The two girls lie, cocooned in the calm after the storm. The night about them barely stirs for it is so deep, so restful, so lovely. Sleep lingers clings to the fibers of the night, drowsily curled in shadow and drifting cloud. This sleep is a veil that, with sadness, sinks over them and curls about the stormsinger girl.
A breeze, little more than a sleepy sigh, presses in, curious as it tugs at the silver-silk hair Florentine combs, slowly, pensively. There is a sadness in Praistigia this night; a song that the two girl’s hearts knows only too well. The flower girl’s breath becomes as light and fragile as her worried heart.
Aislinn and Florentine are girls so different: one a creature made of golden dusk and wild flowers. And the girl who lies before her, caught between slumber and wakefulness, is the storm that only just left. How ironic that she should come here only after… There is a danger to this girl, a danger that crawls along Florentine’s skin. It is a portent and quietly the twilight girl heeds it as she continues to smooth the Night girl’s hair.
The melody ceases when Florentine speaks. The absence is so sudden, the night so simple and naked without it that Florentine nearly begs for it to continue. She would have, oh she would, were it not for Aislinn’s eyes, so fierce blue, so dawn blue, settling upon her own. It is the rub of blue and amethyst, the curious acknowledgement as a storm watches the wild meadow it reaches for with cries of lightning and cold, cold rain, falling like tears.
Flora’s smile slips across her lips, delighted to meet another Denoctian, delighted to hear more of their songs. “Is it a native song?” She asks thoughtfully, her voice but a whisper in the quiet of this night. It is a moment of revelry, a moment of delight and oh she clings to it, for maybe her heart already knows what her soul dares not believe: This night is made for sorrow.
It is this sound of this sadness that has Florentine’s young heart stuttering. It is a ghost from the nights she spent in tears herself. It is a reminder that her heart is not the same as it was before the Night King.
This storm girl, a creature of starlight and wild, gathering tempests, laughs a laugh spun from aching hearts and mourning souls. Florentine breathes as her own ghosts, made of Solterran gold and eyes stormsinger blue, rise to haunt her with a voice of wild fury: He will never love you and now, neither will I.
Florentine’s eyes shut. Oh how they shut tight! Alas, they cannot help her escape the sound of the waves that break with the agony of their shared hearts. Did Florentine have a cure for a broken heart?
No.
“They aren’t.” Florentine laments as the wind pulls petals from her mane. They fall like tears between the girls. “I am not sure there is any cure but time… All things heal with time.” She whispers as she hopes. Those words are a prayer upon her lips. A prayer for the hurt she caused her sun girl, Bexley. A prayer that one day she might be forgiven for a love she did not plan, a love that has already ruined the love of others.
“It hurts now, but I think it gets better... Do you have someone you can confide in?” And all she sees is the darkness in her father’s eyes – the bleeding shadow of a heart she is not sure ever truly healed.
"I am Florentine, by the way. I never give introductions early enough, I am always too busy talking about other things." She whispers in a bid to lighten the sorrow of this moment. A warm smile begins to curl her golden lips despite her ragged heart.
@Aislinn -bites nails-
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
