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⋅ ⚜ 🇵🇱🇦🇾🇱🇮🇸🇹 ✦ 🇵🇷🇴🇫🇮🇱🇪 ✦ 🇲🇴🇴🇩🇧🇴🇦🇷🇩 ⚜ ⋅
⊱──────────────────────☙⋅ ✦ 
✦ ⋅❧──────────────────────⊰ ⋅ ⋅
𝕿𝖔 𝕾𝖊𝖊 𝕳𝖊𝖗 𝕯𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊
༺⚜༻
When Aurora combed her hair in the mirror, she imagined that she could see not only her reflection, but the reflections of those she had lost to time.
Before her slumber, Paris had been a grand city to be sure. Now, with the hum of motorcars in the streets, the voices of two million citizens overwhelmed
her sense of scale. It all seemed so dizzying. The street lights made night seem as day, and the buildings loomed higher, blocking out the sun when first it
dawned. For all her wonder at the way the world had changed, she had been working tirelessly to pick up the pieces of her past life. She had been
welcomed into the Palais Garnier as a dancer, yet the lacquered floors and gleaming barre of the practice room and its great mirrors could not compare to
the quiet of her apartment and her heart shaped vanity, through which she saw the sweetest memories of her unfrozen heart.
If she just closed her eyes for a moment, the hands brushing her hair were not hers, but those of her aunties.
Perhaps Miette, the sweetest of them, was brushing and stroking her hair with hands made soft from the lanolin of the baby lambs she had tended that
day. Or Fleur, who placed flowers into the rose garden of her hair and told her that her eyes sparkled like dewy delphinium. Aurora could almost hear
the songbird chirp of Canari’s singing voice, as Candide anointed her ears with the oils of water lilies. There was no doubt that Violente would be having
a cup of wine and telling her that girls her age needed to learn the sword, even though she was being prepared to honor the spirits of the old castle,
who well-heeded the pleas of a vestal.
Aurora was the dawn personified; she rose with it and brushed it into her hair, held its light in her airy voice, smelled as sweetly as roses in its tenderest
legs of light first stretching downward to touch the earth. Her aunties told her this over and over, such that she blushed humbly and bowed and sighed
in playful exasperation. There were chores to be done, flowers to be tended, animals to feed, couldn’t they spend a little less time fussing over her hair
and her face, however beautiful they assured her she was!
Those mornings had disappeared into her century-dreams. She missed them more each morning she awoke to find no aunties, but her empty Paris
apartment.The flurries of activity now were not the shuffling and pleasant voices of her aunties preparing the thorn-protected palace for the day, where
Aurora lived alone except for when their visits charmed her soul, Now it was the thump of her maître de ballet's cane upon the door, arriving just before
the dawn to wake her. It was the hustle of the horseless carriage through the crowded streets, the incessant gossiping of the other dancers in the troupe,
the disquieting feelings of being lost clanging like a bell in her mind.
There was no time for the danseuse étoile to rest. Whispers already stung her ears like bees, saying she had received preferential treatment for her
appearance rather than her skill. There was no denying her appearance was more than breathtaking. She was delicate as a feather, light as a crystal
earring, fair as a painted bisque doll.
But, oh, to see her dance...
⋅ ⋅ ⊱─ ☙⋅ ✦ ⋅❧ ─⊰ ⋅ ⋅
ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ ⚜ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ
akitamonster ⋅ prettyflowerdog
⋅ ⋅ ⊱─ ☙⋅ ✦ ⋅❧ ─⊰ ⋅ ⋅
A beloved gift from a treasured friend. Thank you..!
⊱──────────────────────☙⋅ ✦ ⚜ ✦ ⋅❧──────────────────────⊰ ⋅ ⋅
ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀɢᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜱᴏʟᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀᴛʏ, ᴀꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ. ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ
ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴏʀ ᴅᴜᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ.
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