you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
Back and forth he tracks, and for a while it makes him feel more like a bloodhound and less like a horse. It’s easy enough to lose himself here, to slip into a different persona like he had never been anyone else. He tells himself it’s because of the trees, and the quiet, and knotted birch eyes that stare at him as he passes. And he can pretend it’s only another game of make believe he’s playing, and not the real thing - because to believe that he could be a hunter, that he could enjoy a world where the flowers did not reach out to embrace him for fear of getting blood on their petals, would be to accept that a part of him had died.
There’s a cardinal calling to him, a flash of red wings overhead against the grey sky in the grey forest; and for just a moment, it sounds like they’re calling to him. He almost turns, moreso out of habit than anything else. The familiarity of it is painful, and the next time he sees those crimson feathers he almost mistakes them for something, someone blue.
So he refuses to look at it. It’s easier to watch the ground instead of the sky.
He doesn’t realize how accustomed he’s become to his magic, until now that it has forsaken him. Ipomoea has never had to watch his surroundings so closely before, there had been no need; the grass, the flowers, the trees had been his eyes, had told him when he wasn’t alone, had led him when he needed a path. Now, the only warning he gets is the voice calling out from the silence, and the steady hoofbeats of another cantering towards him.
Ipomoea is already looking at the trap; his warning falls on half-deaf ears. He steps forward, his jaw tightening until the frown he wears begins to ache. The sound of his blood rushing fills the silence; and he wonders, distantly, if the other stallion can hear it, or if he can only hear the sound of his own heart thumping too quickly for comfort in his chest.
Slowly, he tears his eyes away from the snare, away from the bit of wire silver against the dead and browned leaves, and looks at the stallion. Grey, he thinks to himself, grey like winter skies.
“Good eye,” his voice is caught between a stutter and a whisper, like his heart is suffocating him as much as it’s coaxing him onward. ”They’re not that easy to see from a distance."
He cranes his neck down to inspect it, digging away the sparse cover of leaves that half-cover the trap. ”I don’t suppose you know the best way to disarm this thing? Without ending up with me strung up between the trees?” he flashes a stiff smile back at the stranger, his eyes lingering only a moment too long over his face.
@sarkan <3
There’s a cardinal calling to him, a flash of red wings overhead against the grey sky in the grey forest; and for just a moment, it sounds like they’re calling to him. He almost turns, moreso out of habit than anything else. The familiarity of it is painful, and the next time he sees those crimson feathers he almost mistakes them for something, someone blue.
So he refuses to look at it. It’s easier to watch the ground instead of the sky.
He doesn’t realize how accustomed he’s become to his magic, until now that it has forsaken him. Ipomoea has never had to watch his surroundings so closely before, there had been no need; the grass, the flowers, the trees had been his eyes, had told him when he wasn’t alone, had led him when he needed a path. Now, the only warning he gets is the voice calling out from the silence, and the steady hoofbeats of another cantering towards him.
Ipomoea is already looking at the trap; his warning falls on half-deaf ears. He steps forward, his jaw tightening until the frown he wears begins to ache. The sound of his blood rushing fills the silence; and he wonders, distantly, if the other stallion can hear it, or if he can only hear the sound of his own heart thumping too quickly for comfort in his chest.
Slowly, he tears his eyes away from the snare, away from the bit of wire silver against the dead and browned leaves, and looks at the stallion. Grey, he thinks to himself, grey like winter skies.
“Good eye,” his voice is caught between a stutter and a whisper, like his heart is suffocating him as much as it’s coaxing him onward. ”They’re not that easy to see from a distance."
He cranes his neck down to inspect it, digging away the sparse cover of leaves that half-cover the trap. ”I don’t suppose you know the best way to disarm this thing? Without ending up with me strung up between the trees?” he flashes a stiff smile back at the stranger, his eyes lingering only a moment too long over his face.
@sarkan <3
