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

[Florentine]

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

Closely, closely she watches her brother. The scent of lavender rises soft and strong between them. Her gaze wanders over the curve of his lashes, eyes that remind Florentine of a father she has not seen for too, too long. A twinge sings and singes its way through her heart. It throbs a beat, and then two, out of time and the girl misses her father then. How she wishes to tell him as she tells her brother. How she wishes to see his smile curl upon his lips and laughter seep out in joy – like the coming of spring, warm and bright and full of life.
 
But Gabriel is not here. Nor is her mother and how empty Florentine feels then. How the love of her brother and Lysander is enough, enough and yet never enough to fill the hole that her parents have left.
 
Magic thrums, thrums around her and the landscape trembles with the roar of a volcano. But through it all her brother smiles and she turns her wide smile upon him and lets laughter join his until, for a moment, their laughter is a vital song loud enough to drown out the roar of magic.
 
Lightning splits the sky, it bathes them white, white, white. But neither sibling lifts their gaze to look, neither startle as the world groans at their feet. The weight of Asterion’s head is familiar upon her spine. It is welcome, soothing yet her lips curl as she huffs, playfully, ‘That’s it, you just add to the weight I am carrying.” Her muzzle nudges beneath his chin in jest, yet she makes no move to urge him away. If he dared she would only follow to see her own embrace.
 
“Have you?” Florentine asks after his admission. “You know the magic always brings the good with the bad. Always.” But oh the bad has been terrible sometimes. She should know, still she remembers what it is like to die and taste blood as you feel the creeping cold of death’s great darkness…
 
She is quiet, for a moment lost in magic and memories. The Rift lies at her fingertips and her skin sings with its presence. Her dagger warms, waiting, answering, read. “I miss Daddy.” Florentine whispers, time for her confession due. “I want him to see her, or him… Will you come with me when I go? I shall have you back in a blink, no one will even know you are gone.”
 
Volcanic skies and glowing seas reflect in her gaze as she stands, silent, thoughtful. The child kicks and she trembles, “The baby is moving – do you want to feel it kick?”


@Asterion 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world