The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness
The Regent thought he might like Delumine's gardens more than the castle, she'd said as much on first delivering him to the Library, but there's always been something hauntingly beautiful about medieval era constructions to the mule. He's fascinated by them, by their extreme contrasts, how these massive fortresses of apparently plain, roughly cut stone held together by crude cement so often hide the most extravagantly rich and decorated interiors, much the same as later renaissance pirates cannily buried their priceless treasures on unassuming spits of sandbar in the middle of the ocean.
Maybe it's that he fancies himself a bit of a castle that way, with all his valuable assets hidden behind a blocky face and comically long ears. Whatever the reason, he does enjoy the castle, walking leisurely up and down the long corridors, occasionally pausing to inspect a painting or a carving, to admire the tenacity of the creeping ivy vines that wriggle their way into ever-widening cracks in the mortar.
He likes the way sunlight spears into the loftily roofed chambers in visible rods of brilliance that shimmer with motes of dust as he passes and wonders idly if any original panes of stained glass might still be in tact somewhere among the outer rooms. That would be lovely to see, he thinks. So often these fragile relics deteriorate to nothing, either through violence or simply the faults of long outdated crafting methods.
As he wanders, Willfur's large, narrow hooves ring on the cobble floor, not by force, but weight, and not so loud as to be disturbing, but with enough noise to gently remind the otherwise silent ruins that they are not yet dead and abandoned.
t seems to him there are still parts of the castle that can surprise him. There are rooms he did not know existed, or corridors that lead to places he did not expect, or paintings he has not had the chance to properly appreciate.
Sometimes he finds himself wandering the hallways simply for the sake of wandering, for the simple pleasure of finding something new.
He is wandering now, skimming his shoulder down a wall that is covered in ivy, that spills over from the cracks near the ceiling. Through the leaves he can see a bit of sunlight shining through, limning the edges of them in gold. The feel of them shush, shush, shushing along his skin calms him in a way being surrounded by walls never could: the presence of nature taking back the castle, a feat that should have worried him, brings only peace.
Ipomoea has always been more at home with the earth beneath his hooves instead of cobblestones, with the trees of the forest his only walls. In his time as Sovereign he has allowed many of the rooms to be overrun with vines and wildflowers (a fact the castle keepers often complained to him about — but so too was he careful to keep their roots from bringing the building down, as they all warned him they one day might.)
Still, he allows himself this one pleasure.
And he is (selfishly) glad he has, for it is along this wall that he finds the next surprise the castle has to offer him: a delicate orchid nestled among tendrils of heart-shaped ivy.
The orchid is a strand of cream-colored flowers whose petals darken to a soft gold at the outer edges. And the veins of the flowers fade from russet at the center to pink. The column rising from the center is nearly as red as his own eyes.
It is while he is admiring the flower — pressing his cheek to the petals, listening to its soft hum of energy in his magic — that he hears the footsteps approaching. Ipomoea beckons the stranger closer.
“Have you seen this before?” his voice is lowered as if in reverence, when he steps to the side to allow the mule to look upon the blossoms as well.
The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness
Willfur recognizes the Sovereign immediately. Ipomoea, with winged hooves and a bold snowcap marking laid over his shoulders and hips like an exquisitely white cloak, has been a prominent figure in the records of Delumine for some time, climbing the ranks, engaging in war, and eventually, taking the mantle of King. Caught by surprise, the mule's heart stutters a little in response, an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty churning toward anxiety in the pit of his stomach.
He's met powerful, culturally significant figures more than once in his life - a few more memorable than others - but he's never been concerned with how he might be received by one, until now. When they'd welcomed him, he stayed and explored, and when they'd not, he simply moved on. He'd never carried any hard feelings about it either way, though some found that difficult or even impossible to believe. There's just always been more of the world for him to see. Why should he desperately cling to a place he's unwanted when there are endless possibilities laid out in every direction? He'd never seen any sense in that, so it's an utterly foreign concept for him to realize, now, how sheltered by and tethered to the Library he feels, what a loss it would be if he were banned from it.
