He looks back on the Day Court, with its walls that rise seamlessly from the sand they were formed from, its spires glinting like golden swords that pierce the sky. The city looms behind him, and when he closes his eyes he can still hear its laughter.
Before him is the desert, its expanse long and unwelcoming. It, too, is laughing.
Ipomoea has heard that sometimes the dunes sing. But today he knows that if he walks out into their midst they will only laugh, and remind him of his brokenness and the spilled fruit he has left behind. They will not welcome him the way the forests of his home do, they will not reach their fingers out to caress his sides as he walks. They will only chase him out, away from the home he might have known, and they will remind him why he should never return.
He keeps his eyes trained on the citadel, lifting his head high in defiance. He knows he should be on his way now to Delumine - the desert does not hold anything else for him now - but still he tarries.
The cries of the people are louder than the desert’s laughter, he thinks to himself somberly. He lowers his head to the sand, closing his cherry rose eyes against the sun and light.
For a moment he’s silent, still except for the shuddering breaths that lift his ribs, promising both himself and the desert to return. Its heat floods his veins, and he feels warm and alive, his heart thumping wildly within his chest. Ipomoea lifts his head and takes one last, long look at the capitol, preparing himself to turn away.
But before he can a flash of movement catches his attention.
She runs from the city as if she’s being chased and yet, there are no pursuers streaming behind her. Only the sand kicked up by her furious stride settles like a cape behind her, hovering low over the earth. Ipomoea’s heart catches in his throat, and his blood roars as if it’s running alongside her, as if it’s left his body behind and gone ahead of him to meet her. But she does not make it far.
As her legs crumple and she tumbles into the sand he springs into movement, against his better judgement. The distance between them closes swiftly, and he casts only one, worrying gaze at the capitol before he kneels beside the girl with translucent horns marking her brow.
“Miss,” he says softly, his breath warm against her shoulder. “Miss, can you hear me? Are you alright?”
He’s about to ask Odet to watch the gates for him, for guards, for the king, for any eyes that might bear them witness. But then he remembers, and his heart clenches, and the little stone statue of a bird seems to shudder in his pack.
So instead he stands himself between her and the gates, and although he wants to ask her why she runs, he waits.
let our soulds be scattered by the wind
let us grow, wild and free,
tall and brave,
in the places that we dream,
in the places where our longings are filled,
let us grow between the cracks of brokenness,
and we will make everythingbeautiful
@
”here am i!“
