There was no nourishing milk or sweet honey for him to use. Not a single drop of soothing water or spiced wine. He had no blade in hand to cut away a lock of his aged hair, or a single flame of fire on which to burn the libations.
No, all there was were the golden blade of grass that bent beneath each step he made, the sky that held the sparsest dotting of clouds, and the chilled fall breeze that gently played with the faded cloak that wrapped around his neck.
These yellowed colored grasses were not the waving grasses of a prairie he once called home, nor were they an arid piece of land were billowing clouds of dust played beneath the sweltering rays of the sun.
However, at the very least, it was something.
Something more than scorched and ruined ground, burnt black and charred. It was more than a glade that no longer held any water within it, and more than a gloomy sky that lacked the familiar shape of mahogany wings. There was no sign of death here, no matter the lack of green around. It was better than where he had come from by far.
And yet.
This peaceful place was not home. This land and her Courts were not home.
It's not as if he had a home to begin with, though.
A souring thought, one that makes his lips twitch in discomfort as he walks, pursuing the new world he finds himself in. This, hopefully, will be the last one he has to familiarize himself with. After all, his life has been long, and the heaviness in his bones has noticeably grown. He is older than many and has long since grown tired. A year from now could be his last, perhaps, even tomorrow.
That's why he left.
It pained him to do so, for Avallac'h was not a man that gave up on those he loved and cared for. But with each stone he turned over, with each trail he followed, his hope dwindled until he could do nothing but accept.
Accept a reality he did not wish to.
The reality, though, is that there is a sandglass looming over him, casting a terrifying shadow that grows with each grain of sand that falls. It's why he needed to go, needed to find a sense of security in a Court despite his wandering heart.
There was still life in him, of course — plenty of it for his age, but Avallac'h knew the days were numbered. He couldn't continue to dream and wish.
As saddening as the thought might be, Avallac'h knew it was the truth.
Coming to a gentle stop, Avallac'h directs his ghostly gaze towards the southern horizon, eyeing the towering peak that acts as a quiet backdrop to the plains. It's a beautiful place, truly. Avallac'h can appreciate it easily and tries his best to simply forget for but a moment, but all his memories and pains are not things he can readily release and then pick up as he pleases. He carries them, all the time, no matter how much he wishes he didn't.
However, he does his best to enjoy the cool air that brushes his skin; lets himself bask in the gentle bath the sun gives him.
He will try, for once, to give himself something. Because this is it. He can feel it in his bones.
Today, like most days, he finds himself looking to the east.
He stands on the edge of that great grass-sea and thinks how the golden stalks waving at him in the wind look like the dunes shifting out in the Mors. And despite the sharp edge to the wind, and the loam-and-earth smell that clung to the forest, he can close his eyes and feel the heat against his skin, and the sting of sand pelting his face.
Even here, even when he stands in no-mans land and remembers the Court that lies behind him, even here the desert calls to him.
It had chased him in his dreams last night, the heat and the smoke and the cries of street vendors, and through it all a call that went deeper than words. And when he had awoken, he had lain awake and felt it echoing in his bones. And running beside it was an ache that ran deeper than blood, deeper than understanding, an ache that made his heart tremble and start to beat as if in reverse. He could feel the years slipping away from him, the travels and the worries and the constant, perilous what if’s that plagued him every time he looked at the trees. And by the time he reached the edge of Eluetheria he felt no longer like a king - but an orphan, begging in the streets of a desert that did not love him.
He had tried to tell himself over the years that he hated the desert, every time he heard that call whispering at him in a dream, roaring at him in the heat of summer, stalking him through the trees. He had told himself he hated it because he knew, oh he knew, that the desert and all of its people hated him, the flower-crowned, with his winged-hooves, and his eyes of hope that had looked at the skinny sides of his fellow orphans and promised to one day grow a garden big enough to feed them all. He was too soft for Solterra, and it had shown him that time and time again.
And yet, it calls to him.
And yet, he cannot bring himself to go to it.
Eluetheria is the furthest he gets most days, before the trees start to shudder and the flowers wrap against his ankles and beg don’t go, don’t leave us. And when they do his heart remembers what it means to move forward again, instead of backwards, and each beat reminds him that there was only death waiting for him in the desert, and that life was back in Delumine.
So he stands, and he stares, and he listens. And when he sees the cloaked figure moving through the grass, he steps forward at last.
