and again and again and rise
There is a trail of blood leading into the forest, marked by the blood-red poppies growing alongside it.
With each heartbeat, each ruby tear that falls from his chest, the trail grows. They stand there shivering in his wake, silk-fine petals waving goodbye and he - he does not stop to wave back.
Ipomoea does not stop for them.
He only runs.
He runs until the forest does not look so red anymore and the trees do not whisper so loudly of death. And he runs until his heart stops trembling like something left dying on the forest floor and settles into a war-drum beat that makes his lungs ache at the sound of it. Only when the roar of the river becomes louder than the roar of his own blood, and the ground turns to sponge and moss, only then does he stop. His heart thumps loudly, madly, echoing off of his ribs like it thinks he should dive headfirst into the Rapax instead of stand like something meek and patient on her bank. The longer he is quiet, the larger the cluster of poppies grows around his hooves.
What is left of the sun dips down and bathes the forest in a shadow so deep, so profound, he can’t pick the monsters apart from the trees. And all he can see is the sliver of moonlight reflected back on the whitecaps, as the river churns like it doesn’t know how to be still, or quiet, or sleep in peace. Ipomoea has never understood it better than he does tonight.
He takes one step into the river, and he begins to feel like a wild thing. He takes another step, and knows one slip, one misstep, and the forest would do nothing but watch as he drifted away. The thought does not stop him from taking another step, and another, and another until he can almost forget what he had been running from, until he stops thinking of anything at all and starts to feel it instead.
His skin still trembles where the waves push against him, and all he is is roots being pulled apart. The weight of the forest is pressing in around him, all leaves and bones and hunger. His heart answers the call of it, beats to that same living-wood song, but a half-note faster. The spaces between the two grow wider, and the more he listens the more it begins to feel like a different song entirely.
Nothing in him feels whole, not until she steps into the river behind him and presses her paper-birch skin against his.
"What are you doing here?" The words taste sharp, from all the blood he’s tasting instead of his own voice. The horror, the darkness, the flickers of magic and rage and skeleton bones reaching for his throat. He closes his eyes and again sees red, poppies and life blood and passion.
It feels as holy as it does wrong, death reaching for life, and he reaching back despite himself. It feels wrong the way his heart skips a beat and quivers as violently as his spine, and still there is a part of him that loves it.
He has stopped feeling the forest and the violence. He only feels her.
With each heartbeat, each ruby tear that falls from his chest, the trail grows. They stand there shivering in his wake, silk-fine petals waving goodbye and he - he does not stop to wave back.
Ipomoea does not stop for them.
He only runs.
He runs until the forest does not look so red anymore and the trees do not whisper so loudly of death. And he runs until his heart stops trembling like something left dying on the forest floor and settles into a war-drum beat that makes his lungs ache at the sound of it. Only when the roar of the river becomes louder than the roar of his own blood, and the ground turns to sponge and moss, only then does he stop. His heart thumps loudly, madly, echoing off of his ribs like it thinks he should dive headfirst into the Rapax instead of stand like something meek and patient on her bank. The longer he is quiet, the larger the cluster of poppies grows around his hooves.
What is left of the sun dips down and bathes the forest in a shadow so deep, so profound, he can’t pick the monsters apart from the trees. And all he can see is the sliver of moonlight reflected back on the whitecaps, as the river churns like it doesn’t know how to be still, or quiet, or sleep in peace. Ipomoea has never understood it better than he does tonight.
He takes one step into the river, and he begins to feel like a wild thing. He takes another step, and knows one slip, one misstep, and the forest would do nothing but watch as he drifted away. The thought does not stop him from taking another step, and another, and another until he can almost forget what he had been running from, until he stops thinking of anything at all and starts to feel it instead.
His skin still trembles where the waves push against him, and all he is is roots being pulled apart. The weight of the forest is pressing in around him, all leaves and bones and hunger. His heart answers the call of it, beats to that same living-wood song, but a half-note faster. The spaces between the two grow wider, and the more he listens the more it begins to feel like a different song entirely.
Nothing in him feels whole, not until she steps into the river behind him and presses her paper-birch skin against his.
"What are you doing here?" The words taste sharp, from all the blood he’s tasting instead of his own voice. The horror, the darkness, the flickers of magic and rage and skeleton bones reaching for his throat. He closes his eyes and again sees red, poppies and life blood and passion.
It feels as holy as it does wrong, death reaching for life, and he reaching back despite himself. It feels wrong the way his heart skips a beat and quivers as violently as his spine, and still there is a part of him that loves it.
He has stopped feeling the forest and the violence. He only feels her.
@thana ! <3
”here am i!“
