[quote pid='2193' dateline='1501261431']
f l o r e n t i n e
She doesn’t like him.
She doesn’t.
She cannot handle the disarray he leaves her in.
The flower girl had been so pleased with the dagger and her threat. She had meant every word and not, all at once. Florentine longed for Charlemagne’s discomfort – to make him feel an ounce of fear that would ease the ache of her wounded pride.
He had made her embarrassed to have ever asked if he liked her, after all.
That glint of pain in his eye, that small cry of hurt had made her heart leap. Pleasure at his discomfort burned through her, hot and wild and pleasing. But it was a flash, a spark, there one moment and gone the next. It gave her no warmth to last.
He makes her cold with his next statement - born of hurt, both old and new. The accusation drags her back to the girl she had once been: the one lying dead in the snow. Death had been swift with her, but Time had made her feel every second as though it were an hour. It sought payment for letting her travel through Time at will. And it took it that day.
Charlemagne was right. That is not who she is.
She is not a creature made for war or violence; neither was he. Shame has her chasing away thoughts of her parents, her friends. If he ever thought her fierce, she is not now. Regret has her lashes lowering to her cheek, her eyes searching the sand for redemption. She finds nothing there but their dirty feet.
Retaliations chase themselves like cats and dogs in her mind, but she dares not any speak them. Then tell me about yourself. It is not hard to imagine her asking him, to hear the curiosity upon her lips. But she doesn’t, too stubborn, too hurt.
He dismisses her, with a smile that hurts her more than her dagger ever could. Not even a smile can bring itself to grace her lips and such a foreign shape they make, so drawn with sorrow.
“Wait!” She calls to him, but he is already departing. If he hears her, she does not know. Charlemagne leaves the dusk girl with only her shame and a tear that tracks a lonely path down her cheek. Her breath is tight and she takes a step in his direction, indecision spreading her wings wide, but, what would she say? The girl of words, of chatter, has nothing to give him. She is so empty.
Sands rush by beneath her fleeing feet as she runs towards the rocky window and the rising sun it frames. The beach turns gold beneath its glow and she slows only when she reaches the rocky arch, leaving the Dawn boy far behind her. Through the window she peers, her heart wild and desperate. Yet all that meets her keen, keen eyes, is a beige, sun parched beach, framed by cliffs, and desolately quiet.
@Charlemagne
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
She doesn’t.
She cannot handle the disarray he leaves her in.
The flower girl had been so pleased with the dagger and her threat. She had meant every word and not, all at once. Florentine longed for Charlemagne’s discomfort – to make him feel an ounce of fear that would ease the ache of her wounded pride.
He had made her embarrassed to have ever asked if he liked her, after all.
That glint of pain in his eye, that small cry of hurt had made her heart leap. Pleasure at his discomfort burned through her, hot and wild and pleasing. But it was a flash, a spark, there one moment and gone the next. It gave her no warmth to last.
He makes her cold with his next statement - born of hurt, both old and new. The accusation drags her back to the girl she had once been: the one lying dead in the snow. Death had been swift with her, but Time had made her feel every second as though it were an hour. It sought payment for letting her travel through Time at will. And it took it that day.
Charlemagne was right. That is not who she is.
She is not a creature made for war or violence; neither was he. Shame has her chasing away thoughts of her parents, her friends. If he ever thought her fierce, she is not now. Regret has her lashes lowering to her cheek, her eyes searching the sand for redemption. She finds nothing there but their dirty feet.
Retaliations chase themselves like cats and dogs in her mind, but she dares not any speak them. Then tell me about yourself. It is not hard to imagine her asking him, to hear the curiosity upon her lips. But she doesn’t, too stubborn, too hurt.
He dismisses her, with a smile that hurts her more than her dagger ever could. Not even a smile can bring itself to grace her lips and such a foreign shape they make, so drawn with sorrow.
“Wait!” She calls to him, but he is already departing. If he hears her, she does not know. Charlemagne leaves the dusk girl with only her shame and a tear that tracks a lonely path down her cheek. Her breath is tight and she takes a step in his direction, indecision spreading her wings wide, but, what would she say? The girl of words, of chatter, has nothing to give him. She is so empty.
Sands rush by beneath her fleeing feet as she runs towards the rocky window and the rising sun it frames. The beach turns gold beneath its glow and she slows only when she reaches the rocky arch, leaving the Dawn boy far behind her. Through the window she peers, her heart wild and desperate. Yet all that meets her keen, keen eyes, is a beige, sun parched beach, framed by cliffs, and desolately quiet.
@Charlemagne
[/quote]
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
