[P] fear makes the wolf look bigger

[Sabine]

s a b i n e a bird held down by skin First, she had walked. Now, she ran.  Out of that hellish hallowed room where glass sung and memories died, down steps that sniggered and snapped in bald hope that she might fall, and out - out - out into the heat of midday. The city groans under the pressure of the sun, for even in the nook of spring Solterra burns like Chernobyl.  She is stunned by the wall of torridity, brought to a withering sliding halt at the neck of a yawning courtyard, but she does not, cannot, linger long. She won't stay here, in this strange salt-licked graveyard where her father wears the face of Hades and she can practice the numeracy he'd taught her on the bulbous ribs of his people. Her mother's people. A godless people.  Sabine thinks Solis does not love his creation, for if he did, he would not have left it to die. As she clacks on into the desolate square, her heart thudding like a cricket bat in pinching discomfort at just how loud her hooves sound against Solterra's stifling silence, she is blinded by the vision of him. She does not see his rage, or his vitriol, or even his blatant wicked bloodlust. As she pushes on into a feverish canter, blue horns refracting the terrible sunlight, Sabine can see only the look on his face when she told him Rhoswen was gone --  the grief of the moon upon the final setting of the sun. She's flying now, because she does know how to stop her heart from devouring itself or how to bring back her mother so that Raum might love again. Past spilled decaying fruit from markets abandoned, past sunken eyes that gawk in shadows and past the guards that had laughed at her lunacy.  The girl makes it all of five stabbing strides out of the gates and into the desert before the very existential force that had driven her out of that throneroom sends her plummeting into the sand. Her knees sink into the dune, and she does not fight back the tears as she watches her life drift up into the sky; a helium balloon carrying the ashes of time.

art created by rhiaan

@ipomoea

[Ipomoea]

let’s be wildflowers

He looks back on the Day Court, with its walls that rise seamlessly from the sand they were formed from, its spires glinting like golden swords that pierce the sky. The city looms behind him, and when he closes his eyes he can still hear its laughter.

Before him is the desert, its expanse long and unwelcoming. It, too, is laughing.

Ipomoea has heard that sometimes the dunes sing. But today he knows that if he walks out into their midst they will only laugh, and remind him of his brokenness and the spilled fruit he has left behind. They will not welcome him the way the forests of his home do, they will not reach their fingers out to caress his sides as he walks. They will only chase him out, away from the home he might have known, and they will remind him why he should never return.

He keeps his eyes trained on the citadel, lifting his head high in defiance. He knows he should be on his way now to Delumine - the desert does not hold anything else for him now - but still he tarries.

The cries of the people are louder than the desert’s laughter, he thinks to himself somberly. He lowers his head to the sand, closing his cherry rose eyes against the sun and light.

For a moment he’s silent, still except for the shuddering breaths that lift his ribs, promising both himself and the desert to return. Its heat floods his veins, and he feels warm and alive, his heart thumping wildly within his chest. 

Ipomoea lifts his head and takes one last, long look at the capitol, preparing himself to turn away.

But before he can a flash of movement catches his attention.

She runs from the city as if she’s being chased and yet, there are no pursuers streaming behind her. Only the sand kicked up by her furious stride settles like a cape behind her, hovering low over the earth. Ipomoea’s heart catches in his throat, and his blood roars as if it’s running alongside her, as if it’s left his body behind and gone ahead of him to meet her. 

But she does not make it far.

As her legs crumple and she tumbles into the sand he springs into movement, against his better judgement. The distance between them closes swiftly, and he casts only one, worrying gaze at the capitol before he kneels beside the girl with translucent horns marking her brow.

“Miss,” he says softly, his breath warm against her shoulder. “Miss, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

He’s about to ask Odet to watch the gates for him, for guards, for the king, for any eyes that might bear them witness. But then he remembers, and his heart clenches, and the little stone statue of a bird seems to shudder in his pack.

So instead he stands himself between her and the gates, and although he wants to ask her why she runs, he waits.

let our soulds be scattered by the wind
let us grow, wild and free,
tall and brave,
in the places that we dream,
in the places where our longings are filled,
let us grow between the cracks of brokenness,

and we will make everythingbeautiful




@Sabine ! sorry for the delay <3
”here am i!“

⚘