even after they have been stepped on
Her eyes are the first thing he notices about her (then the warm gold of her skin, like the sun; then the bundles of flowers she carries with her, of every shape and color.) But he notices her eyes first, because hey are blue — blue like the sky, blue like the waters swelling in the Rapax, blue like wood aster and the pennywort decorating his brow. And not only are they blue, but —
But they are smiling.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since Ipomoea has last seen eyes that can smile on their own. And it is only now that he realizes how much he has missed it.
His own smile is shy and slow, bubbling gently like rainwater sliding off of a boulder (and it is nothing compared to the boldness of the river.) But still he smiles, and as he bows his head he plucks from his crown a flower, several flowers — gods knew he had enough to spare — and braids their stems together into a miniature bouquet that he offers to her. The blue flowers seem to dance, lifting their petals towards her.
For your smile, he wants to say, but instead he only says, “Will these do? The aster and hepatica have their own healing properties, according to the medical books I’ve read — but they suit a bouquet just as well.” He doesn’t ask her what she needs them for, or for who, or for what she wants to heal.
Ipomoea has never needed a reason to share flowers with a stranger. The act alone has always been reason enough for him.
His heart has settled into an almost-gentle rhythm again by the time he offers them to her, despite the way Rhoeas lurks nearby in the grasses. The stag watches them both carefully, bones rattling so softly they sound nothing more then branches tapping against their trunks. His mind brushes against Ipomoea’s, primordial and vigilant. He flicks an ear in his bonded’s direction.
“I’m Po,” he says, lifting his eyes back to her’s. But what he doesn’t say is, and I’m the king.
Some days, being a king does not feel like such an important thing to be. Especially when his crown feels more stolen than earned.
“Terrastella, you said?” His heart does a little leap at the mention. “How are things in the Dusk Court? It seems like ages since I last visited.”
But he cannot remember Terrastella without remembering the little blue bird he had nursed back to health once upon a time. And he cannot remember Odet without feeling like he was turning to stone bit by bit, starting with his slowly-beating heart.
@
"Speaking."
