She is wet, wet with blood, wet with sorrow. At least, with her cheeks so damp, Flora cannot feel when her tears flow anew. Each teardrop is a waterfall, endless and deep. Gravity pulls grief from her soul and it turns her limbs to lead.
This girl longs to be steel as she looks from the window of her room. Only petals of jasmine remain upon the window ledge below her. They are remains of flowers that had lived there for so long their absence makes not just her window empty, but her soul too. The petals are shadows; a ghostly reminder of what was.
The door sweeps open and an ear twists to catch its sigh, but she does not turn. It could be Reichenbach and she still would not turn - not in sorrow, not in desire, not even in anger.
With her eyes out in meadows and trees, in the winds that blow, high, high in the sky – Florentine is safe. Up there her heart is still wound tight and whole. Her body does not remember what it was to be so covered in blood.
Crimson upon her skin, that had been the terrible memory. It was so startling and bold, so beautiful there, red against gold. Such regal colours, so grand… But there was nothing grand about her death or Lysander’s savage attack. They were both terrible memories rending her low, low, low.
This Court feels so empty now – or was it her? Is her body now so empty she is just an echo? He had the truth pulled from her so readily. Her heart had not been prepared and now, oh now it feels like nothing of her remains. Where is her armour, she needs it now, she needs it to hold the pieces of her together.
Asterion steps in quiet and gentle. Her name in his mouth, upon his tongue is so full of empathy it is a knife in her soul. A breath shudders from her, her skin shivering, her hair dripping water like blood upon the floor.
Still she does not turn, not even as he ebbs closer. Asterion is the moon to shine soft silver upon her sorrow but his sister does not move with his apology. It is not his to make. When she does move, it is only her eyes closing tight, her lashes pinching against her cheeks.
What can I do?
Then they open and she turns to him. The flower girl drinks in her brother with his skin as dark as Lysander’s, his brow flecked with white like Reichenbach’s. All the boys she keeps close and has become too afraid to lose. But one is already gone and she will not chase him.
Florentine says nothing as she turns, at last, from the window. Only the room speaks for her as it echoes with her feet. She does not stop until she presses against him, until her face is hidden in the curve of his shoulder. Flora hides in the darkness of their embrace.
Eyes close tight, tight, tight and there in the warmth of her brother she can almost imagine their father. But the image is gone, fleeting; just a picture grown rough and worn with too much time. What did his voice sound like? How red was his skin? So many things about him continue to slip from her. Like water she lets them go with a sigh and an ache of her heart. Her mind drifts then to the boy so broken because of her stupid love.
She turns until just her cheek remains against him, and her heart pressed against his. She clings to their sibling blood as she echoes small and meek. “I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.”
@Asterion - siblings <3
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
