you are the poem wildflowers write
to spring ✿

There are clouds in the sky, low and grey. Ipomoea tries not to think of the way they seem like they’re watching him, waiting, the way their very presence promises that something bigger is coming. He tries to ignore the way the wind stretches itself like an icy knife across the meadows, flattening the dry grass beneath it. He tries not to listen when those golden stalks shiver and bend themselves to the ground, and whisper to him to take cover.

A storm was brewing, that much he could tell.

And Ipomoea had a sinking suspicion that he would be caught out alone in this one.

By the time he reaches the small house nestled at the edge of Illuster, the first few snowflakes have already begun to fall. They cling to his mane, his back, his eyelashes, dusting him with a thin layer of white that makes the blanket pattern on his skin complete. His breath is visible when he laughs, the sound as soft as the wind whistling through a spring forest.

“Have you considered using carrier pigeons for your messages?” he asks, watching as the last of the bunnies disappear over a nearby hill, white tails blending into the falling snow. “Or - owls?” Delumine certainly had no shortage of those, and Ipomoea could think of at least one person experienced with the avians.

The warmth of her home is a welcomed reprieve after his long walk. Walls and countertops alike are decorated with a multitude of creeping vines and flowering houseplants, so numerous they seem to turn the air itself a thousand shades of green. Combined with the wooden foundation, it’s enough to make him question - if only for a moment - whether it was truly Emersyn’s house he had stepped into, or the Viride forest. Still, it suits her, and all her shades of grey.

“I know the feeling,” he tells her, pausing in the doorway to admire a tendril of ivy that hangs low near to his head. “The Court can seem that way at times, especially to newcomers. Somedays it still overwhelms me. Is this heartleaf? It seems to be doing exceptionally well here, I did not know it could flourish this far north.”

He turns to see her stocking the fire, until a warm orange glow begins to fill the room. As always, just as Emersyn finishes one task she starts another.

It takes only one word for Ipomoea’s smile to fade, his brows creasing into a frown. “Poachers? Are you sure?”

He comes closer to the table, glancing only briefly over the leather harness before doing a doubletake. But he doesn’t question it - as the Emissary continues to speak, the appaloosa files the crafted wings away in his mind, alongside a list of other things titled “to be Asked Later.”

The air itself feels charged when he meets her stare, as if the intensity in her eyes has leeched into her surroundings, turning it all alive. Ipomoea can see it in her eyes what she’s able to do, what she’s willing to do.

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” he says quietly, matching the stillness of her eyes with his voice. “Let’s leave that as our last resort.”



He shakes his head, and turns to look out the window. The forest stands as tall as ever, branches waving at him from afar with a false sense of peace. Ipomoea looks at them still when he begins to speak.

“Are you sure, Emersyn? What have you found?"



He doesn’t want to think of what if might mean if she’s right, of what he might have to do. The soldier-turned-Emissary had had a lifetime to accustom herself to doing what she had to, not matter the cost. Ipomoea had had only a few months. Some things would never sit quite right on his heart.

---

@Emersyn
let's get this thing started

you are the poem wildflowers write
to spring ✿

The smell of cinnamon and clove is calming, the spice in the air settling a part of him he hadn’t even known to be disturbed. Ipomoea nods his head along absently to Emersyn’s words, watching the vine shake itself sleepily and extend one waxy leaf towards him. He presses into its touch, greeting it silently even as it greets him. And only when it breaks the contact does he move away, and follows after Emersyn as she leads him back out into the meadow.

The snow is falling in earnest again by the time they leave the warmth of the small cottage. As Ipomoea lifts his head he can see the landscape beginning to change, a blanket of grey covering the pale gold of the meadow.

He can hear a cracking sound in the distance, sharp and menacing. He can feel the tree shaking as its branch snaps like it was his own leg breaking off, as snow and leaves and dead things fall to the ground in unison. It sounds like a warning, echoing out through the forest, like the forest is begging them to turn around. But they don’t. And Ipomoea follows along beside the grey mare, trying to ignore the way his stomach heaves uneasily and despair settles like a pit within him.

And as they walk, Emersyn talks. Ipomoea is silent for much of it, letting her words wash over him as the snow settles across their backs. The forest turns colorless as the clouds block out the sky, a grim feeling settling all around them. He lets her take the lead, following her hoofprints through the snow.

She tells him to brace himself, right before they reach the scene. But she didn’t need to. The trees have been telling him all the way there, preparing him for the sight they’re about to see.

He wonders how he hadn’t seen it before, how he hadn’t heard the trees whispering about the blood and the bones and the missing animals. Surely they must have been talking about it - but it was winter now, and their thoughts were always slow and quiet when they went to sleep beneath the snow. But the trees here are awake, the ivy climbing up their trunks is away, and all of them are rubbing their leaves and branches together like they’re trembling, like they’re wringing their hands together.

They’re awake, but they’re still quiet - whispering in voices that are too quiet for him to make out, a steady undertone of murmurs that fills his ears like static.

For the first time, he is afraid to ask them what they’ve seen. Afraid to ask them what they know.

His mouth is dry, so dry, and when he swallows his throat feels as though it’s glued itself shut. Grown, he echoes hollowly. Grown like it’s a plant that has spread. Grown like it’s something good that has been tended to and nurtured.

It is not the word Ipomoea would have chosen.

He forces himself to look, at the nearly unrecognizable parts that fill the pit. The snow is still falling, a thin layer of white spreading over the bodies like the forest was trying to bury it, forget it, hide it. But the blood seeps through, red and bright and tainted, and Ipomoea knows there would be no concealing this.

I, I don’t know. He clears his throat, shifts his eyes away from the unicorn. But it doesn’t matter where he looks, because there’s still red, and gore, and dead things that shouldn’t be dead. He stares, and he stares, and he wonders how the earth could hold so much blood.

We need to let the people know.

At last he turns back to Emersyn. This has been going on for some time, it still is - the forest is big, it’s impossible to go far in Delumine without crossing through it - he turns away abruptly, pressing his eyes shut.

Whoever did this could be anywhere, Emersyn.



They could be in the forest now. Watching them. Tracking another unicorn. Polluting the forest where children play.



---

@Emersyn oof sorry this is shorter haha, and like all internal dialogue