I P O M O E A
Ipomoea. How long had it been since he had last heard his name, his proper name, spoken in full? Since Delumine, his mind answers him, and a knife laced with guilt impales itself into his heart. The syllables seem foreign now, as if he’s outgrown them. They speak of a boy crowned with flowers, a smile on his lips as he dances through a forest; they speak of a boy, saved from death on the highest peak of Veneror and named after the flowers that grow there in the thin, weak air, flowers that opened with the morning and followed the sun across the sky.
He used to be that boy. Now - now he’s not sure who he is. Now he doesn’t even wear the flowers he so loves.
To anyone who asked in Denocte or here on the island, it was simply Po, a title he’s taken up as easily as breathing. Few were none the wiser; he had yet to be recognized as the runaway regent, off to save the world with a bouquet of daisies as his only weapon. It was for the better, he’d told himself - although he couldn’t help but wonder if Somnus had not yet sent out news of his apology and disappearance, or if his court thought anything of his absence. He had always been prone to wanderlust, but did they know that this time, he wasn’t sure when, wasn’t sure if, he would return?
His own uncertainty was turning into a monster inside of him, its venom more potent than the fragrance of the tropical flowers drifting on the breeze around the two stallions.
Maybe that’s part of the magic. One ear tilts in the bay’s direction, mottled and amused. “The gods have outdone themselves.” There’s a hollowness in his tone that he’s not used to - empty words without any hint of sentiment behind them, as if spoken through automation alone. He shakes his head and looks amongst the trees and their shadows, his wandering eyes avoiding only Asterion.
But at the bay’s next words, a smile that is as swift as it is serendipitous takes him by surprise, arcing across the young regent’s mouth. “No,” he admits. “I’ve read fairytales, of islands that float in the clouds and wander the earth, and volcanoes that have turned entire cities to stone. But nothing… quite like this.” There were entire sections of the Delumine library that he had not explored - certainly he could spend a lifetime there and still not even break the surface of its alcoves - yet somehow he already knew that he would find nothing of the sort hidden within its corridors. If there was, someone would know of it - and secrets were never held long in the Dawn Court.
He turns to face the other stallion then, pleased by the like smile he finds dancing like smoke along the planes of his face. Ipomoea follows the bay’s gaze into the forest, along the shadows the doe had disappeared. A single broken twig, hanging haphazardly from a bush, is the only sign of her passing.
“Should we follow her?” He asks, turning back to Asterion. And there’s a hint of mischief, of adventure and daredevil hiding in his eyes.
He used to be that boy. Now - now he’s not sure who he is. Now he doesn’t even wear the flowers he so loves.
To anyone who asked in Denocte or here on the island, it was simply Po, a title he’s taken up as easily as breathing. Few were none the wiser; he had yet to be recognized as the runaway regent, off to save the world with a bouquet of daisies as his only weapon. It was for the better, he’d told himself - although he couldn’t help but wonder if Somnus had not yet sent out news of his apology and disappearance, or if his court thought anything of his absence. He had always been prone to wanderlust, but did they know that this time, he wasn’t sure when, wasn’t sure if, he would return?
His own uncertainty was turning into a monster inside of him, its venom more potent than the fragrance of the tropical flowers drifting on the breeze around the two stallions.
Maybe that’s part of the magic. One ear tilts in the bay’s direction, mottled and amused. “The gods have outdone themselves.” There’s a hollowness in his tone that he’s not used to - empty words without any hint of sentiment behind them, as if spoken through automation alone. He shakes his head and looks amongst the trees and their shadows, his wandering eyes avoiding only Asterion.
But at the bay’s next words, a smile that is as swift as it is serendipitous takes him by surprise, arcing across the young regent’s mouth. “No,” he admits. “I’ve read fairytales, of islands that float in the clouds and wander the earth, and volcanoes that have turned entire cities to stone. But nothing… quite like this.” There were entire sections of the Delumine library that he had not explored - certainly he could spend a lifetime there and still not even break the surface of its alcoves - yet somehow he already knew that he would find nothing of the sort hidden within its corridors. If there was, someone would know of it - and secrets were never held long in the Dawn Court.
He turns to face the other stallion then, pleased by the like smile he finds dancing like smoke along the planes of his face. Ipomoea follows the bay’s gaze into the forest, along the shadows the doe had disappeared. A single broken twig, hanging haphazardly from a bush, is the only sign of her passing.
“Should we follow her?” He asks, turning back to Asterion. And there’s a hint of mischief, of adventure and daredevil hiding in his eyes.
@asterion xx
”here am i!“
”here am i!“
