There was a girl with skin the colour of a thousand sunsets. Florentine watches as she wanders. The sunset girl drifts closer to the edge of the cliff. There seems to be nothing but her and her thoughts. The festival, though it thrives, though it thrums around them with magic and the rippling light of a thousand fires – none seem to touch this sunset girl.
Florentine thinks she might be kept elsewhere. She wonders if this girl’s heart was as wayward as hers – or was she merely lost? Had she become separated from a heart that had left to call somewhere else home?
Flora breathes a sigh of cold, winter’s air and peels herself from the shadows, from the warm press of festive bodies. Her gold skin is rich beneath the light of a thousand airborn lamps drifting out to sea. Florentine is liquid gold this night, every piece the queen she likely should be, but could never truly become.
This girl was not made for crowns or thrones. Her mind drifts to Lysander, to meadows and forests yet explored, to deserts who, with their bones, are ever changing.
When had she moved to stand beside Faye? When had she moved to share the same view of the sea? Florentine was not sure, but here she was, sharing the scant warmth between their bodies and asking so softly, so daringly. “You seem like part of you is lost.”
It may be an astute observation, one made by a girl who also knows what it is to not be whole. She was not born to be rooted. Florentine was born to fly and she left a piece of her wherever she went.
@Faye
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
