f l o r e n t i n e
She does not know what carnage he comes to her from; what bones he left rotting in the dirt. Though the Dusk girl is a dance of flowers and cool evening breezes, she would not be shocked by the stench of rotten flesh and stale blood. She had been a carcass once, after all… until they burnt her body and spread her ashes upon the winds.
Yet here she is, as alive as the churning sea and as vibrant as any flower.
Florentine does not feel the discontent of the lion that prowls after her. She does not listen to the hooves that click like claws upon the red, red stone so high above her. The Dusk girl is content with her slow, meandering path through the sunset maze. She would still be smiling, even if an eternity passed before she found her way to the Day Court’s walls. Flora is the butterfly that flits, petal wings beating against the zephyr that carries her this way and that.
The lion arrives and he is everything she is not:
He is the soldier; battle ready and battle worn, with the lion still roaring upon his back. She is the victim; the girl whose innocence once died with her as she painted the battlefield red with her fleeing blood.
He is the fierce sun, hot, direct, burning her skin with words and eyes, blue with heat. She is the girl who comes to chase the sun, to pull it from the sky, bruising it with the purples and gold of dusk.
Maxence’s eyes are a wave that crashes upon her skin, wild and fierce and pulling her in to drown. He is a drop of water in the parched day court – no wonder they appointed him sovereign.
Her laughs are gone, washed away by those cold eyes that fix upon her. She wonders how they can be all three: sea deep, ice cold and plasma hot. Through the tangle of her golden, flower-dusted fringe, Florentine peers up to the lion bearing down upon her. She is not the gazelle her mother was, but that does not stop her heart from fluttering against her breast.
This was not the Night King, full of dancing and revelry. No, this was a king whose claws were already upon her back. If only she knew who he was.
“I am Florentine.” She calls to him, though she has been called many other things: a nymph, an imp, a fairy, an elf, a time traveller… Too many things but at the end of all she is Florentine, “Emissary of the Dusk Court.” The title feels strange upon her tongue, but an even worse fit upon her skin. She shifts against its chafing. “I have come to extend our greetings.” And to explore. Are the words that do not follow, but play endlessly upon her tongue.
Black lashes flutter against her cheek before lifting to peer at the stranger and the sun that frames him with a formidable halo. “Won’t you come down? Whilst you do look quite fierce and splendid up there, I should like to look at you without a crick in my neck, if I may.” She says, inviting the lion down.
@Maxence
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
Yet here she is, as alive as the churning sea and as vibrant as any flower.
Florentine does not feel the discontent of the lion that prowls after her. She does not listen to the hooves that click like claws upon the red, red stone so high above her. The Dusk girl is content with her slow, meandering path through the sunset maze. She would still be smiling, even if an eternity passed before she found her way to the Day Court’s walls. Flora is the butterfly that flits, petal wings beating against the zephyr that carries her this way and that.
The lion arrives and he is everything she is not:
He is the soldier; battle ready and battle worn, with the lion still roaring upon his back. She is the victim; the girl whose innocence once died with her as she painted the battlefield red with her fleeing blood.
He is the fierce sun, hot, direct, burning her skin with words and eyes, blue with heat. She is the girl who comes to chase the sun, to pull it from the sky, bruising it with the purples and gold of dusk.
Maxence’s eyes are a wave that crashes upon her skin, wild and fierce and pulling her in to drown. He is a drop of water in the parched day court – no wonder they appointed him sovereign.
Her laughs are gone, washed away by those cold eyes that fix upon her. She wonders how they can be all three: sea deep, ice cold and plasma hot. Through the tangle of her golden, flower-dusted fringe, Florentine peers up to the lion bearing down upon her. She is not the gazelle her mother was, but that does not stop her heart from fluttering against her breast.
This was not the Night King, full of dancing and revelry. No, this was a king whose claws were already upon her back. If only she knew who he was.
“I am Florentine.” She calls to him, though she has been called many other things: a nymph, an imp, a fairy, an elf, a time traveller… Too many things but at the end of all she is Florentine, “Emissary of the Dusk Court.” The title feels strange upon her tongue, but an even worse fit upon her skin. She shifts against its chafing. “I have come to extend our greetings.” And to explore. Are the words that do not follow, but play endlessly upon her tongue.
Black lashes flutter against her cheek before lifting to peer at the stranger and the sun that frames him with a formidable halo. “Won’t you come down? Whilst you do look quite fierce and splendid up there, I should like to look at you without a crick in my neck, if I may.” She says, inviting the lion down.
@Maxence
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
