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He moves through a landscape that fills him with love. Every dreamlike sight he passes reminds him of Isra, and why wouldn't it? In their brief time together they've swam through a sea filled with thoughts and feelings and painted with memories, they've slept beneath the dreams of bison and learned the shape of each other outlined in falling snow and moonlight. So even without knowing Isra's history, he knows she puts a piece of herself into everything she makes. She gives, and gives, and gives, and as he walks through her kingdom he lets himself believe, for a moment, that she has hidden these pieces of herself for him and him alone to find.
A troupe of dancers, each adorned with paint of a different color, tumble over and around each other as they weave through the crowd. One of them bumps into his shoulder and leaves behind the scent of sage. Something about the dancers reminds him of the certainty of a river carving its way to the sea. They know their destination, if not their course, and this he has in common with them. When he closes his eyelids he can picture his destination, or at least the bright blue of her eyes. Isra
She could be anywhere, so he looks to the willow trees and the way that they lean gracefully to the left. Something about the way the wind runs through them suggests laughter and a message- "this way to your love, child! This way!" He follows them because he's always trusted trees, but also because he has no other direction. His path takes him through rows and rows of tents, each full of something different and wonderful-- but never Isra. At one point his path crosses the dancers again and they laugh merrily to see the intent grey stallion again. "Smile!" one of them demands. He does, but not with his lips.
Eventually he reaches the lake. The sight of it stops him in his tracks. It is so Isra, and as that thought crosses his mind the smell of her does too, and also he feels her in his head like a drop of water in still water. It seems that a bell rings, somewhere, and every cell of his body is summoned to attention. There-- the light streaming through the stained glass of her cathedral paints a kaleidoscope of colors on her resting body. He sees the grass stirred by her sleeping breath and he feels stirred too. His heart, awakened by her nearness, strains in his chest until it becomes impossible to stand there watching any longer.
She looks so small, curled beneath her tree, even as he approaches and she fills his vision. In a language that does not feel like his own, in a language that is all theirs, he says her name softly. "Isra." He kisses her the way the ocean kisses the sky-- with a deep look and not a touch. And then he moves closer and kisses her with gentle lips. First the tip of her nose, then the corner of her sad mouth, and finally the edge of her temple.
There is a weight to this moment that he does not want to ignore. In fact there are many things he wants to say ("are you okay/ what happened/ I'm here, tell me-") but it seems that first, a moment of sweetness is in order.
He draws a small bouquet from where he had (poorly) hidden it beneath his mane. Violets, lavender, and clover... it is not much compared to the flowers that she could dream into being, but he just wanted to give something, anything, back to the one who has given so much. For a moment the bouquet hovers ghostlike between them and it is appears he does not know what to do next. After a moment too long he unties the bundle and weaves the violets gently into Isra's black mane. The lavender is next. He brushes it across her cheeks so she might breathe in its comfort, then tucks it between her chain and her leg, because that part of her too deserves to feel a gentle touch.
Finally the clover. He considers it for a moment, then gently places half between her lips and the other half on his own tongue. He looks at her intently with a hundred love letters in his eyes. And when he leans forward to kiss her again, their lips both taste like clover, and hunger, and sadness.
"A thousand dreams within me softly burn. From time to time
my heart is like some oak whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
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art by Pherigo
@Isra <3 ugh the cheese
Time makes fools of us all
