you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Here on the island, where all the colors bleed into each other and are at once terribly bright and wonderful and so, so wrong - he feels like something more.
More than just a horse, or a man, or a king with now-rotting flowers strewn through his hair. He is a part of the colors here, a part of the magic bubbling from the violet rivers. And as he listens to the sound of the waterfalls crashing violently all around them, and as the beating of his heart settles in a rhythm to match, he starts to think that maybe he has found another home. That maybe he has found a place for the part of him that was held together by threads of magic and flower roots to feel like the wild thing he had never allowed himself to become.
The flower keeps on dying, and a part of Ipomoea is dying alongside it.
But he doesn’t feel the revulsion that he expects to feel. Maybe it only feels like magic, or like a new beginning knowing the seeds falling like rain would take root again. Or maybe all of his disturbance had already been consumed by the desert, scrubbed clean by the sand like it was trying to remake him into the thing he should have been from birth, the thing he fears becoming the most.
There’s a warning sound in the back of his mind, a nerve twinging in his neck as he leans in closer, like he ought to know better than to look for death’s secrets in the petals of a lily. Was it a sign then, that he ignored it just to know what a rotting flower smelled like? When they had only ever thrived at his touch, could he be blamed for his curiosity? He didn’t want to know the answer.
Ipomoea doesn’t have to look up to know it’s her. He knows the sound of her, the two-quick steps that always sound like she’s looking for something, like she can’t wait to catch up to it. Today he let himself believe the urgency of her search was reserved only for him.
He breathes in and the wind tastes like waiting, and longing, and a thousand things he didn’t know he wanted.
He can't decide if he wants to turn and run from the sight of her, or if he wants to press in closer and beg her to trail the pollen down to his heart. He wants to tear those leaves and petals and pollen from her hair and watch them turn to the black things they ought to be almost as badly as he wants to paint more of their colors across her skin.
“There are flowers growing at your heels,” he whispers, if only to save himself from having to decide; but he can’t help but wonder if the words sound just as hollow and envious as he feels. He never has been able to hide his emotions. “- The island loves you.”
But what he doesn’t need to say is, And I think it hates me. Why else would it drape her in flowers, when spring had always been his pride to wear?
@thana
More than just a horse, or a man, or a king with now-rotting flowers strewn through his hair. He is a part of the colors here, a part of the magic bubbling from the violet rivers. And as he listens to the sound of the waterfalls crashing violently all around them, and as the beating of his heart settles in a rhythm to match, he starts to think that maybe he has found another home. That maybe he has found a place for the part of him that was held together by threads of magic and flower roots to feel like the wild thing he had never allowed himself to become.
The flower keeps on dying, and a part of Ipomoea is dying alongside it.
But he doesn’t feel the revulsion that he expects to feel. Maybe it only feels like magic, or like a new beginning knowing the seeds falling like rain would take root again. Or maybe all of his disturbance had already been consumed by the desert, scrubbed clean by the sand like it was trying to remake him into the thing he should have been from birth, the thing he fears becoming the most.
There’s a warning sound in the back of his mind, a nerve twinging in his neck as he leans in closer, like he ought to know better than to look for death’s secrets in the petals of a lily. Was it a sign then, that he ignored it just to know what a rotting flower smelled like? When they had only ever thrived at his touch, could he be blamed for his curiosity? He didn’t want to know the answer.
Ipomoea doesn’t have to look up to know it’s her. He knows the sound of her, the two-quick steps that always sound like she’s looking for something, like she can’t wait to catch up to it. Today he let himself believe the urgency of her search was reserved only for him.
He breathes in and the wind tastes like waiting, and longing, and a thousand things he didn’t know he wanted.
He can't decide if he wants to turn and run from the sight of her, or if he wants to press in closer and beg her to trail the pollen down to his heart. He wants to tear those leaves and petals and pollen from her hair and watch them turn to the black things they ought to be almost as badly as he wants to paint more of their colors across her skin.
“There are flowers growing at your heels,” he whispers, if only to save himself from having to decide; but he can’t help but wonder if the words sound just as hollow and envious as he feels. He never has been able to hide his emotions. “- The island loves you.”
But what he doesn’t need to say is, And I think it hates me. Why else would it drape her in flowers, when spring had always been his pride to wear?
@thana
