He watches for a while, as the musicians play their flutes and the fireflies settle against their skin. He watches from the shadows of the forest, because he has almost forgotten how to separate himself from them.
The forest leans in all around him, pressing branches and flowers and leaves against his skin like it would like nothing more than to turn him into one of them. He almost wishes they would - his heart already beats in time to the murmurs of the sap deep buried deep in the trunk, his roots are already sunk as deep as the roots of the trees. Ipomoea does not know anymore how to be anything but a vessel: for anger, for magic, for change.
So when the first few fireflies drift towards the grove of trees he watches from, and brush their wings against his skin like a dozen freshly-made promises, a part of him wants to shy away.
He wants to turn his head from them and duck back beneath the trees, to forget that things like magic and wonder and hope still exist. He wants to pretend he’s still hunting, still searching for a purpose that goes beyond creating flowers just to make something beautiful. He knows of course that there would be no point of fighting if it were not for hope - the same way he knows he has fought for so long now, it almost doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
His heart starts to beat dully, echoing in all that empty space inside of his chest.
The notes of the music start to rise, and the fireflies begin to drift away.
And he begins to drift away with them.
His heart starts to feel something like a song, rising and falling with the music. And his legs start to move in time with it, alternating slow and fast, weaving and flowing with the sounds of the flute to guide them. Ipomoea can hear his blood rushing in his ears, but above that, beyond that, he can hear the river. Each step brings him closer, brings more fireflies settling upon his skins, brings that sliver of peace he still clutches somewhere in the deepest parts of himself closer to the surface. And as he starts to dance, he starts to feel something like a king again, pressed in close beside his people.
It is only when the sweat starts to darken his skin and two dozen fireflies rest upon his crown that he sees her. He recognizes her at once, even with the fireflies floating between them and demanding any attention he has to spare. Her dappled tones are framed softly with the gold of the lights and the blue of the river, but it is her.
“Corrdelia!” he calls out to her, and is already stepping through the small gathered crowd towards her. And as he tips his head back and laughs, if only for the simple pleasure of being alive and well despite the shadows that linger still all around them, he can almost excuse the way Hasta slumps on her shoulder.
The forest leans in all around him, pressing branches and flowers and leaves against his skin like it would like nothing more than to turn him into one of them. He almost wishes they would - his heart already beats in time to the murmurs of the sap deep buried deep in the trunk, his roots are already sunk as deep as the roots of the trees. Ipomoea does not know anymore how to be anything but a vessel: for anger, for magic, for change.
So when the first few fireflies drift towards the grove of trees he watches from, and brush their wings against his skin like a dozen freshly-made promises, a part of him wants to shy away.
He wants to turn his head from them and duck back beneath the trees, to forget that things like magic and wonder and hope still exist. He wants to pretend he’s still hunting, still searching for a purpose that goes beyond creating flowers just to make something beautiful. He knows of course that there would be no point of fighting if it were not for hope - the same way he knows he has fought for so long now, it almost doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
His heart starts to beat dully, echoing in all that empty space inside of his chest.
The notes of the music start to rise, and the fireflies begin to drift away.
And he begins to drift away with them.
His heart starts to feel something like a song, rising and falling with the music. And his legs start to move in time with it, alternating slow and fast, weaving and flowing with the sounds of the flute to guide them. Ipomoea can hear his blood rushing in his ears, but above that, beyond that, he can hear the river. Each step brings him closer, brings more fireflies settling upon his skins, brings that sliver of peace he still clutches somewhere in the deepest parts of himself closer to the surface. And as he starts to dance, he starts to feel something like a king again, pressed in close beside his people.
It is only when the sweat starts to darken his skin and two dozen fireflies rest upon his crown that he sees her. He recognizes her at once, even with the fireflies floating between them and demanding any attention he has to spare. Her dappled tones are framed softly with the gold of the lights and the blue of the river, but it is her.
“Corrdelia!” he calls out to her, and is already stepping through the small gathered crowd towards her. And as he tips his head back and laughs, if only for the simple pleasure of being alive and well despite the shadows that linger still all around them, he can almost excuse the way Hasta slumps on her shoulder.
@corrdelia ! notes
”here am i!“
