He's taken some time, recently, to come here. Watching the trees change color has tickled his mind with thoughts of space and time and change and the cycle of it all, the endless, tiresome repetition of days, months, years.
(lifetimes she whispers in the back of your mind, in that funny place, and you suspect you are one of many daydreams, and together you make an army of sad ghosts.)
Today is likely the last time he will come here for a while. It is a fairly long journey, and already Solterra lures him back with the task of restoring the damaged court and the promise of learning to read. Anyway, the chill of winter has stripped most of the trees of their leaves, the grand show of fall is mostly over. There is not much for him here anymore, not for a while at least.
As he wanders the half-naked forest, the orange and brown carpet crackling beneath his hooves, a soft rain begins to fall. It never rained much in the tundra he grew up in. he pauses to listen to the rain hitting the leaves and ground around him. New smells rise as the water soaks into the ground, and it feels as if he's been transported to another world. He raises his head to the sky, and the small, warmish drops pitter-patter on his face like a hundred drums. He does not smile, but a warm, calm feeling settles in his chest.
His reveries are broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, although he does not yet draw his face away from the rain- he is savoring the sensory delights of the moment. "Isn't it beautiful?" He murmurs, hushed, as though they stand in a cathedral.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
Aren't starter posts always boring? For @Ipomoea, although I suppose anyone is welcome to join in after him ^^ (beep boop)
He was tempted to ignore the voice in his mind, to continue his inspection of the climbing plant. Lathyrus odoratus. Sweet pea flowers. He whispered the name to himself repeatedly, determined to brand the plant into his memory in every way possible. Ipomoea had his nose pressed right up against them, the pinnate petals brushing softly against his cheek as he did.
But Odet rarely spoke; this alone was reason enough to take notice when he did.
Reluctance showing plainly on his face, Ipomoea pulled himself away from the wall of flowers. Already, his songbird bonded had nestled himself deep within the loose mane at the base of Po’s neck, building up a sort of wall to protect himself from the droplets of rain splashing down every few minutes. It’s hardly raining… He dared not comment so out loud, for Odet wielded a sharp beak when he wanted, but he couldn’t help the disappointment clouding his mind. Of course, no sooner than he had thought it, did the rain begin to come down in earnest.
Flattening his ears in resignation, Ipomoea trudged along in the direction of the Dawn Court.
It wasn’t long before the outline of another horse, pale and mottled, became visible through the thin curtain of rain. The figure was directly in his way; but Po made no move to go around him. His spotted ears flickered forwards, rain drops sliding off the petals around his forehead and down onto his face. He slowed respectfully as he got closer, the stranger’s soft murmurs reaching out towards him across the forest.
“Yes, it is,” he murmured back, equally soft. He wasn’t sure if they were talking about the rain, or the forest, or perhaps some other abstract thing that had caught the other man’s attention; but either way, Po’s response would have been the same. He came up alongside him, peeking a glance at his face to see what direction he was looking, before he fixed his own gaze just as serenely towards the forest. A moment of silence passed between them, and then Ipomoea was speaking again, his voice still hushed and amiable.
“Do you always make trips outside to stand in the rain?”
@Eik ahhhhh I am SO sorry I completely forgot about this thread!! I hope this is alright xx
There are thoughts with words and there are thoughts without words. It is the second we embrace as we stand alone in the forest, the rain and the sound of the rain washing over us. The feeling floods our soul. There is divinity here, in the place beyond words, in the pattern of the rain falling on Eik's face and the smells that rise from the ground and trees around him. The problem is that he can never bring it back with him, to the realm of words.
At the arrival of the stranger, he opens his eyes and reality floods back. Bright, solid, reality. The ground beneath his feet, the dark whispers at the frayed edge of things, all of it returns and he is left with the feeling of something missing. But it is a familiar feeling and he knows how to live with it-- ignoring it works best for him.
Eik is relaxed as the other man approaches. He's met too many friendly strangers in Novus to feel on edge with the arrival of another. The pied stallion is young and heavily decorated with piercings and braids- a stark contract to Eik's tattered, aging body. He almost sighs.
