The library was quiet. But not in the way Ipomoea was used to.
It was as if the building were holding its breath, as if it had not taken a proper breath in years. It made him all but agraid to breathe himself, lest he disturb some great and slumbering giant. There’s an imagined danger in the air, like he’s standing in a church that’s lost all pretense of holiness.
He feels half a ghost, slipping between rows of crumbling bookshelves as dust motes swim in his wake. All around him he can hear the papery whisper of pages turning, the scrape of a book being pulled free from a shelf, the creak of a loose floorboard as someone stepped upon it. Each sound was painfully loud, silence stretching between each disturbance.
The library is willing itself away, he can’t help but think. If he blinked it might vanish forever, a pocket of space folding upon itself and collapsing into obscurity, like a book who’s main character wants only to disappear from their own story.
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - there were not many scholarly Denoctians, at least from those he had met thus far. It was part of why he was drawn to the southern court to begin with: their passion for life, their willingness to not just read about something, but to go see it for themselves, to take life by its horns and wrangle with the gods themselves.
He has a lot to learn from them, he knows, he knows. It was why he was here in the first place, to join in their crusade, their war, their life. Ipomoea had always been called to their fast-paced frenzy, their bonfire smoke filling his soul and his heart dancing in time with their music. It was such a stark contrast to his own life, back in Delumine, and a highly intoxicating one. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to leave.
Perhaps he could bring a piece of Denocte home with him; he would certainly try, after all. Their passion and community, even if only a small sliver of it, would breathe fresh life into the dusty halls of his Court.
But for now he wanders the library corridors, few that they may be in comparison to the Dawn Court library. His eyes rove over countless titles, pausing every few steps to brush a speck of dirt almost lovingly from another cover.
So it was with surprise that he turned a corner to see an antlered man - with all manner of jewels and trinkets hanging from each tine - browsing the shelves similar.
“Oh, hello,” his voice breaks the silence, and it feels wrong amidst the hush of the room.
And then, because he can’t bear to let them lapse back into silence, lest that silence go on indefinitely, “It's been so quiet in here, I thought I was alone.” But his laugh hints that he doesn't mind the company, not in the slightest.
It was as if the building were holding its breath, as if it had not taken a proper breath in years. It made him all but agraid to breathe himself, lest he disturb some great and slumbering giant. There’s an imagined danger in the air, like he’s standing in a church that’s lost all pretense of holiness.
He feels half a ghost, slipping between rows of crumbling bookshelves as dust motes swim in his wake. All around him he can hear the papery whisper of pages turning, the scrape of a book being pulled free from a shelf, the creak of a loose floorboard as someone stepped upon it. Each sound was painfully loud, silence stretching between each disturbance.
The library is willing itself away, he can’t help but think. If he blinked it might vanish forever, a pocket of space folding upon itself and collapsing into obscurity, like a book who’s main character wants only to disappear from their own story.
He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - there were not many scholarly Denoctians, at least from those he had met thus far. It was part of why he was drawn to the southern court to begin with: their passion for life, their willingness to not just read about something, but to go see it for themselves, to take life by its horns and wrangle with the gods themselves.
He has a lot to learn from them, he knows, he knows. It was why he was here in the first place, to join in their crusade, their war, their life. Ipomoea had always been called to their fast-paced frenzy, their bonfire smoke filling his soul and his heart dancing in time with their music. It was such a stark contrast to his own life, back in Delumine, and a highly intoxicating one. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure he ever wanted to leave.
Perhaps he could bring a piece of Denocte home with him; he would certainly try, after all. Their passion and community, even if only a small sliver of it, would breathe fresh life into the dusty halls of his Court.
But for now he wanders the library corridors, few that they may be in comparison to the Dawn Court library. His eyes rove over countless titles, pausing every few steps to brush a speck of dirt almost lovingly from another cover.
So it was with surprise that he turned a corner to see an antlered man - with all manner of jewels and trinkets hanging from each tine - browsing the shelves similar.
“Oh, hello,” his voice breaks the silence, and it feels wrong amidst the hush of the room.
And then, because he can’t bear to let them lapse back into silence, lest that silence go on indefinitely, “It's been so quiet in here, I thought I was alone.” But his laugh hints that he doesn't mind the company, not in the slightest.
we are here
to laugh
at the odds
and live our lives
so well
that
death will tremble
to take us
@
hope this is alright <3
”here am i!“
