you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Ipomoea has never been stabbed before.
He learns he does not like the feel of it.
It feels a bit like ice, when the knife first touches his skin. The sound it makes is a bit like a wail; and he wonders in a cold, detached sort of way if it cried for him, or for the man who wielded it. Maybe it cries for both of them. Maybe that is right of it.
For a moment, all Ipomoea sees is Sarkan’s eyes staring down into his own - ocean-dark, lapis lazuli, the blue of the sky opposite the sun. Endless, like oblivion.
His magic burns inside him, burning away the ice of the knife when Sarkan turns and pulls it away. His magic fills the hole it left, even as his papaver-red blood begins to spill. He can hear Rhoeas begin to run, somewhere deep in the woods; but all he feels is the rage. His rage, Ro’s rage, the forest’s rage; perhaps that is why blood is red, the color of fury. But if that was true, he wonders then why Illuster was always red in the spring, and why everyone said the red flowers were the earth’s way of pledging peace.
Later, he would stand in the meadow and ask them. But now, he only watches as the forest rips itself in half, and two monsters crash into the third.
They drag him down, down, down, and when he falls into the earth Ipomoea’s magic holds him there. Roots and thorns wrap like a noose around his neck, his legs, his muzzle; and for each leaf that turns to dust, there is another blooming to take its place. Even when the roots turn black and the vines turn brittle, still they hold onto him. And still Ipomoea watches, as the blood runs down his chest and falls from Thana’s lips.
He does not know when he finally turned away, if it was before or after the poacher becomes just another body in the woods.
At first he only walked, walked until the forest was green again and the sounds of something - someone - dying began to fade. He walked until his legs began to shake, and still his heart beat to assure him that he was not the dead thing being left in the woods tonight. And he walked until the blood on his chest began to feel more like fire instead of ice.
Then and only then, did he begin to run.
And where each drop of his blood and magic falls, a poppy blooms in its place.
@sarkan @thana
He learns he does not like the feel of it.
It feels a bit like ice, when the knife first touches his skin. The sound it makes is a bit like a wail; and he wonders in a cold, detached sort of way if it cried for him, or for the man who wielded it. Maybe it cries for both of them. Maybe that is right of it.
For a moment, all Ipomoea sees is Sarkan’s eyes staring down into his own - ocean-dark, lapis lazuli, the blue of the sky opposite the sun. Endless, like oblivion.
His magic burns inside him, burning away the ice of the knife when Sarkan turns and pulls it away. His magic fills the hole it left, even as his papaver-red blood begins to spill. He can hear Rhoeas begin to run, somewhere deep in the woods; but all he feels is the rage. His rage, Ro’s rage, the forest’s rage; perhaps that is why blood is red, the color of fury. But if that was true, he wonders then why Illuster was always red in the spring, and why everyone said the red flowers were the earth’s way of pledging peace.
Later, he would stand in the meadow and ask them. But now, he only watches as the forest rips itself in half, and two monsters crash into the third.
They drag him down, down, down, and when he falls into the earth Ipomoea’s magic holds him there. Roots and thorns wrap like a noose around his neck, his legs, his muzzle; and for each leaf that turns to dust, there is another blooming to take its place. Even when the roots turn black and the vines turn brittle, still they hold onto him. And still Ipomoea watches, as the blood runs down his chest and falls from Thana’s lips.
He does not know when he finally turned away, if it was before or after the poacher becomes just another body in the woods.
At first he only walked, walked until the forest was green again and the sounds of something - someone - dying began to fade. He walked until his legs began to shake, and still his heart beat to assure him that he was not the dead thing being left in the woods tonight. And he walked until the blood on his chest began to feel more like fire instead of ice.
Then and only then, did he begin to run.
And where each drop of his blood and magic falls, a poppy blooms in its place.
@sarkan @thana