He's spent more than a year in Novus whole, venturing out at regular intervals to placate his curious nature, sometimes disappearing for several days at a time even, but always returning to roam the shelves of the Library, growing more and more content there with each passing hour of study. He likes the close, quiet air, as if the paper and cushions and leather bindings are continuously absorbing the stories around them, one thought at a time. He likes the tall windows looking out onto the gardens and the smell of oak and cedar and pine burning in the hearths built into several of the private rooms. He's made friends with the foxlike keepers, soft coated and earthy smelling when ruffled by an affectionate muzzle, which he often provides. No one had ever suggested he leave, but he hadn't really asked or given them an opportunity to either, and he fears the omission has gone on long enough to merit an insult now, if someone were inclined to take offense to such things. Confronted with the possibility, he finds that he does, desperately, want to stay.
Willfur smiles politely, accepting the invitation to come abreast and nodding in acknowledgement. "Good morning... Sir." He adds the honorific a little awkwardly, but sincerely, staring down at the Golden Orchid bloom and trying to temper his thoughts with some sense of decorum before making a complete fool of himself. "I've seen the species before, but none so large or bright as this. It's beautiful." He states simply, bending his head to brush one nostril against the velvet petals and wearing a thin dusting of yellow pollen on the ends of his whiskers when he draws back.
He starts to form the words of some stiff, ridiculously formal sentiment about Delumine being a good place to grow, but mercifully, he sneezes, stopped short and laughing self-deprecatingly as he tries to quickly wipe his nose on one knee and compose himself. "I'm sorry. I've been a little anxious to meet you, admittedly." He hesitates just long enough to inhale deeply, then rushes on, watching the other stallions reaction from the corner of his eye. "Uhm, I don't know what sorts of protocols there are for membership in the Courts, but I've been hanging around for quite a while now - I hope you don't mind - and I'd really like to stay, officially, I mean. I've met the Regent, Thana - though she didn't tell me she was Regent - and she's been..." He searches for the right words. "Encouraging, in her own way." She's refrained from eating him, at least - twice - and saved him from himself once. She's the one that brought him here, and thinking of that, he wonders how he might thank her properly. "I think I could be of use." He adds this only because he thinks it a requirement of not being violently thrown from the premises, and hopes it's enough.
or a moment, the wall of verdant ivy stretching floor to ceiling looks like a forest. The sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the wall are the dappled light coming through the canopy, the vines and leaves hanging like curtains between the trees. He can almost imagine that if he were to turn, it would be to step into the forest; that if he were to look, he might find a trail of golden orchids leading him deeper and deeper into the wild.
He closes his eyes as the stranger steps forward, and sees it in his mind. That other-forest, in that other-world, with that other-Ipomoea who is a king of nothing but a god of everything.
Sometimes it feels so close, as though he might step through a doorway and be that other-him.
When he opens his eyes he wonders if he could grow a forest from the bones of this castle (his castle, he reminds himself). He wonders how hard it would be to split apart the marble and mortar, to crack the cobblestones with roots and tear holes in the ceiling by which his saplings might grow. To let the gardens run wild in a way they have never been before.
The magic bumps against his heart like they are two ships meeting in the ocean of his soul, and he knows he could do it. He knows he wants to (or maybe it is only a part of him, that wild part, that thing that is forever learning how to be sharp, and brave, and furious.)
But still he smiles, and begs it to be a kinder smile. A smile that does not reveal the desert-brutality of his soul, the way he sometimes feels like a self-righteous god instead of their king of flowers. And when he does not answer Willfur — when he does not tell him that Ipomoea fits better than sir — it is because he is afraid his teeth are too sharp to form the words without cutting them out of him.