(You've stretched your life, old man, to the point it feels you've lived twice as long as you have.
You've misspent your youth, old man,
Is a good death really all you want now?)
"It doesn't rain much in Solterra." He says simply, and perhaps it is reason enough. Of course he hasn't experienced it often, but there is nothing in the world like the smell of the desert after the rain- damp creosote, cold sandstone, and wet sand. The land sings a silent song of gratitude, a single, long exhale of a breath that has been held too long.
If he suddenly grows aware of the cold air on his damp body, he does not show it. His attention is turned to his new companion, and the flicker of movement near the base of his neck. "Who is that?" He asks gently, surprisingly charmed by the creature so comfortably nested in the stranger's mane. How nice it seems to keep your feathers warm and dry even as the rain falls down around you.
"I'm Eik." He says, half to the stallion and half to the bird. And though he does not smile, his voice is warm and calm.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
His statement is a simple one, an assertion of fact that almost anyone could have guessed on their own—and yet it told so very much about the grey-flecked stranger. For one, it branded him a Solterran, and suddenly the worn down, raggedy appearance and tired shoulders he boasted made sense. Solterra was a land which required strength and perseverance to live in—and Po, as a foal, had had neither. He hadn’t simply left, he’d been kicked out: first by his parents, who abandoned him, and then by the blacksmith who had taken him in. The desert had chewed him up and spit him out, the way it had to many others before and since him. But this man, despite his aging appearance, did not look like one to give up so easily.
It also insinuated that the rain held at least some importance to the desert man. Others may have scoffed and cursed the rain, taking shelter from its invasive droplets. But he, this man of sand and sun, did not: he embraced it like an old friend, welcoming the water that rolled off his face and down his back. Ipomoea couldn’t help but wonder if he had left the desert simply to see the rain. He couldn’t blame him, Po was sure he would have done similarly (although, most likely to see the flowers and their colors rather than the rain, though he certainly did not mind the latter)—but talk about conflicting priorities.
With a bit of a start, Ipomoea shook his head subtly to clear his mind. Had he truly gotten this good at reading people, that he could now do so subconsciously? In the time frame of a few seconds? Of course, there was the possibility that he was wrong, but he was not yet inclined to believe so.
“It certainly never rained while I was there,” he offered, a dip of his head indicating his agreement. “The rain seems to prefer the west coast quite a bit.”
He followed the Solterran’s gaze, remembering the bird hunched at the base of his neck. With a small smile, he arched his neck to puff a breath of hot air onto his companion before righting himself. “This is Odet. I found him last winter with a broken wing. He seems to have made himself right at home since.” As if in emphasis, the songbird puffed himself up to fill the little nest of hair and flowers he’d made for himself. “And I am Ipomoea. Well met.”
His pale red eyes met the stranger’s dark ones, studying them curiously for the emotion they almost seemed to be lacking. “You’re a ways away from Solterra, Eik.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, intentionally leaving the meaning open to interpretation. Although, Ipomoea wouldn't ming gleaning some happenstance information from the scarred stallion.
He is used to the silent observations of others, their eyes flicker across his scars and he sees the wheels turning in their heads. It is something you get particularly used to when you don't explain yourself much. Either because or in spite of this, Eik has never been particularly bothered by the judgement of others. He is who he is, steadfast if sometimes half-vacant.
(somewhere distant, across the veil, a dry wind rolls dust across warm glass windows. A lonesome whistle blows and the trees gasp for fresh air; everything here and there is in a race for survival)
It certainly never rained while I was there
Eik's ears prick forward in interest- in his travels he does not often meet others familiar with Solterra beyond what they've heard in stories. And you could write books and books about the place but it isn't the same as being there, smelling the sage, watching the sunsets- each evening a different show than the night before. "You must have had a good reason to visit... We don't get visitors often." Especially those without wings- the sandwyrms in no small part to blame.
"Odet and I-Po-Meah" He bobs his head, as though physically filing their names away. Po prods gently- ever gently- and Eik simply nods his head. He knows he does not need to explain himself, that he does not owe this man or anyone an explanation... but he finds that he wants to share his thoughts with another. Enough solitude will do that to you. "I wanted to watch the leaves change... I hoped to learn- why orange?"
