you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
The stallion - the stranger - turned to face him, laughter on his lips and in his eyes. Ipomoea’s eyes hardened.
”I already told you, we’re not -“ he begins, his voice low and tense. But the chestnut cuts him off before he can get the rest of the words out.
For a moment his expression is unreadable.
For a moment his heart is leaping violently inside of his chest.
He thinks he can taste the Mors still on the back of his tongue, the sand and the heat and the wind. Like his body remembers how it feels still to be cast out into that endless, dry sea, even when his mind has forgotten it.
Ipomoea had been so young - not even old enough to wean. He did not even know his true birthday, because from that moment on he had only known the day that he opened his eyes in a Solterran home, and had taken that to mark each year by. And now this stranger was telling him that he remembered, even when Po didn’t; that he was the child their parents wanted, instead of the one they left out to die.
He did not hold any animosity towards his parents - for most of his life, he had hardly given them a second thought. Grainne had been the closest thing to a mother for him, but from the moment he had been turned into an orphan on the streets of Solterra, he had been a wanderer and content to be one at that. Independence had thankfully come naturally to him.
But looking at the chestnut, with the eyes that almost matched his own, he wondered why it had been one and not the other. Why would a parent choose one son over the other, love the first and doom the second? ”You saw?” His voice is little more than a whisper, but it’s steady. He turns back to the stranger, and perhaps for the first time begins to truly look at him. The way half his body was white and the other half red, much like his own. The similarities were there, if only he chose to look for them.
He lifts his chin, and swallows past the pain. ”Can you tell me why?”
@ramses
notes
”I already told you, we’re not -“ he begins, his voice low and tense. But the chestnut cuts him off before he can get the rest of the words out.
For a moment his expression is unreadable.
For a moment his heart is leaping violently inside of his chest.
He thinks he can taste the Mors still on the back of his tongue, the sand and the heat and the wind. Like his body remembers how it feels still to be cast out into that endless, dry sea, even when his mind has forgotten it.
Ipomoea had been so young - not even old enough to wean. He did not even know his true birthday, because from that moment on he had only known the day that he opened his eyes in a Solterran home, and had taken that to mark each year by. And now this stranger was telling him that he remembered, even when Po didn’t; that he was the child their parents wanted, instead of the one they left out to die.
He did not hold any animosity towards his parents - for most of his life, he had hardly given them a second thought. Grainne had been the closest thing to a mother for him, but from the moment he had been turned into an orphan on the streets of Solterra, he had been a wanderer and content to be one at that. Independence had thankfully come naturally to him.
But looking at the chestnut, with the eyes that almost matched his own, he wondered why it had been one and not the other. Why would a parent choose one son over the other, love the first and doom the second? ”You saw?” His voice is little more than a whisper, but it’s steady. He turns back to the stranger, and perhaps for the first time begins to truly look at him. The way half his body was white and the other half red, much like his own. The similarities were there, if only he chose to look for them.
He lifts his chin, and swallows past the pain. ”Can you tell me why?”
@ramses
notes
