you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
If feels as if he’s moving through a dream, half-aware of his surroundings, half-feeling the forest soil crunching like broken bones beneath his hooves. No matter how many times he shifts his glance back and forth over the same stretch of trees, he doesn’t see them, not truly; the paper-white trunks all blend together, and as obvious as he hopes the scars would be, they aren’t.
The forest had never seemed so empty as it did today, with frost limning the trees and clouds turning the sky an endless shade of grey so deep and so perverse it made the air itself taste melancholic.
He knows he should hate it.
Maybe there was still a part of him that did, an Ipomoea whose skin was crawling and whose wings were trembling and whose entire being revolted against being here alone, whose every instinct begged him to turn and return to the flowery, sunlit safety of the court. He liked to think there was - that he had not yet changed so irrevocably so as to not recognize himself in the mirror. Some days, when he looked around and saw little more than blood and blood-stained papers (and realized, with a shock, that he didn’t mind seeing so much red), he clung to that thought as a way of clinging to his own sense of self. But if that part of him lived still, it was hiding deep enough for him to not feel like he was anything more than another dark thing walking in the forest.
And when the rest of the forest had gone quiet, afraid to speak his name or reach for his shoulder, there was nothing else left to remind him to be something different.
So he wanders half a ghost through the same few acres, trekking his way back and forth, back and forth like he thinks moving his path three paces to the left each time will make a difference.
Even so, he almost walks right past the trap waiting half buried in the leaves.
@sarkan
these will get better
The forest had never seemed so empty as it did today, with frost limning the trees and clouds turning the sky an endless shade of grey so deep and so perverse it made the air itself taste melancholic.
He knows he should hate it.
Maybe there was still a part of him that did, an Ipomoea whose skin was crawling and whose wings were trembling and whose entire being revolted against being here alone, whose every instinct begged him to turn and return to the flowery, sunlit safety of the court. He liked to think there was - that he had not yet changed so irrevocably so as to not recognize himself in the mirror. Some days, when he looked around and saw little more than blood and blood-stained papers (and realized, with a shock, that he didn’t mind seeing so much red), he clung to that thought as a way of clinging to his own sense of self. But if that part of him lived still, it was hiding deep enough for him to not feel like he was anything more than another dark thing walking in the forest.
And when the rest of the forest had gone quiet, afraid to speak his name or reach for his shoulder, there was nothing else left to remind him to be something different.
So he wanders half a ghost through the same few acres, trekking his way back and forth, back and forth like he thinks moving his path three paces to the left each time will make a difference.
Even so, he almost walks right past the trap waiting half buried in the leaves.
@sarkan
these will get better
