H
ow many days had gone by now? Ipomoea wasn’t sure.Day after day after day, it was all the same. Days filled with waiting, with dusty pages that all but crumbled when he turned them, words that swam across the page and befuddled his mind. None of them said what he wanted them to say. None of them guided him in his hunt for knowledge.
Each day he woke with a question, the same question that burned upon his lips. What will happen today? And yet each night, when he lay his head upon his pillow, the answer was the same: Nothing.
Yet.
He was growing tired of waiting.
His sleep grew restless, the Regent tossing and turning for hours before finding rest. Oftentimes he would find himself at the window, gazing up at the moon and the stars scattered like a thousand eyes upon the night sky. His thoughts ran rampant during these times; there was nothing left to do here in this period of waiting, except to think. His mind was his greatest weapon, his only weapon; but gradually, there was nothing left to fight. The fires were gone, the monster was silent, the borders were closed. Delumine slept, be it day or night, summer or winter.
Delumine slept while the rest of the world raged.
Ipomoea wanted to rage alongside it.
When the owl arrives once more, it takes everything in him not to sing for joy. He knows even before unrolling the parchment that the words will be dark and heavy - how could they not? The Tonnerre seal was emblazoned in the wax, Moira’s handwriting was beautifully messy, he could imagine the way she might have leaned over the parchment as the quill danced across its surface.
He tore it open, his eyes hungry for news, and read. This time, his brow did not furrow, and his lips did not frown. His eyes turned to steel, his jaw setting in determination as he pulled a fresh strip of parchment out.
Dear Moira, Acting Sovereign of Denocte
I thank you, Miss Moira, for your dedication and your friendship, even from a world away. The monsters you’ve described are fearsome; they turn my blood cold, and remind me of the murders in our forest.
But our monster has been silent. I have not seen any signs that you’ve spoken of - or any signs for that matter. The beast is sleeping, for how long, I do not know. Here the letter transitions from neat print to a frantic scrawl; anger is inscribed into every letter, and a desperation bleeds through the parchment. I hope it will be a good and long rest, long enough for us to find wherever its hidden itself and slay it in its sleep.
Ipomoea pauses. The quill hovers in the air, trembling. He knows the weight of the words he is about to write, knows he will not be able to take them back - does he dare? Is he brave enough? He thinks back on that night, where Messalina burst through his door and awoke him from his sleep, how they ran through the forest with makeshift lanterns hunting alongside the rest of the Court. He had never felt so brave as he had that night, as he does right now. His heart is swelling, his hands are trembling as he dips the quill into the ink once more.
With our forest quiet and our borders closed, I beg of you: return your focus to our dear queen and the silver man whom has stolen her. Right now, he is more a monster than any hiding within Delumine.
I hope I can repay you for your kindness, Miss Moira. I am forever in your debt.
I will be in Denocte soon, not long after this owl arrives. I will aid you in your plight against Solterra in whatever way I can, if you’ll have me.
Signed,
Ipomoea
Boogeymen, Cocos, bloodthirsty fireflies, not even La Llarona would be enough to keep him away. The world was full of monsters, this much he had begun to learn.
Some monsters were more fearsome than others, but all must be slain.
Ipomoea takes only enough time to rouse Odet from his sleep before he slips from the library. The stars are winking down at him, their whispers a scream in his ears, as he hurries across the courtyard. His heart is pounding, his blood singing a song he didn’t know it was capable of.
I’m on my way.
OOC | @Moira
art by rhiann
