She should have known he would come at dusk. She should have seen the way Calligo’s shadows began to sigh and move: twisting, twirling, enchanting the twilight light. He is here, he is here they whisper, but the twilight girl does not hear their spider soft voices. She does not feel their creep upon her hot, hot skin…
She doesn’t, for Florentine is running, pushing on through the forest deep. On and on past snagging branches and pricking bushes she goes. The gloaming chases at her heels, darkening the woodland down into an eerie gold billows like a train behind her. She chases the dusk, clinging to the final vestiges of day, just a little more, just a little more her wild heart beats.
Maybe if the Dusk girl was not laughing so, drunk as she was upon her thrill and high upon the waves of her past adventure, she would have felt that mysterious pull, the lure of shadows that reached for her golden skin. It was pulling, tugging, whispering, beckoning her into the night.
The dusk girl is wild of eye and bright in spirit when she bursts from the shadow of the trees. She is not fit, nor ready for any political meeting, with her hair so wildly snarled, her torso so dirtied. Twigs and leaves, sand and soil, decorate her wild gold hair. The dirt and mud spattered across her golden skin, painting her with vitality. This girl is adventure rough and across the open grass she peels upon her long, long limbs. The stone keep of her home is the only subject of her eye, of her mind.
Until the jasmine air calls to her.
Oh that little lilting fragrance! That scent that knows its place within her soul. It steals her breath, her heart and her turns her limbs to naught but jelly. She slows, exposed upon the plane, so close to her beloved court and yet so far, for the Night Court is here, the Night King, is here.
Amethyst eyes, wide with trepidation, wide with yearning, slowly follow the scent of jasmine. She finds him framed by Calligo’s dark and lit by the silver of his star-strung eyes. The twilight curls to his skin, feline curious and soft, soft, soft.
The boy sets her heart to tremble. He is the flame and she the moth; unbidden, the girl is moving: closer, closer.
Florentine slinks to him. Desperate and wary, wide eyes fix upon him beneath her too-thick fringe. Petals scatter their warning, falling in her wake, imploring the girl to stop, to go back, to keep her path to the safety of the keep. This is a war she cannot win, but it rages hot and fierce.
It is love and longing that bring her to stand before him. His name, “Reichenbach,” falls like a poem from her lips. She has no curtseys for him this day, no flowers to lay within his hair, she is out of gifts for him. He has taken the most she could give.
What would it be to touch him again? Her lips tingle with a memory they cannot shed, and her neck curls in, a bid to keep herself from him. Her eyes flutter shut, her breath hesitant, worried. “Why are you here?” She breathes, for the ache is too much to bear.
@Rannveig @Reichenbach - of course I had to post, how could I turn down an opportunity for such ANGST?!
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
