even after they have been stepped on
The citadel had always been the center of Delumine life. It had surprised him, once, too, when he was just a boy still, and had only Solterra to compare it to. As they walk through the sunlight-dappled halls side by side, and he looks around at the heart-shaped ivy reaching up the walls, and listens to the laughter of a fountain somewhere beyond the window - he feels something like that boy again, staring in awe at another world. He had never known so many shades of green existed, before Delumine.
He does not need to wonder if Orestes is comparing the two courts now in the same way he had. It’s written across the sovereign’s face, across his body, in his eyes. Ipomoea almost smiles to himself - almost - imagining the sense of wonder he had felt then as if he were feeling it for the first time once more. He hopes Orestes can feel it, beneath the envy, beneath the resentment; he hopes he can understand why an orphan who had never known love might fall into the embrace of the wildflowers who did not judge him.
He shifts his eyes slowly to the Solterran kings, watching his profile with interest, searching the lines of his face for a hint of admiration, or awe, or warmth. But he is not sure he recognizes the look in Orestes’ gaze, and he is not sure he likes what he sees.
“Some do,” he says, equally conversationally. “But there is no code for them to live or swear by. We invite anyone with a thirst for knowledge to browse the archives, and they take up the title by their own choosing.” He doesn’t mention the exceptions, the black sheep of Delumine’s history that had garnered their followings by darker means. As always, a few rotten grapes could sour the whole wine.
Ipomoea thinks it would not take much to sour Orestes’ opinion of the Dawn Court.
Further, he is not sure why he cares so much about the foreign king’s view on his home.
When the Solterran king pauses, he follows his gaze across the Courtyard. He has to hide a smile, when his lion is only a moment too late to catch the squirrels; but he supposes Ariel had not had much squirrel-hunting practice in the desert. Lizards, maybe, or teryrs. Ipomoea is still looking across the courtyard, listening to the sound of a nearby fountain play like music, when Orestes begins to speak again.
And again he thinks he must choose his words carefully with this one.
“We both have given our lives to our Courts,” he says at last, without turning to look at him. “If I had been asked all those years ago to be the Sovereign, instead of the Emissary - I would have failed.”
Oh Sun King, did your crown feel as heavy as the King of Flowers’?
What he does not say is: not all of us can step from the sea and become someone new. He does not tell the foreign king that while the throne was handed to Orestes, Ipomoea had had to prepare nearly his entire life for the same right. And he does not tell Orestes that sometimes, he wonders what would have become of him had he sought a different throne, Solterra’s throne-
“It is a hard mantle you’ve taken up, the King who would fix his Court.” I know, I know, oh how I know…
Orestes’ eyes on him feel like twin stars, burning him alive.
He shifts uneasily, and still does not meet his gaze.
His heart beats like an unsure thing; he has to fold his wings tightly about his ankles so they do not follow suit. And he counts the seconds, the breaths, the pages a nearby student turns in his textbook in the time it takes Orestes to answer-
“Maybe next time,” he says, turning his red eyes on the king. The irony is not lost on him.
"Speaking."
