waters. Not even the swaddling heat of the summer’s night can warm her anymore and her body, greedy for heat, leans towards his own; the water protests – a ripple, a push, a slosh.
“I wish you would be so thoughtless.” She says, to the melody of the breaking waters that begin their lament, for she has no doubt failed his test. “I may quite like you for it.” She adds insult to injury, though her small smile is as fragile as the waters between them.
Then, with a breath, long and slow, she maybe, just maybe, saves herself of his scrutiny. “I belong nowhere.” Her eyes lift, rising through pitch and stars and moonlight. She was once a kite without tether but now, the very thing that gave her flight, keeps her chained to this earth – to Novus. “Do you ever dream of worlds beyond this?” She asks him then, suddenly wild like the tangles of her mane, the dirt of her honeyed skin. Her amethyst eyes fall back to Lothaire’s, sinking into their chasm of black, black night only to burn and burn like the final throes of a dusk-dying sun.
Then, there, she fancies she hears the subtle whispers of her knife, its humming against her breast. But oh, it was there just a moment – a fleeting little thing maybe born of imagination and whimsy.
And the dusk girl dares to hope, for her dagger has already been too quiet, too long.
@Lothaire <3
[/quote]
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
