Ah, Flora.
Her eyes close – for how long had she thought she might not hear him speak again? Too fast his voice had turned to a ghost’s in her mind. It was being forgotten as fast as water passing through grasping fingers. To hear it now, in the quiet of this room, course with the sun and the pain he has swallowed, she thinks she might relish it forever.
Then those fae eyes snap open – to keep them closed was to deprive herself of the sight of him awake. The tendrils of death were further away when he was conscious; its portentous shadows were kept at bay.
Lysander chides her for the sorrow she cannot conceal, for the smile that cannot curl her lips. Her gilded chin lifts a fraction, defiant of his reprimand. “I will look at you how I please.” Those words are more soft whispers, for Florentine fears that, any louder and she might break him; might break her. There is an agony between them and she thinks, if she lets it, it might shatter them both. Her breath trembles in and trembles out, sent running by a heart that flutters with nervous wings.
The flower girl is touching him, with lips that follow the contours of his jaw. It’s a child’s touch, the same child that has watched herself die and wondered what it felt like. Love comes creeping in the door and draws a tear from her eye. What love is this? She doesn’t know because it makes her heart hurt more. It is a stranger here, its presence breaking her even more.
Flora draws away, with hair that wears blood from his wounds; it was a danger to be so close to this boy, so close to death’s expectant hands. But with that sad touch, she cannot be anywhere else.
I am sorry- and Florentine waits for him, like she has done for a millennia and would, for a millennia more. Fate is curling about her bones but she no longer knows what its touch means. This time-traveller girl is no longer content to just let it work its secret plans.
That we did not get to dance. Silence greets him from a girl so still. Only her eyes move as they wander over his body, following petals that dress him and lingering over wounds. “You fool.” Dusk breathes softly, gently. “We have danced before and we will again.” But she does not know when, and she does not know how. Already she begins to think of where she might go to find him anew; so many places, she knows.
“I don’t know whether they meant to kill you.” Such a rotten confession that decays her tongue with the fetid words. “But I will find out.” And there is life in that. It is a vow that sings with the song of a sword cutting through air. She had a date with the Night King and it was nothing like the ones before it.
He laughs, smoothing her fake smile into something softer more genuine; until the cough steals it away with its rattle and its blood. The fae-girl tastes his blood as though it were her own. She has known what it is to be so close to death as it creeps in. But she was downed in blood and mud, snow and ice. Lysander, however, is here in the softness of blankets and she is pleased she can give him that.
“You are dying.” She bleats, for she might never say it otherwise and it is a truth they cannot escape. “I cannot make the wound heal.” The girl looks to where it hides beneath pure white bandages and sweat-slicked skin. Can she count all the ways she has failed him? “Why did you come here, Lysander?” And she wants to be angry he has come, even when her traitorous heart still rejoices that he is here.
There is a breath, and then another, “Do you know how I might save you?” Those words are whispers from a girl whose lands are full of healers and not one can save him.
Lysander looks to her dagger and its weight reminds her of its presence. “I can go back and save you. Stop them ever finding you.” Oh this small sliver of hope to keep her from losing him. “I lost you once. I would rather not lose you again… not yet.”
But Florentine is always meant to lose him and find him, only this time, he had made her greedy.
@Lysander Well, this is breaking my heart.
★ She is clothed with strength and dignity,
and she laughs without fear of the future ★
