even after they have been stepped on
Even while he is telling her to look away, he cannot manage to do so himself. He stares at what remains of the crow and tries - but fails - to not think of what remains of his own bonded. Eyes that will never open again. Wings that will never rise. A heart that will never beat.
Sometimes, he wishes that it had been his own heart that Raum had turned to stone. Perhaps it would have been easier that way, maybe then he would have been able to stalk the woods and hang a killer without asking all the terrible what if’s, without feeling like his chest might burst from all the aching and the wondering.
But Ipomoea has learned that monsters, no matter how terrible, could be killed just as easily as any others. And he has learned that waiting for others to kill them only makes the suffering worse.
So he looks at the crow, at its feathers and blood and bits of bone, and marks it down as one more tally against the monster’s soul.
“You can stay as long as he likes,” he tells her, pulling away. “I hope Dawn gives you more peace than pain.” The aching returns to his heart, as he faces the woods again. He can feel the trees trembling, can hear their branches trembling above them - winter was here, and it had brought war with it. His magic, his once-beautiful, blossoming magic, turns black and hard from it, thorns wrapped around it.
As with all things in life, disuse had turned his softness weak with disuse. And yet -
Before he leaves, Ipomoea has one last gift. He whispers to the dead and brown grasses, to the roots lingering in the frozen soil, to the seeds hibernating in the cold. His magic, the parts of it that have not yet grown thorns, reach out and brush the dust from their faces, and coaxes them to rise, to thrive, to live. They respond eagerly, and the snow begins to melt away as around Hāsta’s body, dozens of wildflowers begin to bloom.
“If you need me, you need only call and I will come,” he promises. And when he looks over his shoulder at her, he prays a silent prayer that she will not end up the same way as her bonded, as a nameless unicorn, as a thousand other bodies buried between the trees. But as he makes his way back through the forest, he knows it is his job now to make sure she doesn’t.
And so Ipomoea does not return to the capitol.
He hunts.
@corrdelia