As he meets the man's gaze, his attention is caught by the flower crown on Po's head. His thoughts travel to the first conversation he had in Solterra, and surprised realization draws an almost childlike smile across his face. "You must be a flower picker." He says, eyes crinkling in pleasure at finally understanding the term. In his rather confusing introduction to court politics, he had been accused of being a flower picker by a rather cranky king. The phrase has never made a drop of sense to him, and it still doesn't. Is it part of some odd religion? The man before him doesn't seem like a fanatic... It might be some aesthetic, or the mark of some group of people.
Maxence had used the term 'flower picker' derogatorily, but it sounds so harmless that it does not occur to Eik that Po may be offended by it. Still-- since flower picking had elicited such a visceral reaction from the commander, he must choose his words well. He looks to his companion, trying to read if he is offended or not. After a moment of deliberation, he finally, cautiously asks-
"Why do you do it?"
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
’You must have had a good reason to visit… We don’t get visitors often.’ “I haven’t visited much,” Ipomoea admitted, his voice songlike as it whispered through the air, “but I was born there.” And it had been hot and dry and harsh on his delicate skin, drying it out to the point of cracking and bleeding. The heat had gotten to him, too—suffocating him, drawing the moisture from his mouth and nose and filling it with sand. He had not been suited to the desert, so the desert had kicked him out.
Not that he would tell these things to the spotted stranger, for fear of insulting them. Po didn’t blame the desert; you couldn’t ask a bird to change its feathers, after all. But neither was he particularly fond of it himself, for what he thought to be a good reason.
Eik pronounces his name then, and he pronounces it wrong—I-Po-Meah compared to Ih-po-mea. A hard ‘I’, versus a soft ‘I.’ But it doesn’t bother him; he smiles and bobs his head sweetly.
’Why orange?’ The sudden question takes him aback slightly. For all of his studies of plants and wildlife—his most favorite of subjects—Po was lost for an answer. “It’s just how it is, I suppose,” he muses thoughtfully, tilting his head back to study the brilliant reds and golds in the trees above him. “I’ve never really thought of it before.” An oversight on his part; perhaps, had he stayed in Solterra, would he have been more curious about it? Such a phenomenon was natural to him, having seen it every fall of his life. But there were few trees in Solterra. Of course it would seem strange to someone who hadn’t grown up with it.
He’s becoming more used to Eik’s mannerisms, the short phrases and sudden bursts that seemed less and less rude. Still, the title of flower-picker catches him by surprise again. Maxence had used it, in the one time he’d met him. It seemed a strange thing to say—was it really so unusual to pick flowers? Po certainly didn’t think so, but then again, there were probably few flowers in Solterra, as well, whereas the Dawn Court was bursting full of them.
His cerise gaze lifted to Eik’s, watching him carefully as the rain drizzled down his nose.
“I just like flowers,” he answered simply, pausing a few heartbeats before continuing. “They’re beautiful, and each one is different from the last. So I study them, and their diversity.” It made perfect sense in his own mind; flowers brought him joy, and from what he’d seen, they could bring others joy, too. He liked to carry them around with him not only for his own enjoyment, but just in case he ran into someone who needed to see something beautiful.
A thought ran through his mind then, a clarification he felt important to make note of: “I don’t speak for everyone, though.”
It strikes him as funny, the grand dance they do. Po from Day to Dawn, and Eik from... Elsewhere to Day. And surely, as they move from one place to another, someone from Dawn set off to Nowhere. Elsewhere. Anywhere, whatever.
(where words! ? a baby giggles, and the wheel keeps turning, and the dust rises and settles again,, always)
He understands why the flower-crowned man left Solterra- Eik had wanted to, too, in the beginning. Even now, that desire is still there. Dim but persistent. It explains why he is here, looking at trees, instead of there. But the desert has more similarities to his home than he initially realized, and a combination of homesickness, a faint sense of familiarity, and slowly developing relationships have started to anchor him to the sand.
