you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
From the moment the red skinned man stepped into Delumine, the trees had begun to whisper of his passing.
Ipomoea had not heard it at first; the borders were a long ways from the capitol. But the trees talked to the grass, and the grass to the flowers, and the flowers to the vines that crept up the citadel’s walls. By the time Ramses reached the Dawn Court, so too had that silent, ancient language. And although he may not have known, each plant he passed had watched him.
He was in the garden when the roses suddenly stiffened. He lowered his head, slowly, to the center of an unfurled flowers. Its petals were as soft as silk against his muzzle, shivering gently as he exhaled over them.
For a moment the flower seemed to be laughing, amused by a joke it did not seem willing to share with him. Ipomoea frowned, and extended a questioning thought towards it.
Finally, a soft, simple answer came to him: he’s here. He pulled away before the flower could tell him who. But all around him, it suddenly seemed as if the entire garden were laughing. The grass around him reached up to caress his fetlocks, and then, before he could convince himself to do anything else, Ipomoea was walking. The garden passed by him in a blur, and soon the soft dirt floor soon gave way to the marble of the halls.
He did not pause when he reached the long hallway; he walked through it without seeing, his mind turning far too slowly for his liking. But even when he combed his mind and tried to imagine who, he stubbornly refused to think of the one person he knew, somehow, that it would be.
The hallway intersected another, and he turned without hesitation. His hoofbeats rang out with each step, sharp and bright. Turn after turn, he navigated the hallways with little more than instinct and memory. Vines reached in through the windows as he passed, their night-blooming flowers opening briefly in his presence before they closed back up once more.
When the hallway again intersected another, he stopped abruptly. To his left the hallway opened into the courtyard beyond. But to his right -
The red and white man was as clear to him as that day out in the desert, the same as his mind remembered him. For a second he just watched - Ramses was walking down the hallway, his back turned to him. His wings open and closed quickly, nervously, grasping at the air like they were trying to fly away.
But then he lifted his head, and in a calm, quiet voice, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
It was not spoken in an unfriendly tone.
But the words made it clear; the bone-and-fur-clad man was out of place here.
@ramses
notes
Ipomoea had not heard it at first; the borders were a long ways from the capitol. But the trees talked to the grass, and the grass to the flowers, and the flowers to the vines that crept up the citadel’s walls. By the time Ramses reached the Dawn Court, so too had that silent, ancient language. And although he may not have known, each plant he passed had watched him.
He was in the garden when the roses suddenly stiffened. He lowered his head, slowly, to the center of an unfurled flowers. Its petals were as soft as silk against his muzzle, shivering gently as he exhaled over them.
For a moment the flower seemed to be laughing, amused by a joke it did not seem willing to share with him. Ipomoea frowned, and extended a questioning thought towards it.
Finally, a soft, simple answer came to him: he’s here. He pulled away before the flower could tell him who. But all around him, it suddenly seemed as if the entire garden were laughing. The grass around him reached up to caress his fetlocks, and then, before he could convince himself to do anything else, Ipomoea was walking. The garden passed by him in a blur, and soon the soft dirt floor soon gave way to the marble of the halls.
He did not pause when he reached the long hallway; he walked through it without seeing, his mind turning far too slowly for his liking. But even when he combed his mind and tried to imagine who, he stubbornly refused to think of the one person he knew, somehow, that it would be.
The hallway intersected another, and he turned without hesitation. His hoofbeats rang out with each step, sharp and bright. Turn after turn, he navigated the hallways with little more than instinct and memory. Vines reached in through the windows as he passed, their night-blooming flowers opening briefly in his presence before they closed back up once more.
When the hallway again intersected another, he stopped abruptly. To his left the hallway opened into the courtyard beyond. But to his right -
The red and white man was as clear to him as that day out in the desert, the same as his mind remembered him. For a second he just watched - Ramses was walking down the hallway, his back turned to him. His wings open and closed quickly, nervously, grasping at the air like they were trying to fly away.
But then he lifted his head, and in a calm, quiet voice, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
It was not spoken in an unfriendly tone.
But the words made it clear; the bone-and-fur-clad man was out of place here.
@ramses
notes