The grass pats gently against his sides, foxtails and heads of wheat pricking his skin. And it’s reassuring, in a way, because it feels nothing like sand. There is only the earth, and wind, and the soft murmur of the prairie grass welcoming him back.
“Hello,” he says, and it is as much a greeting to the stranger as it is to the prairie, to the still-distant desert, to the sun. And when he lifts his head to meet the stranger's eyes, the ache starts to ease enough for him to breathe again.
He has seen many faces; he remembers many faces. The face of a long lost brother, the faces of the wonderful woman he calls daughters, the face of one her wrongfully imprisoned—
The faces of those he has killed.
He recalls each as if he carries images of them in a hidden seam of his cloak. He has memorized them just as he once memorized the prayer the enslaved mage who taught him all he knew asked him to remember. They were branded into his mind, seared, and made to never be forgotten.
It's why, no matter how brief this interaction might go, the moment Avallac'h's eyes fall on the approaching individual he knows he won't forget them.
Because each face is unique and each is important.
Standing a hand shorter than he, Avallac'h notes the fresh blooms that impersonate the laurel wreaths so many in the Court once wore. The appearance the flowers lend this individual, however, is a much more welcoming one. With the mild rays of the sun refracting from the piercings the other wears, Avallac'h shifts, opening his body up to the other and showing that all of his attention is on them.
At the gentle greeting the other gives (one that is cordial and warm) a subtle, friendly smile turns up Avallac'h's lips.
Now, it's been some time (months— years, perhaps) since Avallac'h has last spoken to another. And even then the last individual he had spoken to had been none other than the beloved griffin whose blazing wings had given his heart the warmth it so dearly needed. Even then, the language he had spoken to her in was not of the common tongue. No, it had been that of the place he was born. One that was composed of letters that flowed like a gentle river that led out to the sea.
Maybe this is why the accent he gained when speaking that language slightly bled through. Maybe that's why he felt a little more uncertain.
However, Avallac'h is a man that knew how to interact with others; he knew how to maintain a conversation and hide any doubts. It had been a necessary thing to figure out when he had been younger.
That is why he easily greets the other in return.
"Hello there," he began, "might I be able to help you with something?" He asked sincerely, always the type of man to lend any help that he can; always the one to try and go beyond what might be required to help another. He wouldn't turn away from a stranger possibly in need. Then, "Or are you out for a simple stroll?" The corners of his eyes crinkled, helping to portray the lightheartedness of his words. After all, it was a rather nice day. The plains were quiet and serene — calming.
So different from where he had been before, more alive, but still not what his heart truly wanted.
Avallac'h turns his gaze back towards the plains. "Today is one of the better days for a walk — in my opinion, anyway." He thoughtfully comments in an offhanded manner, lips twitching further up by just a hair before relaxing back into that kind smile.
There is a moment, in between his words and the stranger’s, that he hears only the wind whispering through the plains-grass and the flowers murmuring a greeting back to him.
He watches as they lift their heads towards them, petals unfurling as if in greeting. Somewhere nearby he can hear animals rustling through the grass, and the cries from a flock of blackbirds passing by overhead; there’s peace in it, in the muted sounds of the earth. And it makes him forget, if only for a second, that they are not a part of it: that they were not the same as the dreaming bison or the wandering coyotes. He almost forgets the way the mountain plovers scold him when he wanders too close or how the cottontails froze when they saw him coming, the way their eyes watch him remind him that he does not belong.
He feels like the earth for half a heartbeat, like the root-tangled soil under his hooves.
But when the other stallion raises his voice in response, it reminds him.
An almost-smile hides itself at the corners of his lips as he listens, light-quick and amused. A part of him is thankful that he might look ordinary enough to be mistaken as only a passing stranger - Ipomoea has never liked starting conversations with titles (with aren’t you the king?). It makes him feel something like a thief, stealing away knowledge from an unsuspecting passerby - and yet, it feels better than ruining the casual greeting because of a separation of class.
He would rather people get to know him as Po before they know him as the king (and besides, was he truly a king here, in no-mans-land?)
“No,” the word comes out like a sigh, as paper-thin as the bark on his birch trees. “No. I am only out for a stroll, as you say.” He doesn’t tell him it was the desert that had called to him, and not the grass; or that he longed for the comfort of the forest canopy as much as he ached for the endless sky above the Mors. Today was not the day for confessions, not when the prairie whispered peace in every shush, shush, shushing of the wind.
