This has been the longest Florentine has ever stayed within her Court. Normally a restlessness within her made her limbs itch to run and her soul burst from her chest with a desire to go. it would be the wind that would catch willingly beneath her wings and bear the girl, up, up, up.
But now, in the last weeks, Florentine has been grounded by weights that bore her so low. They kept her limbs heavy, her soul heavier still and her mind, well, it never left its memories of the Night Festival and the jealousies of a Night King that left Lysander beaten and bleeding and so, so sick.
She moves along the vaulted hallways of the cloister. Intricate stonework glowed marigold with the light of the morning sun. Florentine steps between the dozen rays of sunlight until she reaches Israfel’s door. Was it too early? So easy it was to lose track of time now. The flower girl feels the warmth of her dagger, it has roused and now calls to cut her way out of worlds – out of Novus - but how can she when her limbs are so heavy? Her soul is sinking like a rock into the deep sea.
“Israfel.” Flora says softly an amethyst petal blowing beneath the door, pushed by an invisible wind. “It is Florentine. I would like to speak with you.”
And then the girl waits, her eyes drifting to the wild-flower garden, framed by the cloisters. Birds, keen and vibrant, flutter between flowers, chasing bugs and flying insects. It is a miniature world and for a moment she longs to just be small again, so unaffected by this bigger world of hers.
@Israfel <3 <3 short to get us going :)
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
