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+---- Thread: [P] hearts like wildflowers [festival] (/showthread.php?tid=5768)
hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Maeve - 11-06-2020
@Ipomoea <3
RE: hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Ipomoea - 11-21-2020
T
he tulips are tapping against his legs as he weaves through the rows of them. There’s a pattern to them, he knows — the path curves gently as he follows it, intercepts with others like lines drawn through a painting. The pieces of it are there in the flowers roots: disjointed images pressed into his skin with the laughter of their petals, a riddle he is not sure even they know. Still, he is looking for the answer to it as he wanders past them.
But it is not the secrets waiting to be plucked like tulips from the fields, nor is it the breeze that pushes gently now at his back (like it is pushing him deeper into the petals, deeper into the field, deeper into the festival). And it is not the colors he sees blooming in shades of red, and purple, and gold when he lifts his head over them like he is a scythe arcing towards their stems, and they a vessel holding back a flood he wants to release.
He tries. Oh, he tries to remember what it feels like to look only at a field of flowers, only at the flowers, and appreciate them for what they are, rather than what they could have been, or might be, or were before.
Ipomoea follows the soft purr of music and magic woven between the stalks, and tries to not think of all the ways he is different now than the last time he had come here. He does not know how to look away from all the bits of his memories that sit in his soul like petals torn from the tulips and scattered about in the depths of him. He does not know how to see the shadows of them dancing between the stalks the way he used to.
He cannot stop wondering who he might have been — what he might have been — had he stayed here. Had he stayed in Denocte. Had he stayed in Solterra.
Had he caught that ship leaving the Night court’s docks when he was only a yearling and sailed to worlds far from this one.
All he has to clutch now to his chest are a thousand what if’s, what if’s, what if’s, all of them keeping him away at night like a sonnet he can’t help but repeat. But all thoughts of those other worlds, those other Ipomoea’s living other lives, disappears when he turns his head and watches a child racing through the tulips. And he does not say anything when he goes to her — he only smiles at her when she turns and begins to run back towards him.
“Maeve,” he breathes her name into her mane, nuzzling at her poll affectionately. “Are you here with your mother?”
an endless garden
RE: hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Maeve - 11-29-2020
@Ipomoea <3
RE: hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Ipomoea - 11-30-2020
A
round them the flowers are a blaze of color stretching from one end of the field to the other. Ipomoea knows there is a pattern to them, he knows that in the castle keep there is a tower that spirals into the sky. Standing atop the terrace and looking over the field was like witnessing a secret unfurl.But Ipomoea does not want to unravel secrets today. He wants to live in them; he wants to admire the flowers for what they are without stopping to tell them how much more they could be.
They were already enough.
He can see the wolf eyeing him, and perhaps a part of the feral look in his eyes stirs a bit of the wild in his magic. But he forces it back down with a smile, as the wolf settles and falls into step with them. His own bonded is running free somewhere away from the flowers, away from the fields of people that always stared too long. And Ipomoea lets the wild part of him run with his bonded far, far from here.
“I have friends in Terrastella,” he tells her. Elena had invited him to their festival (and as she had come to the fire festival in Delumine, he felt it only fair he repay her visit with one of his own — and it was another excuse to see the place he had spent so much time in as a boy.) “Apparently more than I thought I did,” he adds with a laugh. It feels lighter, to laugh here — it feels easier. As if being in the Dusk Court has reminded him of something, of who he was.
Or maybe it was Maeve. He can see her mother in her; and he can see so much of the Night Court that he loves. So he smiles, and with a nod of his head he turns back to the paths between the tulips. The flowers bob on their long stalks to either side of them, a rainbow of colors smiling up at them.
Ipomoea trails his muzzle gently over the blossoms for a moment. “Which color is your favorite?”
an endless garden
RE: hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Maeve - 12-13-2020
@Ipomoea <3
RE: hearts like wildflowers [festival] - Ipomoea - 12-27-2020
T
he flowers are soft against his cheek, when he dips his head against them. And even when he can hear their petals whispering against his skin, he cannot help but feel as though it is wrong —— it is wrong, for something sharp to reach for something soft.
— it is wrong, to stand amongst them like he is their savior, not the thing come to pull them up by their roots.
— it is wrong, to be the contradiction that he is.
Ipomoea turns to watch Maeve bound through the flowers and he wonders if he was ever that innocent. He wonders if he could have been, had he been born here instead of Solterra; had he a mother who had loved him, instead of one who left him in the sands. When he tries to remember, when he tries to think back on his childhood he can remember only the feeling that he was always searching for something that he could not find, something stolen from him before he had a chance to learn even its name.
Now, as he watches Maeve, he understands. And he hopes she will never have that innocence stolen from her the way it was from him.
So he forces himself to smile as he follows after her, and let the tulips bump against his legs like old friends as he weaves through them.
“Ah, a good choice,” he says when he comes up beside her. “They say purple is the color of royalty — it’s a noble color, perfect for young ladies like yourself.” Ipomoea has never understood how a color could be reserved for specific people; to him a flower was a flower, and deserved to be shared.
He turns his head to regard the flowers nearest them. “Yesterday I liked blue — or a purple so deep it was nearly blue. The day before it was red, like the sun sometimes is in the mornings. But today—” he steps deeper into the fields, as if searching. Until at last he stops with a smile on his face, and leans down towards a tulip that has yet to open.
“—today I like this one."
And as he leans over it its petals at last begin to unfurl, revealing a tulip colored soft and pink at its center, that lightened into paler and paler shades of gold at the edges of it.
an endless garden