Honestly, his mind is confused most days, but in the moments of clarity he can see that, for better or worse, home is becoming Solterra. Or the other way around?
All this to say he understands completely. And so he does not press further for a reason.
"It's just how it is, I suppose," Po says, and this too Eik understands. He knows his question had been just as unanswerable as why is the sky blue or what happens when we die, but of all the questions to ask his favorite are the unanswerable ones. Or the debatable ones. "I've never really thought of it before," is the follow up, and Eik almost smiles. "You must have more important things to do."
He carefully watches Ipomoea's response to the title flower picker- it seems to surprise and almost confuse him, which Eik finds slightly disappointing. He had hoped to find out if the saying was derogatory. Po's response does not add much clarity, either. It is as straightforward as why the blacksmith chose his craft, or the healer; each mind has its own interests, everyone has some part of the universe and its workings that intrigues them.
(As for Eik, he is interested in all of it, every how and why and maybe)
"They are beautiful." Eik muses. He's always been more drawn to grand, dramatic beauty- thunderstorms, mountains, great bruised horizons. But there is beauty in small things too, not just their colors and shapes but their intricacy-- and their impermanence. Flowers live and die with the seasons, while the mountain outlasts them all. There truly is something beautiful about that.
"A shame they don't last."
The rain thickens now, the drops growing fatter and more persistent. Small pools start to form and he has the urge to roll around in them and carry the forest with him back to Solterra. "You best leave fore Odet is drenched." He never met a bird who liked the rain. Actually he's never met any birds at all, but he's seen them hunched against the storm enough to figure these things out.
"Will you show me Dawn Court, the next time I am here?" He has to speak louder now against the rain splattering on the leaves, and he wonders suddenly what the rain would sound like if it had a voice.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
The longer they stand together in the rain, the more Ipomoea remembers Solterra. The sun and the sand and the water rations. He wonders—had he stayed, would he have been different? Would he had grown up still loving flowers, or would he be as confused as Eik? Oh, how Ipomoea longed to bring basket after basket of petals and blossoms to Solterra. He could see it now, him setting up a stand (with a canopy for shade, of course), giving away nature’s greatest beauty to any who admitted to wanting one. How he longed to teach this Eik everything he knew so that maybe, just maybe, he would understand and love them as much as Po did.
And even if he didn’t, that would be alright. But it was worth trying, wasn’t it? Po would gladly share his passion with the world, if the world would only grant him permission.
Eik’s words are kind, and understanding. But does he really understand? Does Ipomoea? Flowers might be more important to him than anything else… but Eik is still right. He’s been so caught up in his duties that he’d forgotten to take time to stop and smell the roses, literally and proverbially.
“But they always come back. Like a promise, the rain brings them back.” He smiles then, his mind envisioning the rivers of color that are to come in the following months. Fall brought with it the vibrancy of leaves, Winter the joy of snow… but come Spring, his endless meadows of wildflowers would return. “You should visit then in the spring. Delumine is at its best then.”
The rain begins to fall more in earnest now, and Odet voices his distaste for it with a series of chirps. The rest of the forest animals had sought cover long before the rain started; Po could feel the water running in currents down his sides, drenching through his coat. “I’m sure he would appreciate that,” he chuckles. “He isn’t a fan of swimming.” And that was basically what they were doing now; puddles of standing water were accumulating at the horses’ feet, a shallow river to trudge through. He wonders then what it might have been like if Odet were a duck, rather than a songbird. Not that Po would ever trade bonded, but the thought brought a glimmer of a smile to his eyes.
“It was nice to meet you, Eik from Solterra.” And he means it. He may have left the desert country, with no plans of a permanent return… but he could appreciate those who did enjoy the desert, who both endured and loved it.
He watches the grey man disappear into the rain, a ghost blending into the forest. His voice wanders back to him, and he smiles again, even if Eik wouldn’t see it. “All you need to do is ask, and I will,” he promises, hoping Eik hears him.
After a pause, he turns and heads back to the capitol, much to Odet’s relief. The songbird burrows himself farther into his mane, both bird and horse now daydreaming about the sands and dryness of the desert.
