I P O M O E A
He isn’t sure when he stopped carrying the songbird around with him. It sits on the windowsill now, a once-favorite spot of Odet’s, bathed in the light streaming in through the opened window. Its dappled in green and gold, rosettes of color that move gently back and forth each time the trees outside sigh.
Ipomoea studies the statue now, his eyes paying close attention to each perfectly carved feather. Once he had watched it religiously, waiting for an eye to blink or a wing to twitch. Once he had been hopeful each morning, expecting to wake up and see his bonded waiting on his perch for him.
Now he rarely bothered to glance in the roost’s direction, because he already knew it would be empty.
Slowly, gently, he pushes the small statue until it gazes out over the courtyard with eyes that no longer see. In the right light it almost looked like the songbird was simply resting, pausing for only a moment before taking flight once more. There was a slight bend in his legs, like he was preparing to jump up into the air, his wings raised subtly at the shoulders, beak lifted skyward. As the days continued to pass, as more and more time spun into place between that last spring and now, Ipomoea becomes more certain that that leap will never come.
Footsteps against the marble floor bring him out of his reverie. He lifts his head in time to see the antlered man stepping through the door, and a smile instinctively welcomes him.
“Seir. Come in, come in,” he murmurs, and without looking back at the small stone statue, he turns to greet the man. Even now he still was not sure what had made him choose this stranger - just as he still was not sure what had made the stranger choose to say yes. But neither did the thought worry him. “We have much to talk about.”
There are questions buzzing in his mind, begging to be asked - but for now, he holds them at bay. At the large walnut desk he pours two glasses of water and then, while drinking from one, offers the other to the chestnut.
“How are you? Settling in well enough, I hope?” His smile, while warm, does not quite reach his eyes.
Ipomoea studies the statue now, his eyes paying close attention to each perfectly carved feather. Once he had watched it religiously, waiting for an eye to blink or a wing to twitch. Once he had been hopeful each morning, expecting to wake up and see his bonded waiting on his perch for him.
Now he rarely bothered to glance in the roost’s direction, because he already knew it would be empty.
Slowly, gently, he pushes the small statue until it gazes out over the courtyard with eyes that no longer see. In the right light it almost looked like the songbird was simply resting, pausing for only a moment before taking flight once more. There was a slight bend in his legs, like he was preparing to jump up into the air, his wings raised subtly at the shoulders, beak lifted skyward. As the days continued to pass, as more and more time spun into place between that last spring and now, Ipomoea becomes more certain that that leap will never come.
Footsteps against the marble floor bring him out of his reverie. He lifts his head in time to see the antlered man stepping through the door, and a smile instinctively welcomes him.
“Seir. Come in, come in,” he murmurs, and without looking back at the small stone statue, he turns to greet the man. Even now he still was not sure what had made him choose this stranger - just as he still was not sure what had made the stranger choose to say yes. But neither did the thought worry him. “We have much to talk about.”
There are questions buzzing in his mind, begging to be asked - but for now, he holds them at bay. At the large walnut desk he pours two glasses of water and then, while drinking from one, offers the other to the chestnut.
“How are you? Settling in well enough, I hope?” His smile, while warm, does not quite reach his eyes.
