in the garden
i will die
i will die
I
pomoea watches from a window as the Davke woman arrives, the red and gold of her garb setting her apart from the other visitors. The citadel, as always, was open; and she breezes through the open gates like a summer wind, the ends of her scarves flowing, every bead and bone clattering, each step heralding her presence. In a sea of bodies she alone shines, she alone demands attention - stalking through the courtyard like a lioness in the midst of her prey. Even from a distance, he knows what she is, if not who - he sees them still in his dreams, the desert people. He knows the smell of the desert still clinging to her skin, and the bones hanging like tassels from her shawl. It all comes rushing back to him now, feeling once again like a child abandoned in the desert.
A part of him is thankful that he does not recognize her beyond her heritage, that her’s is not one of the faces he begged to come back for him.
But the rest of him is struggling to grow roots through deep sand, and thinks only that the rattling of her arrival reminds him of skeleton branches.
So he waits to rise until she disappears in the halls of the castle, struggling to keep down the questions rising steadily in him. Another Davke out of the desert; there was a warning bell ringing in his mind, a seed of worry knitting itself in his gut. The tribe was not known for their sightseeing or wanderlust, least of all to Delumine. A boy he passes in the hallway tells him where to look for the woman, and Ipomoea changes direction accordingly. It was only natural she find herself in the sunroom, he supposed - but still he wonders if it’s enough for her. The sun in Delumine was never as warm as the sun in Solterra.
He finds her standing there in the center of the room, looking at odds against the trailing leaves and planes of glass that made up the solarium. His eyes passed over the room in the same pattern her’s make, and he does not have to ask what she’s thinking. He sees it too. Delumine was nothing like her home. This room was nothing like the rooms she knew. It was almost a greenhouse, what with all the draped vines and flowers overfilling each planter, and Ipomoea picks up a watering can as he steps into the room.
"Suddenly I feel underdressed," he says conversationally, slipping into a smile. He moves further into the room, wrapping his wings tightly about his legs to hide the nervous way they flutter. A nearby plant reaches for him, and he leans gratefully towards it, tipping the spout into its pot.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady..?"
@avdotya "speaks" <3
