REICHENBACH'S BAE
Florentine watches him, through the snow and the veil of her fringe. In this moment she feels so very young – just like the child he first met - and yet also so very grown up. Flora feels every year she has spent parted from him and smiles with pride for what she hopes she might have become. Does he think she has grown up well?
Her head tilts, wild as wind and feral as a bird. She blinks, though her golden hair clings to her lashes. “Not able?” the words are a breath as she studies him. He is a piece of art she will watch and study and always find new things upon. He has already changed his appearance once – would he again? Would she have to study his new body like she does now? Relearn the shape of him.
“Do you not love?” She sighs when she has drunk her fill of him and still it is not enough. A steady gaze settles itself upon his, it might be the safest place of him to look, and she is wrong. Eyes are never safe. A smile, a thing to ease this awkward swell of emotion, slips across her lips. “Or is it because you have no heart?” She jests lightly, an eyebrow lifting as the queen turns from him and walks slowly towards home.
Florentine keeps close to him, a ward against the cold, but when has she ever truly felt cold? She was born in perpetual winter, yet the fact does not keep her legs from straying close to him; a moon within his orbit. His words have little space to travel when they are so close and she peers up from the corner of her eye. Stealing a wondering glance at her flower-boy and his words that seem to cryptic to her. “Why did they come to you? Did you heal them of their broken hearts?” There is an innocence to her question that age and experience has not yet chased away. It is there too in the way she watches him from wide, wide lilac eyes.
He talks, then, of straying, of never keeping still. He was not made for staying and, “Neither am I.” She says softly and considers how long she has been here and how she has come to love, to stay. “But love happens so fast…” She confides, small and overwhelmed. Florentine is flotsam in an unwavering sea. Love is the tide and it carries her out, out, out. Indeed, she is never still. Rather, she is lost and thinks she might never be found.
She turns her head, as if it might clear her from her thoughts. He does not aid her when his muzzle touches hers and his lips find the tangle of her fringe. She pauses for a moment, until the touch tickles, until it feels too pleasant. Then she tilts her forehead away, but cannot stop the sudden reach of her mouth for his as her lips lip at his own.
Lysander’s words draw her gaze to his antlers, still bloody, still tattered. “No, he doesn’t have antlers.” An inhalation, a sigh and then, “He has gypsy coins and feathers and wild curls.” Her eyes trail Lysander’s own mane of endless curls. “I know another boy with wild curls.” The flower-girl adds pointedly as she turns back for the Dusk Court, studiously ignoring the lingering tingles upon her lips and forehead.
@Lysander
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
