let’s be wildflowers
He watches the way Andras stretches his wing out, filling the room with all those black feathers, skimming them over the covers of that stack of books. Almost as if he’s hiding them. But Ipomoea can’t think of a reason why. His brow creases for a heartbeat as he watches, fast enough that it might never have happened.
“Depending on what you’re looking for,” he agreed. The silence continues.
It suddenly occurs to Ipomoea how very much like a game this feels, as the two men stand across the room from each other. He is watching Andras even as Andras is watching him, each of them trying to gauge the other’s reaction, each of them (seemingly) failing.
Ipomoea smiles, in spite of himself. He can’t help it. It’s a nervous smile, one that says I’m sorry without even knowing what it’s supposed to be apologizing for.
”You don’t have to go,” Andras says.
Ipomoea sighs with relief.
“Sounds like a good time to take a break then,” he says amicably, breezing past their previous silence as if it had never happened. “Reading gets progressively harder when the words seem to be swimming off of the page.”
He goes to the nearest bookshelf, glancing over each of the gilded covers. So many books - so many scholars who had devoted their entire lives to a single study. Ipomoea shakes his head, turning away from them. He doubted he would ever have the patience, let alone the scope, to write a book.
“Some sort of answer,” he murmurs in response, as he moves on to the next bookshelf. He steps carefully around Andras’ table. “But I have too many questions I need answers for. Sometimes I wish they could be a “one size fits all” sort of deal.”
He pauses, skimming his telekinesis over the book titles again. He picks one up, letting it fall open in his grasp. The pages flow like water before they settle. In the winter of year 203, the Dawn Court experienced one especially devastating blizzard that would come to be known as the- He lets the book fall shut again, replacing it a little too quickly on the shelf.
“Sometimes I wonder how all these writers managed to focus so thoroughly on a single subject. Imagine studying the same thing for all your life, never caring about anything else…” his voice trails off. Ipomoea glances back at the dark pegasus.
A wan smile spreads across his lips.
“Perhaps I’m doing them a disservice. Perhaps the study of-“ he rereads the book title, “'Prominent Weather Events of the Third Century,' is a more interesting subject than I give them credit for.”
Maybe.
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