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I P O M O E A It’s from the sky that she appears, a streak of gold framed by the brilliant colors of the sunset. Her hair and petals are streaming everywhere, the tips of her feathers illuminated by light—Florentine wears the colors of dusk on her skin, as vibrant and brilliant as Vespera herself. Po watches her land, but his focus is still on the horizon. The sun sinks lower and lower every second, color exploding where the heavens kiss the earth. The Dusk Queen speaks, and Po responds with a smile. If only she knew: power flowed through his veins now, unlike any he’d ever dreamed of. The ability to talk to the trees was wholly and uniquely his—and he loved them even more since. If Florentine thought Po had loved his flowers before, it was nothing compared to the fondness he regarded nature with now. “It was worth the trip.” He finally takes his eyes from the sunset, regarding his old friend warmly as she brushes his cheek with a kiss. “It’s been too long.” He throws his head back with a laugh, his wings curling against his ankles as the mirth bubbles from his throat. “Somnus? He’s the one who took a crown, maybe you’d better watch him.” He falls into step alongside her without hesitation. His blood still tingles with adrenaline, but he forces himself to walk now—admiring the way the fading light filters through the swamp and illuminates specks of dust in the air. Florentine picks the flowers as they walk but Ipomoea listens to them. The tips of his wings brush through the sea of color, their bright specks of life sparking in his mind. Over and over again he experiences the beauty of the sunset, imprinted in the petals of the daisies and dandelions. They continue on like this for several minutes, both enjoying the walk and each other’s company. Po loses himself in the sea of information the meadow provides him, their slow moving thoughts and gentle emotions, the connections between each blade of grass. When the flower girl finally speaks, she pulls him back to the present. He looks back at her curiously, stopping in his tracks. He’s able to play dumb for only a minute, confusion fading as a blush quickly burns his cheeks. As the finished garland is placed around his neck, Ipomoea’s heart stutters and nearly stops, skipping a beat then speeding up. Messalina. The freckled dancer with roses in her hair, pirouetting her way into both his mind at all the wrong (right?) times. His blush deepens in color, and Po is sure Florentine can see it. “You know about Messalina?” The question comes out in a stutter, his blood absolutely racing now. Does she talk about me, then? And just like that, his thoughts are consumed again. How could Florentine expect simple answers about a complicated girl? There aren’t enough words in the world to explain how Ipomoea is feeling. A smile spreads across his face without his even realizing it, turning his lips upwards into a childlike grin, not unlike a colt who’s tasted his first piece of candy. “Messalina is…” What could he say? A thousand words flashed through the Regent’s mind: charming, kind, elegance incarnate, with a laugh that he longed to hear more of. His scarlet eyes lifted, slowly meeting Florentine’s gaze. “She makes me heart dance,” he said simply, his voice a sigh on the wind. “Even when she’s not around, I wish she was.” He was still so young, so naive. But when it came to love, Ipomoea had no qualms in following his heart. @ ”here am i!“ |
neverrmind art
