you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
He’s never thought of the way that the trail of flowers always led to him. He can’t even remember the day they first began to follow him, his earliest memories are of turning around and seeing them there, waving at him with their petals and dancing on their long stalks. They’ve always been there, always been a part of him, ever since he left the desert.
But he’s never thought of the way they make it impossible for him to hide, how anyone who knows what they’re looking at knows that he is never far from the trail of blossoms. Ipomoea has only ever run for the simple pleasure of running, never for his life, never out of desperation - so when they shiver and tell him that something, that someone is coming, he does not fear them. Or stop to wonder why she’s here, or how she’s found him, or whether she’s come looking for him. Even if a selfish part of him hopes that she’s run all the same paths in the tangled forest that he has, that she’s returned to that golden, trembling sapling and hoped to find him there.
Because he has. He’s done all those things and more, since she left him standing there in the broken sunlight.
Despite the flowers’ warning, he does not flinch at all when she comes up beside him, and whispers his name against his shoulder.
A part of him wonders if her touch will be withering, if the petals on his brow will finally wilt and tumble as dead things to the ground. But they don’t, and the only change is the way his heart speeds up. He isn’t sure if it does so because it’s resisting death, or trying to catch her - he doesn’t ask it why it skips a beat.
“Thana.” He says her name like he was expecting her, like her name tastes more like life than it does like death. Like he doesn’t mind the way she kills everything he’s brought to life.
Overhead the leaves are still falling around them like a rain shower, but beneath his hooves he can feel the blades of grass clawing their way up to catch them. He tilts his head back to watch them, and for a moment neither of them speak.
“Do you ever wonder why the seasons change?” he asks her, without looking at her. “Or why it can’t always be spring?”
And he wonders if the questions sounds more like flowers blooming or trees shaking their skeletal branches at her.
@thana
But he’s never thought of the way they make it impossible for him to hide, how anyone who knows what they’re looking at knows that he is never far from the trail of blossoms. Ipomoea has only ever run for the simple pleasure of running, never for his life, never out of desperation - so when they shiver and tell him that something, that someone is coming, he does not fear them. Or stop to wonder why she’s here, or how she’s found him, or whether she’s come looking for him. Even if a selfish part of him hopes that she’s run all the same paths in the tangled forest that he has, that she’s returned to that golden, trembling sapling and hoped to find him there.
Because he has. He’s done all those things and more, since she left him standing there in the broken sunlight.
Despite the flowers’ warning, he does not flinch at all when she comes up beside him, and whispers his name against his shoulder.
A part of him wonders if her touch will be withering, if the petals on his brow will finally wilt and tumble as dead things to the ground. But they don’t, and the only change is the way his heart speeds up. He isn’t sure if it does so because it’s resisting death, or trying to catch her - he doesn’t ask it why it skips a beat.
“Thana.” He says her name like he was expecting her, like her name tastes more like life than it does like death. Like he doesn’t mind the way she kills everything he’s brought to life.
Overhead the leaves are still falling around them like a rain shower, but beneath his hooves he can feel the blades of grass clawing their way up to catch them. He tilts his head back to watch them, and for a moment neither of them speak.
“Do you ever wonder why the seasons change?” he asks her, without looking at her. “Or why it can’t always be spring?”
And he wonders if the questions sounds more like flowers blooming or trees shaking their skeletal branches at her.
@thana
