may the flowers remind us
why the rain was so necessary
why the rain was so necessary
Maybe there’s a part of him feeling like that downed stag, sinking into the grasses of the meadow. They rise up now like an ocean wave, rippling and shivering, ready to consume the deer, ready to consume him. As if, in that moment, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a creature bleeding blood, and one bleeding magic.
Maybe he’s stopped feeling, and started reacting only by instinct.
And so when Thana comes forward, there’s something in her gaze that makes the magic in him react even before she speaks. With every step she takes it pulses in his chest, flowing as freely from him like the blood trailing its way down the stag’s cheek. But it is not flowers, springing up from the earth around him like an offering of peace in the midst of a fight. Ipomoea doesn’t have time to wonder if he’s outgrown them.
The grass sprouting in the small meadow has an edge to it, like ten thousand slender green swords lifting at once. As each word falls from her lips the stalks closest to him begin to weave themselves together, knitting over the body of the deer like a mother tucking in her child to bed. There’s a protectiveness in it, in the way his magic knows even before she raises her horn what she plans, as if he latently knows not to expect anything more than death from her.
It is cruel to let it suffer. The deer is not strong enough to break through the confines of the grass-prison Ipomoea’s magic has wrought, and he knows she is right.
He knows, and still he does not, can not, accept it.
“No -“ She is not looking at him, but at the stag; and he is not looking at the stag now, but at her. And in that terrible second before her horn sinks into flesh, when the blade of it is cold against the stag’s soft skin, he is the one who feels suffocated, and threatened, and struggling to draw breath to survive. Maybe the deer knows it, and that is why his glassy eyes turn to look at him instead of the unicorn hovering over him. Ipomoea knows it’s a magic deeper than his own that is reaching out between them now - he knows it, because he has felt it before.
So as the first drops of blood appear, bright and red against the stag’s throat, he stands. And even while he feels like a dying thing, he still feels strong enough to put himself between Thana and the deer, feeling the heat of his skin against her’s as he presses into her, presses her away, begging with his body for her to let him - let them - live.
And the dagger-grass begins to wither and die, folding in around them like their life is being leeched out by his.
@thana
“here am i”
