He’d wandered far from the Night Court capitol, farther than he had meant to; the paved streets had given way to the soft crunch of snow under hoof. Once surrounded by small huts with smoke rising from the chimney holes in their roofs, now he had the company of rolling hills blanketed in white, of an endless blue sky whose similarity to summer betrayed the cold of the world below. Odet matched the color of that sky, if only a few shades darker; he flit along overhead, his flight lazy and swooping. He never went far, oftentimes circling back to remain near to his slower-moving companion. For Ipomoea followed at a walk, lost to his own thoughts and too preoccupied for any sort of dance or frolicking, actions such a wide open expanse would typically elicit within him.

In fact, as he walked he paid no attention to the rolling hills, nor gently-singing pair of birds that huddled together for warmth in the next tree over. He didn’t see the fox that jumped in and out of the snow just around the corner, looking for small animals to scrounge a meal from. The wonders of the world—and of Denocte—were lost on him. If it weren’t for Odet, who he occasionally looked to and continued to follow, he would have been hopelessly lost by now.

His gaze was downcast, eyebrows slanted low over cerise eyes. A conflict raged within them, storm clouds gathered at the edges as if they, too, were waiting to consume him. But he didn’t speak. He wouldn’t voice aloud his concerns, although only the field mice hiding in their burrows below the earth would be present to listen if he did. Ipomoea kept his thoughts in his mind, allowing them to fester and grow rampant. He never had experienced dealing with conflict before; his coping methods were far from developed. 

Odet, finding a holly tree nearby, brought a cluster of berries over, flapping around right in front of Ipomoea’s nose to get his attention. Instinctively, the rose-colored boy stopped and looked on curiously as well he could as the songbird flit about his in a circle, finally alighting upon his crest to weave his bounty into his nest—that is, his horse’s mane. Ipomoea sighed, shaking his head as he resumed his walk. “There are other animals who might need that for food, rather than beauty, Odet.”

As expected, he received no answer. The songbird continued with his braiding as if Ipomoea had spoken not a word.

“Moreover, berries are a poor excuse for flowers.” At this, he received a sharp peck to his neck. Clearly his bonded didn’t appreciate the ingratitude, nor the sarcasm.

“Ow! Was that necessary?” he grumbled, giving his shoulders a shake to ward off the stellar’s jay’s attack, one that was admittedly out of character for Odet.

Then again, so was Ipomoea’s mood.

Irritated by his bonded’s sourness, Odet left the comfort of his nest to fly around in front of the appaloosa’s face, chattering angrily the whole while. Ipomoea threw his head up in frustration, turning away with a flick of his tail as he continued to grumble angrily under his breath. “Yeah, yell at me all you want for defending myself!”

As Ipomoea began walking away, the stellar’s jay followed him. Grabbing a beakful of his dark mane, he pulled back angrily as though trying to convince the larger horse to keep following him. But it was to no avail, for his friend simply gave another fierce shake of his head to pull his hair free. “Buzz off, Odet.”

But Odet was far more determined: with a high-pitched battle cry, he dove at the horse’s face and clutched his forelock with his feet. Pain blossomed at Po’s forehead as a few strands tore free, beckoning his head to follow the coercion. With a jerk, he spun around to confront the songbird—and as soon as he did, Odet let him free. He was left on to wonder in confusion as his bonded spiraled up into the air, wings swiftly carrying him across the plains, up and over the crest of a ridge.

Where he landed on the hip of a familiar figure standing there.

Ipomoea stood still, hardly daring to breathe as he took in the pale-skinned figure, dark locks tumbling over a striking facial marking. A marking that was wholly unique and wholly recognizable to him, albeit fuzzy from the old memories of his foal hood. His heart sputtered, stopped, and skipped a few beats before starting back up again.  When at last he took a shaky breath in, the scent carried to him on the wind was undeniable.

Does she recognize me..? She was standing so stilly, he couldn’t tell. But he was just as still, and he most certainly recognized her.

“Nia..?” he whispered, his nickname for the witch barely audible over the sound of his own voice. He coughed, clearing his throat—and hopefully with it, his nerves—daring to take another step forward before trying again, louder this time. “Nia??”