I P O M O E A
She shuts her mouth quickly, with the sharp clack of teeth meeting teeth, and only then does he stop and consider how strange it might seem. The flowers leaning in around him, the vines wrapping his limbs in a hug, the shrubs that parted to make a safe path for his hooves to tread.
Nature was at peace around him, and he around it.
He can’t even remember when it first started, for he thinks there was never a beginning to it, just that it simply is. He had always loved plants, even as a child; and the plants seemed to love him back, thriving in his presence. Many a gardener had written it off as his devotion to studying the many botanical books he was saddled with, but he supposes that even then, even as a child, he had known it to be something more. Something magic.
There were books in the library mentioning this, but none in great detail. Only that sometimes a figure would look out from between the trees in the forest, with antlers of living wood adorning their brow and tails strung with leaves that seemed to grow directly from their hair. Ipomoea himself had none of such blessings, but still the words - the stories, as many dismissed them - drew him in, those few times he had stumbled across them.
He smiles when she speaks, and tries to make it appear reassuring. "Solterra?" he asks her, and something akin to sadness - or is it longing? - colors his voice with strains or blue and melancholy. But then he shakes himself. "Oh, but the cactus, too," he tells her, almost eagerly, voice still hushed. "They yearn for the water and the wind and the sun the same way you or I. Although," he conceded, "I suppose they do not think quite like us." There’s was more of a slow, content manner, one that meditated only on what they were and what surrounded them, never wanting to be more, never knowing what more could be.
She steps forward, until they’re both in the starlight, and he tilts his head back to look at the sky mirrored in the leaves. And before she speaks again he wonders if, maybe, he could bring a sapling home to Dawn, and if they would show the same galaxies there as they did here.
He takes a moment to answer. "Yes," he says at last, breaking the silence that had fallen, not uncomfortably, between them. "I think I am." Weren’t they all? But then he smiles, and his teeth glint at her in the darkness as he looks shyly back at her.
"Although, I’m not sure if the island has all the answers I’m looking for." And then he closes his own mouth quite quickly, as if it was blasphemy to say such things.
He can’t even remember when it first started, for he thinks there was never a beginning to it, just that it simply is. He had always loved plants, even as a child; and the plants seemed to love him back, thriving in his presence. Many a gardener had written it off as his devotion to studying the many botanical books he was saddled with, but he supposes that even then, even as a child, he had known it to be something more. Something magic.
There were books in the library mentioning this, but none in great detail. Only that sometimes a figure would look out from between the trees in the forest, with antlers of living wood adorning their brow and tails strung with leaves that seemed to grow directly from their hair. Ipomoea himself had none of such blessings, but still the words - the stories, as many dismissed them - drew him in, those few times he had stumbled across them.
He smiles when she speaks, and tries to make it appear reassuring. "Solterra?" he asks her, and something akin to sadness - or is it longing? - colors his voice with strains or blue and melancholy. But then he shakes himself. "Oh, but the cactus, too," he tells her, almost eagerly, voice still hushed. "They yearn for the water and the wind and the sun the same way you or I. Although," he conceded, "I suppose they do not think quite like us." There’s was more of a slow, content manner, one that meditated only on what they were and what surrounded them, never wanting to be more, never knowing what more could be.
She steps forward, until they’re both in the starlight, and he tilts his head back to look at the sky mirrored in the leaves. And before she speaks again he wonders if, maybe, he could bring a sapling home to Dawn, and if they would show the same galaxies there as they did here.
He takes a moment to answer. "Yes," he says at last, breaking the silence that had fallen, not uncomfortably, between them. "I think I am." Weren’t they all? But then he smiles, and his teeth glint at her in the darkness as he looks shyly back at her.
"Although, I’m not sure if the island has all the answers I’m looking for." And then he closes his own mouth quite quickly, as if it was blasphemy to say such things.
@elif thank you for being so patient!!
”here am i!“
”here am i!“
