Ipomoea
I hope you are blessed
with a heart like a wildflower.
Strong enough to rise again
after being trampled upon,
tough enough to weather
the worst of summer storms,
and to be able to grow and flourish
even in the most broken places.
with a heart like a wildflower.
Strong enough to rise again
after being trampled upon,
tough enough to weather
the worst of summer storms,
and to be able to grow and flourish
even in the most broken places.
He watches the sun as it breaks over the edge of the sea, turning the waters around it to gold. It reminds him of a story he had heard as a child - a story of a man whose touch transformed all he loved to gold. He had died the wealthiest man in the world, but also the loneliest.
Ipomoea wonders now if the sun ever becomes lonely.
He can hardly remember the last time he visited Terrastella; the waves sound like they’re chanting to him, too long, too long, too long. He remembers chasing after an eagle with a queen spun from sunlight - or had that been in Delumine, too? - and a blue bird following in his shadow. But both of them were gone now. He remembers a king made of starlight and a boy with skin as black as night and eyes the color as stars, but they, too, were gone. It seemed everyone he once knew here was gone.
Below him the waves are a hungry thing, dashing themselves against the cliffs as though the sun were not enough to satisfy them. They reach with fingers of foam up and up to kiss his face, until saltwater tears stain his cheeks and brine froths against his skin. He feels almost a part of the ocean, standing there on the cliffs; like the sea would welcome him if he were to fall into its depths. His mane already feels like seaweed, hanging in ropes down his neck.
Only the flowers pressing themselves against his ankles still remind him that his place is on the land, not in the sea. That there is more waiting for him than the darkness of the deep, and waves crashing over his head. But still he looks out across the water, watching the waves swell and rise and crumble and fall - and maybe a part of him is hoping to find something hidden there in the currents. Perhaps a part of him is still searching for lost things, if only to convince himself that he is not one of them.
He tears his eyes from the horizon just long enough to unfold a worn letter The words are blurred together now, water-stained and crumpled. But he reads it over one more time, his heart aching at the familiar handwriting. My dear boy… even reading it takes him back to a time Arhen had called him that in person, teaching him to read over a table of potions and scrolls. It has been so long, and the last thing I wish is to burden you -
By the time he makes it to the end, his wings are trembling. Ipomoea closes his eyes against the waves, against the dusk, and with one quick movement, tears the letter in half. He rips it again, and again, and again, until a dozen bits of paper are spinning down the cliffside to meet the ocean.
He watches them go, twirling around and around each other in their race to the water, and wonders if Terrastella has forgotten him the way he had forgotten it.
@
This turned out a lot more sad than I planned oop.
“speech”