He follows the stranger’s gaze when he turns it to the plains, watching as the grass ripples like a wave against a shoreline. It almost makes him feel wrong to long for Solterra and its heat and the scratching of its sand; Eluetheria had always been more welcoming a place. Here his magic did not have to claw its way through cactus and yuca, was not choked by the endless weight of the sand piling on top of him; here, surely, was where he should be at rest.
And yet, he has to consciously force himself to relax. It does not come easy here, not today.
“Would you care to walk with me?” he asks, turning back to the stallion. This time, he doesn’t try to hide the smile from him, letting it spread across his features in invitation. “I always find walking is better with company.”
He is already stepping forward into the openness of the prairie, feeling the grasses and the flowers patting gently against his sides when he stops, and regards the stranger from over one shoulder. “I’m Po,” he adds like an afterthought, as he takes another step forward and only the swish of his tail indicates the other should follow..
While a large part of his unawareness as to who he has just began conversing with is due to his ignorance, another part is that he can no longer find the desire to care—a rather crude way of putting it. He no longer cares for the diplomacy or politics that surround established places; cannot push himself enough to gather any interest in it and burrow into the specifics of it all.
Does he know the name of the Sovereign under which he is but a simple citizen? Of course, but beyond that Avallac'h hadn't felt inclined to do anything more after coming to find a loose sense of community beneath the banner of the Dawn Court.
Just as he hadn't felt inclined to learn more than the barest of details about the Dawn Court.
This place, the Court, was not home. It was just one of the many other sites he found himself in his long life. It was a dispiriting view, but he is tired of much. Nevertheless, he would try to make the best of it and keep a smile on his face all the while.
(However, were Avallac'h aware of who he is in the presence of, the other would have nothing to fear. He would treat the other no differently than he would any other stranger. He has seen the worse of Sovereigns, has been one himself, and knows.)
Despite the delicacy of the other's reply, one thin enough to be carried off by the breeze and swept away before it could ever reach Avallac'h's own ears, he is able to hear them. Nodding in acknowledgment of the stranger's reply, warm smile in place the entire time, he can see how one might frequent this place. He knows why he would.
It is not the same -no place ever will be- but it is close enough. That is all that matters. Nothing here has to mend the cavity inside of him, only cover it. Did he wish for something that would occupy that hollow space?
Yes. How dearly he wished for something that would.
Still gazing out into the rolling grasses after making light conversation, he is surprised when the other asks him to join them. It is rare for another to do such a thing — normally it is Avallac'h asking such questions. Not the other way around. Giving nothing away in terms of his surprise, only one of his ears curves towards the other in interest.
He returns the other's smile easily. The curve of it on his lips bringing out his age.
"As do I," he agrees, "It would be a pleasure to join you." And it was true. Readily moving to join the other as they began to move, the grasses around kindly parted. Brushing against the fabric of his cloak, against the worn bandages around his leg, they accepted each of his steps with a gentle sway.
When, at last, he can finally place a name to the face before him, Avallac'h's smile brightens for a moment before returning to its constant dormant state. "A pleasure to meet you, Po." He says, finding himself concluding quickly after that it would be somewhat rude to give out his entire name when the other's was so simple. "I am Vall." He reveals, catching up to the other yet remaining just a step or two behind. After all, this land is still rather new, and Po was the one to ask if Avallac'h would like to join him. It was only proper that Avallac'h allows them to lead.
Able to make conversation in any situation, he finds himself capable of doing just that. "Forgive me if you do not wish to answer any questions, but do you frequent this place often? Or do you find yourself gravitating elsewhere?" He curiously asks, glancing towards the shorter man as he does before taking in the setting around them. "I merely ask because you see, I am rather unfamiliar with the land in general. It is why I was rather pleased with coming across a place such as this." He says, willing to divulge some information that could clearly reveal to another about him being a rather recent arrival.
He had no qualms doing this, however, not when such a position has become rather familiar to him by now — the position of being new and on foreign soil that he knew nothing about. It wasn't an uncomfortable position, in his opinion, merely an old one he was tired of finding himself in.
The other man joins him, and with two steps separating them they step out into the plains. And all the while Ipomoea can feel either end of those plains calling him.
