He can still see the meadow when he closes his eyes. It’s a blaze of color, its image searing itself in his mind until all he can see is the green of the moor-grass and the red of the poppies, and the impossibly blue sky stretching endlessly overhead.
Ipomoea stands there, surrounded by a sea of wildflowers that reach out to him with petals as soft as silk, and he sighs. The wind curls itself through his mane, and it follows its direction easily - his braids are gone, and the wind seems to delight in curling its fingers through the long, dark tresses.
He can see the Court now in the distance, the citadel’s spire rising like a needle to pierce the sky.
The day is already nearly over, but the sight renews the vigor in his step. He had intended to sleep beneath the stars tonight in the meadow, to get some rest before entering the city and taking up his mantle once again, but his plans vanish in the blink of an eye. It had been nice to get away for a day - Ipomoea was beginning to think he might never again be content to sit in the capitol day in, day out - but he was eager to get back. There were too few members in command at the Court, too few sitting on the Counsel and Regime…
He shakes his head, and begins walking forward again. The grasses make a dry rustling sound as he walks amongst them, their stalks brittle and golden now that autumn had settled over the Court.
Ipomoea is acutely aware of the dagger strapped to his foreleg, and he has to force himself to let go of it. It was only a precaution, but its presence alone raised in him an uneasy awareness. From the birds that flit far overhead to the prairie rabbits that bounded across the meadow, each whisper of noise had him turning his head to investigate. He makes himself smile, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders. All safe, he reminds himself, and continues.
And when he sees a silhouette in the distance, framed by the brilliant violets and pinks and oranges of the sunset, he steps towards them eagerly.
let’s be wildflowers
let our souls be scattered by the wind.
let us grow, wild and free,
tall and brave,
in the places that we dream,
like the holding of hands like the breaking of glass
T
he meadows sways underneath the hungry light of day’s end. Everything is pink and orange and honeyed tones, soft and ethereal as darkness forms like a bruise on the horizon. The stars glisten in their beds, winking in the hazy wisp of clouds that deepen and deepen. She feels the brush of flowers against her legs as she walks, against the tips of her wings as she lowers them to gently glide amongst the long stalks. They whirl with her passing, with the breath of autumn’s chill that charges the air; each step sends their petals dancing in the delicate breeze.
There is a certain sense of peace she feels when she is in the meadow, surrounded by the sweet hum of animals and the world around her. She's found less and less of it these days.
It's never for a lack of trying.
The Court is always filled with noise, with the hustle and bustle of citizens coming and going.
That was why she came out at night, to escape for an hour or two as the sky shifted from day to night and everything around her slowly drowned into silence. This time though, she was not the only one in the meadow.
“Uncle Po!” she chirps as he nears. Her voice feels too loud in the calm of the meadow. “What are you doing out here?” She asks him, softer, her tone hushed as she comes closer to the Sovereign.
Her voice is bright and clear, like sunshine breaking through the clouds. It’s a voice he would recognize in a crowd, and it puts a smile on his lips even before he gets close enough for her to see it.
“Anemone,” he greets her warmly, craning his neck towards her. “I could ask you the same thing. Aren’t your parents missing you?” His tone is as soft as her’s, and carries a teasing edge to it. “Do I need to escort you back home?” He’s only joking - she’s no longer the child she used to be, although to him she’ll always be his little niece.
But he tilts his head back, and gestures towards the darkening sky. His wings lift and flutter at his ankles, pointing their pale wings up and up. Overhead the first stars are beginning to show themselves, far to the east where the sky is at its darkest. It wouldn’t be much longer now before the sun finished its descent beneath the horizon, and plunged the whole of Delumine into night.
But it was a clear night, and the moon is little more than a slender crescent; tonight, the stars would reign supreme. There was a sort of peace that came over him when thinking about it.
When they’re close enough to lower their voices, close enough to touch, he stops and lifts his head to the heavens. “Illuster has always been one of the best places to stargaze, in my opinion,” he says, and his voice is as hushed as her’s now.
let’s be wildflowers
let our souls be scattered by the wind.
let us grow, wild and free,
tall and brave,
in the places that we dream,
and we will make all things beautiful
@anemone ! a sweet n short reply for you <4
”here am i!“