So he flicks an ear towards the mule instead, and listens patiently, and waits quietly. And he tries, oh how he tries to be as fragile as the orchid, as soft as its petals, to forget the way it grows from the bones of rotten wood.
"Thana is not the easiest to befriend," it should feel strange, to feel both love and caution in his voice. But this has always been the way she has made him feel, like he was both soft and sharp, god and mortal, wild and tamed. And when he should be searching for all the things left unsaid in Willfur’s pause, he sees only a stranger his unicorn does not hate.
And anyone that Thana does not hate — "It’s Willfur, right? Please, this home is as much your’s as it is mine." Perhaps moreso, he does not say. He swallows the thought down (again and again and again, as if swallowing it down makes it any less a part of him.)
He considers him quietly for a moment. "What did you have in mind? I’ve seen you around — others have, too. There’s not many who can get along so amicably with," people like Thana "so many different people." Ipomoea turns back to the orchid. The ivy grows thick and wild around it, nearly strangling itself. He tips his head back to follow the growth of it from floor to ceiling.
"One might already confuse you for a Champion." He trims away a bit of choked ivy, letting more sunlight come in through the cracks in the wall.
The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness
The Sovereign's quiet nonchalance is somehow more intimidating than if he'd been stereotypical, loud and domineering. It's unexpected, drawing the mule even farther into unfamiliar territory, and utterly unreadable, leaving tiny moments of emptiness between them, the monarch's lack of reaction as silent visually as any thoughts he might have are audibly. Only one ear gently tipped in the mules direction gives him any indication of being heard over the delicate beauty of ivy and flowers, and it's precious little in the face of his anxiety.
Conversely, Willfur is - and has always been - an open book. He values honesty and he offers it without reserve as a consequence, in everything that he does, but especially his feelings, which are deep and uncompromising. He does not hide his uncertainty, nor the way that his eyes follow only the tricolored lines of brow and shoulder beside him, all concern for the castle and its treasures temporarily forgotten. That so many do hide their emotions and hold their inner machinations shrouded behind diversion and omission has always been an unnerving - if begrudgingly accepted - truth to him. It's as if they attempt to conceal the real them and present something else, something other, leading to the question of why? and secondarily, where do they get the energy?
He fidgets, a small bell tinkling quietly from the fraying braid in his tail, the noise a welcome distraction. He should redo that, he thinks, eyeing the neatly spaced button braids along the other stallion's neck when at last, he's answered, and not with the accusation or annoyance he's feared. There is no test, no scouring of resumes or bargaining against perceived offenses. It's as if the other stallion has known all along about the mule in his midst - how could he miss him, really - and accepted his presence long ago. Maybe he has, to already know his name and what he's been up to. Perhaps Thana... well, he's heard some things, but he's too polite to ask and it's not his business, anyway.
"Yes!" He confirms, "And th-an-k you!" The high, splitting syllable almost catches in his throat, almost, but he swallows it down, relief thick and sweet on his tongue. "Really, thank you." It seems like such a simple thing, and maybe it is, but he's grateful nonetheless. To him, it is a big thing. It's the only thing he's truly wanted in a long time.
"Oh, I've met a few unpleasant sorts," He admits, the auburn streak down his back twitching out of line, memories of bat fangs and trickster ghosts, angry, red-streaked mares and golden eyed stallions with a bit too keen an interest still fresh in his mind. "But for the most part Novus is full of bright and interesting characters. I like to think I learn something new from each of them, and I enjoy it."
Relaxed and unguarded now, he's at a loss when Ipomoea's final comment lands, deceptively casual, yet heavy with meaning. "A champion?" He repeats, frowning slightly, one ear falling humorously askew in thought. "I'm... I don't have a particular set of skills, but I'm a friendly face." He smiles to illustrate. "Sometimes that helps diffuse things, a little. I have a strong shoulder and a keen ear. I like to think and observe things, and I like people, despite their best efforts to be unlikable at times. If any of that sounds like something you could use, I'm happy to offer it."
hen did it become so easy to swallow down his heart, to swallow down the sea that tries to rise again and again in his throat like he is the shore telling the waves not today? When did it become this hard to breathe without blowing fire, to wrap a noose around the neck of this thing he’s become that knows only how to rage like a dragon burning down a mountain pass?
