flora
The Sugartide hangs motionless in the burnished air above the Maw while the sea below glows molten and bruised beneath the sinking sun. Heat clings to Flora’s skin in a thin, restless sheen, LongHeat refusing to loosen its grip even as evening bleeds gold into copper into something darker at the horizon. She stands at the railing with both hands wrapped around the wood, fingers curled tight enough that the knuckles pale beneath her rings, the wind lifting the hem of her sundress and teasing the loose ends of the braid resting over her shoulder.
The flower from her engagement ring sits woven into the top of that braid, pale petals threaded carefully through blonde curls that catch the light like spun sugar, and the ring itself flashes whenever she shifts her grip, diamonds and coloured stones cut into the shape of a bloom that seems almost alive in the sunset.
Below deck, she knows Kai is probably fidgeting, not because he is there to hide and not because she doubts him, but because some conversations need silence around them and the anti-telepathy ring glints unseen in the dim of the lower cabin to keep his thoughts from spilling where they are not invited, at least for a time.
On the horizon, the Ark cuts a dark shape against the firelit sky, her sails catching the last light as she draws closer and closer, steady and inevitable. Flora does not wave, does not move. She only watches, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to suggest calm from a distance, as though this is nothing more than two ships meeting over open water instead of something that presses tight and sharp behind her ribs.
The flower from her engagement ring sits woven into the top of that braid, pale petals threaded carefully through blonde curls that catch the light like spun sugar, and the ring itself flashes whenever she shifts her grip, diamonds and coloured stones cut into the shape of a bloom that seems almost alive in the sunset.
Below deck, she knows Kai is probably fidgeting, not because he is there to hide and not because she doubts him, but because some conversations need silence around them and the anti-telepathy ring glints unseen in the dim of the lower cabin to keep his thoughts from spilling where they are not invited, at least for a time.
On the horizon, the Ark cuts a dark shape against the firelit sky, her sails catching the last light as she draws closer and closer, steady and inevitable. Flora does not wave, does not move. She only watches, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to suggest calm from a distance, as though this is nothing more than two ships meeting over open water instead of something that presses tight and sharp behind her ribs.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