On one side, the trees and meadows — their hum softer, but all the more persistent because of it. When he closes his eyes he can still see the flowers, red and bright and spread out like so many gemstones waiting to be plucked. But then on the other side, the sand and its dunes — and the blood-and-bone deep echo he can feel still in his veins, like the shaking of the earth long after an earthquake. He thinks he can see it as a mirage on the horizon, when he turns his head east. But when he blinks it’s gone, and only the memory of it remains dancing like ghosts through all those stalks of grass.
He found it funny sometimes, that Eluetheria always seemed so quiet. Whether it was because the lands on either side of it pulled at him so sharply or simply because he had no connections to the tall grasses themselves, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both those things and neither. Maybe this land belonged only to the dreaming buffalo and the social prairie dogs. Ipomoea liked to think he belonged to the earth, and the earth to him, and yet —
and yet, wading through a sea of emerald-green grass, with blackbirds laughing overhead and butterflies spinning like maple seeds through the air around them, he knows this is a world he does not recognize. One he finds peace in, and meaning, and companionship — but it is not home. It does not speak to his soul in the same way, it does not ask of him. He is not sure it would answer him if he asked it to move for him, if he commanded the seeds in the ground to root into trees so that the land might turn from a prairie into a forest (Illuster would — the same way Viride would drop all of its trees at once and let the flowers reign supreme if he told it to.)
He does not think it has to do with being a king. The earth did not care about who wore a crown or who the majority chose to listen to.
It had everything to do with who he was, when he was stripped free of his titles and his responsibilities.
And it made him wonder who the man he had invited to walk beside him was: if he had any history with the earth (or any place, or any person, or any thing.) The lines on his face spoke stories, but Ipomoea had never been as good at reading people as he was at reading the veins of the plants he tended.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he tells him still — even now, there is no fear or worry. Ipomoea had the earth, and the kindness in Vall’s eyes to ease away any tension the two sides of his soul might wage.
He doesn’t try to hide his smile at the man’s question. And when he shakes his head slowly and say, “I find myself here more often than I care to admit,” the sound of his voice is more than wistful. He nods over one shoulder towards the distant treeline, marking the border of Delumine.
“Over there is the Dawn Court, the place I” rule “live,” he tells him amicably. “This is one of the few free lands of Novus that separate the four Courts from one another. Eluetheria plains.”
But then he turns his head, and something in his gaze grows a little darker, a little more conflicted. “And on that end is the Day Court, where I was born. All sand and desert and sun. Sometimes I find myself coming here and stopping just at the edge of it, wondering—“ he shakes his head, and offers a smile back towards Avallac’h. “It’s funny isn’t it, how one decision can change a person’s life. Or another’s.” And yet something in his voice suggests it to be more sad than funny.
But he is not one to dwell for long on himself or his past (as much as it seems to catch up to him.) So he slows his pace just enough to hint for the other man to walk beside him, and once they stand shoulder to shoulder he asks, “Where do you come from, Vall? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Somewhere, a hawk is diving on a rabbit. And he thinks that rabbit might be him, in another life.
@"avallac'h" !
ahh this is so late, forgive me!
”here am i!“
There is a certain peace in finding company, when before you were alone with only your thoughts like daggers piercing your skull. Ipomoea is finding that peace in a stranger today, a strange man who’s eyes tell stories of other worlds, and other lives, and other truths.
He hopes that, one day, he might have eyes like Avallac’h.
And he hopes that, one day, he might have that peace that comes from living a full life, a good life, a life that has seen much and done more.
Ipomoea can feel his time coming (can see it catching up to him every time he looks over his shoulder and watches a teryr diving down over the horizon, or a coyote crossing his path, or a viper sunning itself on a rock.) And he can feel the gaps between all the pieces of himself growing wider, can feel the cracks and crevices growing deeper, thir edges sharper, and more jagged, and painful. On one side the desert is calling him; on the other the meadows.
And in between them the rest of the world is raising its many voices like wolves lifting their noses to the moon, and howling.
One day he will be split apart into all those pieces. One day he will have to choose which ones to take with him (he can only carry so many.) One day —
But today he finds peace in the company of a stranger and his story, as they head out together into a field that is both familiar and unknown.
@"avallac'h" !
just going through and closing some old threads!
”here am i!“
