f l o r e n t i n e
The air is close and tight as she slips from the sky. The land shimmers and shakes before her, one moment close, the next further away. She is not sure how much longer she can fly through this stifling heat. It weighs her wings so heavy, it sets her blood to boil and her eyes blink, and blink again, to rid her gaze of this mirage.
There is a gem that glows cerulean blue, its waters deep and cold, like ice, found in the very depths of the desert. Above it, a waterfall falls, glistening in the unrelenting light.
Sweat glistens upon her neck attracting sand and dust that rub her skin until she feels as rough as sandpaper. She will be dust, she thinks, before she ever reaches this phantom oasis.
All around golden sands stretch and stretch for miles. Dunes roll up towards the sky and then down, like the back of a great behemoth moving beneath this sea of sand and gold.
Florentine’s dagger, made hot by Oriens’ ferocious sun, burns against her breast. This sun laughs at her, it keeps its smoldering eyes upon her skin and threatens to burn her down to ash. Even her flowers, lilac and beautiful, have wilted in the heat.
Yet onward Florentine flies until the gem becomes a pool, until her feet land, small in the vast sands of this unforgiving desert. Her heart pounds in her chest, effortful, heat stressed and water thirsty. Amethyst eyes, behold the sudden blues and vivid greens of this idyllic place.
Cool waters whisper of respite, of cool kisses across her too hot skin. A bag thumps to the ground, weighed low by tinctures and herbs, and lies forgotten in the shade of a palm tree. She is gone, the sunset girl, for she collides at flight with the roaring waterfall.
Cold, cold water washes like a sheet over skin so hot she is sure she will melt into the water like molted gold. Steam rises from her skin like Oriens own breath hot, hot and lingering. Flora watches lavender petals, pulled from her mane by the torrent, tumble down the waterfall to float, dazedly away across the stilling pool.
But it is one small petal, steady and idle, that drifts across to bump against familiar, golden skin. It takes but a lazy blink of water-wet lashes, to recognize the body her petal has found. Swooping low, water cascading from her outstretched wings, the twilight girl lands in the basin. Wading in to the shallows, her skull already low, her lips search for familiar skin. “Bexley.” She hums, “I heard about the Teryr…” She says so softly, for it paid to be an emissary, to hear the dealings of the courts. A blood splattered king, fresh from the teryr fight, fills her mind and she huffs it away.
“Did you escape unscathed?” She asks, she hopes, she prays.
@Bexley
this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
There is a gem that glows cerulean blue, its waters deep and cold, like ice, found in the very depths of the desert. Above it, a waterfall falls, glistening in the unrelenting light.
Sweat glistens upon her neck attracting sand and dust that rub her skin until she feels as rough as sandpaper. She will be dust, she thinks, before she ever reaches this phantom oasis.
All around golden sands stretch and stretch for miles. Dunes roll up towards the sky and then down, like the back of a great behemoth moving beneath this sea of sand and gold.
Florentine’s dagger, made hot by Oriens’ ferocious sun, burns against her breast. This sun laughs at her, it keeps its smoldering eyes upon her skin and threatens to burn her down to ash. Even her flowers, lilac and beautiful, have wilted in the heat.
Yet onward Florentine flies until the gem becomes a pool, until her feet land, small in the vast sands of this unforgiving desert. Her heart pounds in her chest, effortful, heat stressed and water thirsty. Amethyst eyes, behold the sudden blues and vivid greens of this idyllic place.
Cool waters whisper of respite, of cool kisses across her too hot skin. A bag thumps to the ground, weighed low by tinctures and herbs, and lies forgotten in the shade of a palm tree. She is gone, the sunset girl, for she collides at flight with the roaring waterfall.
Cold, cold water washes like a sheet over skin so hot she is sure she will melt into the water like molted gold. Steam rises from her skin like Oriens own breath hot, hot and lingering. Flora watches lavender petals, pulled from her mane by the torrent, tumble down the waterfall to float, dazedly away across the stilling pool.
But it is one small petal, steady and idle, that drifts across to bump against familiar, golden skin. It takes but a lazy blink of water-wet lashes, to recognize the body her petal has found. Swooping low, water cascading from her outstretched wings, the twilight girl lands in the basin. Wading in to the shallows, her skull already low, her lips search for familiar skin. “Bexley.” She hums, “I heard about the Teryr…” She says so softly, for it paid to be an emissary, to hear the dealings of the courts. A blood splattered king, fresh from the teryr fight, fills her mind and she huffs it away.
“Did you escape unscathed?” She asks, she hopes, she prays.
@
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