When did he lose that part of himself that did not have to hide?
He knows he should be trying to get it back. Ipomoea knows he should be wearing gentleness the same way the orchid does, that he should be looking for its beauty and not criticizing its impermanence. He knows he should be lifting his eyes to the morning and thinking of it as a promise instead of a curse.
He should do a million things — but he does none of them. Again and again he lets that magic tug his heart farther down a road he cannot turn back from, listening to that call of a feral thing that grows only in wild places. A garden was no place for a wildflower. Only the meadows would ever capture their beauty the way they deserved.
Ipomoea has spent so long trying to be a seed carried by the wind that he has forgotten he was supposed to be looking for a place to grow his roots. Now he does not know how to stop — does not know how to slow himself, or stop looking for the in-between things that most people dismiss. He does not know how to be anything but a contradiction, a king willing to leave his own country, a gardener who plants his rows in patterns no one else can see (and which he does not stop to explain.)
Perhaps that is why he looks at the other man (who ought to be a stranger — but Thana has already told him, and what she left out, the flowers that watched him in the woods had filled in the rest) and thinks not of who he is, but who he could be. Or when he looks at the people of his court and wonders who they all could be, with a little sun, and water, and time.
“I suppose we all have,” he adds at the end of Willfur’s statement, a knowing smile curving his lips. “It takes all types to form a community.” Just like a garden, he does not add; but still he cannot stop thinking as each person as a flower, and each flower a part of a greater whole. “I think that’s a better way of thinking of it than most. Too many people lean away from conflict rather than learning from it.”
He can see the way the mule has begun to relax, and it makes his own heart hum to a slower pace now. It feels easy to stand beside him, and think nothing of the turmoil that still wraps its claws around his heart, his court, his world.
“Spoken like a true Champion of Community should,” his words are quieter now, more serious. And he turns at last to look Willfur in the eye, as if appraising him. “If you accept it, that is.”
The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness
The mule's smile broadens, joy and appreciation shining through the brown of his eyes, brightening the color to a warm, copper hue, as if the metaphorical flame of his heart were a physical thing, stoked high in excitement and rising to illuminate his expression from within. "Yes! I accept." He's breathless again, genuinely thrilled with how well this is going, and when the Sovereign's rose red eyes meet his own, he thinks them only gauging, astute enough to be taken as a final judgement, but not so sharp as to be critical or malignant.
Willfur lets him look. He has nothing he wants to hide, at the bottom of it, and if the other stallion were to spot something repellant enough to dissuade him now, well, that's his prerogative. "Thank you." He nods, dipping his chin in the stoic, rigorously formal way that men do when trying to express emotions deemed too soft or effusive for serious business.
Willfur is the hugging type, himself. He finds that a good forehead press or clasping of necks can communicate even more than words or visible expression, and sometimes more succinctly. Some things in life just have to be felt, he's convinced, and it's only through a long and awkward series of misunderstandings that he's been trained to reserve such things for second or third meetings, though he still doesn't see any sense in it. "I'll do everything I can."
There's more he wants to say, questions he wants to ask - so many questions - but he hasn't missed the air of distraction around the King of Flowers, the way that he seems to be having more of a conversation with himself than with Willfur. There are things at work here he's not privy to, and though he'd like to be one day, he's never been one to topple a wall all at once, opting instead to invest the time and care it takes to gently chip away the mortar between the stones, letting them fall free when they choose, whole and undamaged. "Thank you for your time." He says, stepping away, one ear still trained on the snowcapped stallion in case he's misread the flow of the conversation, but when else follows, he exits the corridor, wandering back into the quiet labyrinth of the castle and his own thoughts.
