I P O M O E A
The ink was neat and pretty upon the page where he left it, black on white, elegant and sloping. Dear Mateo, it started, in fancy, crisp script. I hope this letter finds you well...
But it did not make it far down the page; the quill tapped impatiently against the desk, the ink dried upon the page with no fresh words to add to its length. He had gone over his letter over and over, until there was not a single part of it that was untouched. Lines had been scratched out and alternative words written in the margins, and still it remained an unfinished disaster. Try as he might, his mind refused to focus.
And that was before the rumors had reached him.
When Ipomoea heard that the ivy had fallen at last and that a statue of a unicorn had appeared overnight, when he heard that magic and time ran amuck on a world seemingly separated from Novus - he had left his desk and his letter at once. Even now it lay curled upon his desk, pushed back and forth by the wind drifting in through the open window, and the regent was gone from his chambers.
The air on the island seemed fresher, crisper; a stark contrast to the stale and dusty air from his room. Each breath was restorative, as if the magic in the air were infecting him in the best of ways. He could get drunk on breathing alone he knew, if only he stayed here long enough.
And he supposed he would. There was enough gossip to make his head spin here - gossip of gods and monsters, of silver men with daggers in their teeth and a relic older than time itself. So he strides along the beach with a determination he didn’t know he possessed, a sureness in each step that he would not have found had he stayed within Delumine. The world is changing, and Ipomoea is changing alongside it.
”You’re not the only one changing,” Odet’s voice was welcome in his mind, as the songbird landed upon his withers. ”Look.” He gestured with one wing, blue feathers glinting in the sunlight, and the dawn child followed their course.
His first thought is that he doesn’t recognize her - his second thought is that he should.
He comes alongside her and her tiger, the brightness in his eyes nearly synonymous with the shine of her feathers. And when he turns to look at her there’s something knowing in his eyes, for Ipomoea has heard the stories of Denocte’s Emissary.
“Miss Tonnerre,” his breath is a sigh nearly lost on the wind. “I was wondering if I might find you here.” And he couldn’t help but wonder when he looked into the other mare’s eyes -
- Had she heard rumors of the flower-crowned boy, as well?
But it did not make it far down the page; the quill tapped impatiently against the desk, the ink dried upon the page with no fresh words to add to its length. He had gone over his letter over and over, until there was not a single part of it that was untouched. Lines had been scratched out and alternative words written in the margins, and still it remained an unfinished disaster. Try as he might, his mind refused to focus.
And that was before the rumors had reached him.
When Ipomoea heard that the ivy had fallen at last and that a statue of a unicorn had appeared overnight, when he heard that magic and time ran amuck on a world seemingly separated from Novus - he had left his desk and his letter at once. Even now it lay curled upon his desk, pushed back and forth by the wind drifting in through the open window, and the regent was gone from his chambers.
The air on the island seemed fresher, crisper; a stark contrast to the stale and dusty air from his room. Each breath was restorative, as if the magic in the air were infecting him in the best of ways. He could get drunk on breathing alone he knew, if only he stayed here long enough.
And he supposed he would. There was enough gossip to make his head spin here - gossip of gods and monsters, of silver men with daggers in their teeth and a relic older than time itself. So he strides along the beach with a determination he didn’t know he possessed, a sureness in each step that he would not have found had he stayed within Delumine. The world is changing, and Ipomoea is changing alongside it.
”You’re not the only one changing,” Odet’s voice was welcome in his mind, as the songbird landed upon his withers. ”Look.” He gestured with one wing, blue feathers glinting in the sunlight, and the dawn child followed their course.
His first thought is that he doesn’t recognize her - his second thought is that he should.
He comes alongside her and her tiger, the brightness in his eyes nearly synonymous with the shine of her feathers. And when he turns to look at her there’s something knowing in his eyes, for Ipomoea has heard the stories of Denocte’s Emissary.
“Miss Tonnerre,” his breath is a sigh nearly lost on the wind. “I was wondering if I might find you here.” And he couldn’t help but wonder when he looked into the other mare’s eyes -
- Had she heard rumors of the flower-crowned boy, as well?
