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I P O M O E A ’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.” |
neverrmind art
