[P] suns fled and ten million moons fled after them;

[Florentine]

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

Anthousai.
 
That was what Lysander called Florentine as he filled her mind with woodlands deep and turned her heart and soul into feral things.
 
Yet, as she watches his child of ivory and gold run through this slumbering island, Florentine wonders what mythical being he might name their daughter. Her soul aches with wanting to travel, to see his home as he so often asked of her.
 
Not now. Had been her answer, over and over until it was etched into the bonds of their love, the threads that bound them together. Not now but when? Never has Florentine feared the passage of Time. She is as fearless before it as Aster is before this world that slumbers and knows of nothing but stillness. The girl’s feet are a drum upon the earth, some ethereal chant of gods and mortal tribes. Laughter is in her throat. It presses at her lips, for how could Lysander think Florentine is anything mythical when here is a girl who hears more than silence, who sees more than nature dares reveal?
 
Aster returns, pressing beneath the curtain of Florentine’s hair. She feels the heat of warm lips and breath short with running. Her own lips reach with answer, as her flowers crown the child Anthousai and the waters, so still, whisper like glass of sea-born nymphs.  Slowly Florentine’s touch moves along the girl’s spine, feeling how she has already grown… these children are more alive than the island knows. When will this eternal day end? When will it mark the coming on night and, if night comes, would the sun ever rise after?
 
Such concerns might plague others. Yet Florentine merely wonders how much her children will grow in a solitary day. With they live and die in just one day? Will they know only the one season and the one sun and a world that never breathes?
 
Yet Aster is life for them both and her breath is hot upon her dagger, hot upon Florentine’s chest. “What does it cut?” This phoenix girl asks with riches in her eyes that could bring kings to their knees. What magic did you steal from Solis? Florentine wonders, and the words are upon her tongue, they are pressed upon the child’s eyelids and antlers and all the places she is gilded by sunlight and magic.
 
“Worlds,” Her mother breathes an answer that emblazons itself across her daughter’s brow.  “I use this to find Grandpa and Granny and home. Still Aster touches that blade, still it warms beneath her gaze. “Do you still dream of worlds Little Star?” Her mother asks, and wonders if her girl is as flyaway as she. She wonders if there is anything that might hold her twins in. She hopes not, she hopes they are insatiable and that Time will come kneeling for them.



@Aster <3 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world