[AW] the flowers say hello

[Ipomoea]

IPOMOEA so lay me down in golden dandelions  It was the grass, waving at him gently in the wind from afar, that told him it was time to go. It wasn’t until he was crossing the bridge one day that it struck him, as suddenly as entering the eye of a summer storm. Perhaps it was the broken magic of the island changing him, maturing him; or perhaps it was his intuition finally kicking in. But as soon as he stepped amongst the grass of the mainland, he simply knew. He did not stop to think, nor to say his goodbyes (for he knew he would be back, and all his friends were still somewhere on the island besides). Ipomoea simply went, and he followed the wind as it led him to the north. And all along the way, at every berry plant and fruit tree he passed, Ipomoea stopped and let the magic flow from him like water. Fruit flowered and ripened in minutes, and the young appaloosa picked as much of it as he could. He braided grass into rope, and wrapped that rope around bunches of wheatgrass and rye. His back was laden with fruit and other goods by the time his hooves first touched the desert sand. And from there, it was a straight shot to the capitol, and he grew more resolute with every step. The wall loomed above him now like a desert teryr, its crest blocking the sky. The sun waited just on the other side of it, framing the Solterran city in gold and casting darkness over the desert that waited just outside of it. And yet as he stepped beneath its silhouette, as he reached out to touch the wall with his breath, he found its shadow to be neither refreshing nor peaceful. Only then does he remember how little he’s been to Solterra since his birth, how his Court has ignored their eastern neighbor for so much of his life. The thought twists like a knife through his gut, sharp and accusing. But there would be no room for guilt here, not today. Ipomoea is not here to right the past or to relieve his own worries. He turns away from the wall, and lets his offerings tumble to the ground around him, invitingly, temptingly. “It’s not enough,” he told the first man who thanked him as he handed out apples and strawberries and melons. “It’s more than we have,” the man answers in a soft voice that sounds like sand dunes shifting in the Mors. He supposed, in hindsight, that it should have been harder to enter the Day Court. But here he stood, just beyond the city walls passing out fruit to all who came near. There would be guards nearby, or spies that smiled at him and took an apple with them on their way to report to the king. Let him come, he thinks to himself as a handful of blackberries spill like water, dark against the pale desert sand. Let this end. And as he saw their ribs, and their dull coats, and their glazed over eyes, as he listened to their ragged breathing and their sand-chalked voices, Ipomoea cursed himself for not coming sooner, and vowed to return soon with more. “How are things here?” he asked the next to step forward, his voice hushed. And as he spoke he passed a small watermelon in their direction, hoping desperately that it would be enough. @open! ”here am I!”