let’s be wildflowers
For a while all he does is wander. There’s a thousand hallways to lose himself down in the library, an endless maze of alcoves and study rooms that he walks by dutifully. The titles of dozens of scrolls and books leap out at him, readings on horticulture and gardening and harvesting. As a boy this had been one of his favorite sections, a place he could spend hours losing himself in.
Now for as much as he tries, he finds himself reading the same line over and over again.
”…true lilies. These include the day lily (Hemeracallis) and various species of the family Amaryllidaceae. The genus includes somewhere between 80 and 100 species, 12 of which can be found in various parts of Delumine. Father Weir, a monk from 332, contributed to much of our knowledge about the species…”
He places the book back on the shelf and continues on. He’s too restless today to lose himself even in his favorite subject, and yet the presence of the library alone is comforting. While he can’t enjoy the bounty of information it holds, he can still enjoy the quiet nature of the place, the dry shuffling of pages and the sweet scent of anemones that color the air. So he ducks in and out of hallways and atriums, watching the way the sunlight plays across the mirror-like floor of one room, and the hanging planters filled with vines in another. Ipomoea had learned long ago that the library was more than just a place for books and reading - the passageways were endless, containing innumerable rooms filled with all kinds of wonders. All one had to do was find them.
He had doubled back in an attempt to find the main hall, but truly he did not mind the prospect of being lost. Sooner or later, he was sure, one of the helpers or another patron would come find him and point him in the right direction. He was not wrong.
”Hello.” He looks up and for a second, thinks he is looking simply at a darker part of the room. But then he blinks and his eyes adjust, and the light from a nearby light is strong enough for him to see the shape of a dark pegasus across the hallway. ”You’re the sovereign, correct? I’m Andras, and I was just leaving.”
The words are blunt, but Ipomoea doesn’t mind, he hardly notices. The other stallion makes no move to leave - a stack of books remain firmly in place beside him - so he comes a little closer instead.
“Yes, I am. But you may call me Ipomoea if you wish.” It still feels strange, and the response is mechanical and automatic, a reflex. He glances down at the stack of books. “What are - were - you reading?”
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