Long had it been since she had last lain her head in Denocte, long had it been since she gazed upon Calligo's sky within the goddess's own domain. Even on the windswept moor, nestled within the crag of two rolling hills, she felt a haunting ache of familiarity within her breast at the scent of heather and grasses ringing out even against the cold winter night. Drawn by the dancing ribbons in the sky she ascended the nearby rise, ignorant and uncaring of the snow that chilled her hocks or the mist that curled from her breath. Denocte was a world all it's own in comparison to Solterra, fittingly as different as Night and Day, and she found the change soothing to her rankled spirits for the moor brought with it a false sense of peace. It brought her back to a time long forgotten, of tossing her heels with a smoky-eyed man across the prairie, bodies entwining and parting in a wild dance beneath Calligo's eyes, of singing with joy and passion until the hills rang with the echo of her voice.
The world, when she allowed the memory to fade, seemed bleak and ill by comparison even with the brilliant light twisting across the sky like a river. It beckoned her to dance, to sing, to revel in the world but she simply turned her head and began her slow walk down the hill once more. What was a dance, when the only one to witness it was oneself? What was a song, when none could hear it? Why revel, when there was no one to share it with? She had chosen her life of solitude, and was determined to adhere to it even when she had to quell the flare of longing within her breast. She would be patient, Grainne, until the day came when she could shrug off her solitary existence and once more allow the flower of her heart to burst into bloom.
After all, she had all the time in the world to wait.
She had just ducked beneath the horizon when a familiar scent drawn on the cold winter wind drew her to a stop, head turned to the breeze. It tickled a memory, one not yet dusted with age, and she turned to follow that thread of familiarity. It brought to mind a frail body and the powerful scent of the herb she had treated him with, of watching another lead him away to fate unknown. Reaching the crest of the ridge revealed the figure below, meandering through the prairie, though at a distance where she could not tell whether he had seen her or not.
Ipomoea, a child no longer.
Conflict warred within her, a longing to make her way towards him to learn of what he had grown into, and a hesitant fear that he had forgotten her and the stories she shared around a tiny fire. She was rooted to place, a statue frozen into the snowy white landscape, torn by indecision and helpless but to watch as that figure grew smaller and the wind shifted to rush after him as if agreeing with her silent hope to turn around.
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??”
When her charge had left she had all but pushed him from her mind and heart, for growing close to a child was a danger and heartbreak she had tasted far too often in the past. It would lead to little else but her watching a child she took under her wings as hers grow, and grow, and continue to grow until age turned them to rot and bone then dust. So when she saw Ipomoea in the moor below, wholly oblivious to her presence, she was left frozen in shock, torn apart by her wisdom and her heart. He had more than likely forgotten her, for he had been ill most of their time together, but she could not forget the small body tucked against hers for warmth, the bright eyes that had begged her for stories. He had struck a chink in her ageless armor, and when she had watched him trot after a large, powerful stallion she had almost wept with the sardonic twist of pain in her heart. Despite her own warnings she had grown fond of the child, and to see him now a bright and tall among the rolling hills.
She dared not stir, watching a speck of blue flit about his head before that speck flew towards her, the jaybird landing on her hip with a solid warmth-Ipomoea was really here- before that delicate head raised towards her... and on the wind was a name she had forgotten, a name that stole her breath.
He recognized her.
He recognized her.
Grainne took in a deep breath as if emerging from deep underwater, her head swinging to look at the blue bird on her haunches. "Please, bring him." She asked the bird softly, her voice a gentle plea lacking it's usual bitter bite, before she looked back down to the figure stepping towards her hesitantly, as if fearing the same thing she too had been afraid of. Of unrecognition, of rejection, of becoming obsolete in the eyes of one they had been so close to. It made her lips curl faintly, a tender and almost invisible smile against her dark lips before she turned away, leaving her trust in the bird to do as she had bid as she crossed the hill and vanished from sight, moving towards the sanctuary and privacy of her home. Her mind wheeled like the turning of the sun as she walked, the giddiness in her heart a strange and vibrant emotion she'd not felt... in a fair while.
She paused outside the entrance to her hut, her gaze cast over her shoulder to the rolling hill above. To it's crest, bated breath held tight as she waited to see a flash of blue, to see sharp ears and violet eyes. To see the one she had not seen in far too long.
