he wore wildflowers in his hair
D
enocte.The name is a juxtaposition of heaviness and excitement whispering to him from afar. It curls like the smoke of their bonfires, winding its way through every corner of his mind until his hair stood on end and his spine felt cold.
But why does it feel like coming home? Doesn’t his heart know that he’s left his home, that Delumine was a world away now? Gone were the sweet green meadows of spring, the fragrance of lotus trees and sweet cherry wine. It was winter now, and the sea spray of the coast carried with it the bite of snow, the promise of a cold night.
He supposes that is why they have their bonfires and night markets, to keep the chill of the darkness at bay.
It’s a funny thing, a child of dawn running away to the night. Perhaps he was always meant to return here - didn’t the gypsy king tell him so, once upon a time? Reichenbach may be gone, but sometimes his memory brings itself to the forefront of his mind, voice accompanied with the music of golden coins and laughter. Denocte still reminds him of the bay king, but it reminds him of a lot of things now. It’s a queen with scales scattered upon her ribs; it’s a dancer with eyes paler than a clear sky; it’s a sly child running barefoot through the streets, laughter trailing in their wake. It’s woodsmoke and salt to him, stories and dreams and feelings emblazoned forever in his mind, ripped out and laid bare for all the world to see.
There’s something about Denocte that has a way of breaking him in the best of ways. He’s vulnerable here, and it’s exciting and terrifying, much like the city itself. It’s the opposite of Delumine, where everything is safe, everyone is quiet, and only the flowers tell him stories. But perhaps that’s why he likes it so much.
The wind runs its fingers along his skin, tugging this way and that until his hair is dancing with the beat of drums. There’s a feather there, tawny and golden, hidden within the dark strands of his mane, braided tightly to keep it safe.
His eyes are smiling, even if the rest of his features forget to follow suit.
All around him the people are moving, going about their lives and their business with hardly a glance his way. Because he’s not a Regent here, or even a recognizable face. Those days are long past, his last visit nearly forgotten in the time that stretches between then and now. It’s strangely refreshing, and Ipomoea breathes in deep until his lungs are baptized and renewed in the wet, salty air.
He breathes until he’s just a boy with flowers in his hair and the same song running through his veins as everybody else’s.
@open to anyone!
his timeline is a little wonky, takes place a day or two before the fires c:
"speaks"
