he wore wildflowers in his hair
I
t was a mild shock, realizing how little he missed Delumine. It was even more of a shock to be aware of that realization, and still not care.He knew the homesickness would settle in eventually, and his soul would grow weary of the night and long for the stillness of the morning again. Whether it took days or weeks, dwelling on it would only cause him to miss what was happening right in front of him. So until that day came, Ipomoea would soak in the feeling of alive again, cling to it with every ounce of desperate strength he can muster, until his muscles run out of sugar and his body fails beneath the weight of his weary heart.
Until that day, he would lean into Denocte and take everything they had to offer him, would be whatever Denocte wanted to turn him into.
It was an exhilarating prospect, the hovering chance of being turned into something new by the city. Ipomoea suspected he had only ever been what his surroundings had made him; he could be remade if he stayed here long enough, of that he was certain. The gyspy king had told him so once, and his blood responded in kind every time it got near enough to feel the vibrations of the drums. He wondered how long it might take, and how much the country would change him.
Would Somnus recognize him in a fortnight? A month? A year? Would Somnus even recognize him today, standing with his hair tumbling freely in the middle of a busy street?
But he doesn't want to reflect on that. Thinking of Somnus meant thinking of the letter he had left him, and the way he had left Delumine. Ipomoea had come here to be brave, but that had been anything but.
So he shifts his pink eyes to the streets, watching the wind tear a woman’s scarf free from her neck, so it writhed like a snake made of smoke through the air. Red, orange, purple; the colors spun round and round each other as she chased them through the square.
Everywhere he looked, there was movement. The street was lively and bright, filled with equines of all shapes, colors, and sizes coming and going from all sorts of places. He could watch the Night Court dance forever, without realizing the time as it slipped away from him; day or night, Denocte was not only alive, but celebrating life jubilantly, and with every breath.
And he alone was unmoving, as still as a statue in the midst of all their movement. He could only watch on in wonder, envying their brightness. Each one of them was a star - it was only fitting, being that they lived in the Court of Night. He was enraptured, struck into silence, unable to turn away.
So it was no wonder that he would find himself standing directly in someone’s path.
Her voice brings him out of his musing. Ipomoea shakes his head slowly, as if awakening from a trance.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sidestepping from her path to reveal the alleyway. “I think I lost track of time for a moment there.” An easy thing to do, especially for a dreamer like himself.
He expects her to continue on her way - Denocte was a busy city, filled with busy citizens - but she didn’t. Ipomoea lifts his gaze slowly, rose-colored eyes meeting crimson. Her spiraling horns catch his attention, rising proudly to stab at the sky.
“No,” he breathes at last. A thin smile wavers on his lips. “No, I don’t believe we have.”
Half a heartbeat stretches between them, as each of his memories slip away one by one to shatter silently on the cobblestone streets. And in that time he makes a choice, letting go willingly.
“My name is Po.”
Not Ipomoea, not the Regent of Delumine. Today he is no one - and he had never been more excited to simply be.
@boudika !
oh stop it’s perfect, i love it ;u;
"speaks"
