His footsteps sound hollow as he walks atop the wall, a drumbeat melody to keep him company. His heart feels like it’s beating along in time, his thoughts an ever-winding chorus to a song he plays with his entire body. And just below the walls, the wind whispers a soft shush, shush, shush through the grasses, and the trees tap their branches against one another in kind, and the first blackbirds and robins herald in the new day.
It is the only song he knows, this song of the earth and of the morning.
And when the first bits of morning sunlight fall across his skin, he could swear his flesh knows it just as well.
The morning arrives with a song of its own, singing a thousand colors to life across the horizon. They seem endless here atop the wall, a river of light bleeding into the bruise blue that stretches to the other end of the sky. Ipomoea imagines poetry in the way the sunlight embraces the clouds, the tree line, the twisted spires that reach hungrily up to receive it. (And somewhere, down below the wall, down in the citadel, the first early-risen citizens lift their heads to the sun in kind.)
The dawn lines his skin as he walks, warming him gently; it makes it easy to forget the sharp edge of the wind, and the frost that still glistens in the corners of the stained glass windows. It is always like this for him, the worries of the night slipping away with the first signs of light brightening the horizon. No matter how many new worries the new day might bring, for this one moment, Ipomoea could let them slip away.
It’s a quiet morning, just him and the sunrise and his thoughts. Ipomoea is not sure for how long he walks before he hears another approaching, a set of hoofbeats echoing his own. He never breaks his stride; he only continues down the walkway lining the top of the wall, until the man suddenly comes into view around a corner.
His scarf is shining brightly in the dim-morning light, like a beacon in its own right. It is the first thing Ipomoea notices, the way it stands out brilliantly against his pale skin; but then he is taking a careful step backwards, away from the antlers, away from the man’s space - and only then does he notice the rest of him.
“Good morning,” his words break the silence between them, the first thing that comes to mind to say; and Ipomoea wonders why his voice never sounded like the song of the morning. It always seemed out of place, off tune; like he spoke one beat faster than the earth (he supposes people in general tended to move faster than nature; rarely slowing or stopping to listen to the worries of the roots they tread over. It was not a legacy he took pride in being a part of.)
Some days, he wants nothing more than to be able to sing the same song the earth does, if only to forget for a moment that he is something more than a man.
But he’s not sure he knows the words to it.
“I’m not used to seeing others up here,” he confesses.
It is the only song he knows, this song of the earth and of the morning.
And when the first bits of morning sunlight fall across his skin, he could swear his flesh knows it just as well.
The morning arrives with a song of its own, singing a thousand colors to life across the horizon. They seem endless here atop the wall, a river of light bleeding into the bruise blue that stretches to the other end of the sky. Ipomoea imagines poetry in the way the sunlight embraces the clouds, the tree line, the twisted spires that reach hungrily up to receive it. (And somewhere, down below the wall, down in the citadel, the first early-risen citizens lift their heads to the sun in kind.)
The dawn lines his skin as he walks, warming him gently; it makes it easy to forget the sharp edge of the wind, and the frost that still glistens in the corners of the stained glass windows. It is always like this for him, the worries of the night slipping away with the first signs of light brightening the horizon. No matter how many new worries the new day might bring, for this one moment, Ipomoea could let them slip away.
It’s a quiet morning, just him and the sunrise and his thoughts. Ipomoea is not sure for how long he walks before he hears another approaching, a set of hoofbeats echoing his own. He never breaks his stride; he only continues down the walkway lining the top of the wall, until the man suddenly comes into view around a corner.
His scarf is shining brightly in the dim-morning light, like a beacon in its own right. It is the first thing Ipomoea notices, the way it stands out brilliantly against his pale skin; but then he is taking a careful step backwards, away from the antlers, away from the man’s space - and only then does he notice the rest of him.
“Good morning,” his words break the silence between them, the first thing that comes to mind to say; and Ipomoea wonders why his voice never sounded like the song of the morning. It always seemed out of place, off tune; like he spoke one beat faster than the earth (he supposes people in general tended to move faster than nature; rarely slowing or stopping to listen to the worries of the roots they tread over. It was not a legacy he took pride in being a part of.)
Some days, he wants nothing more than to be able to sing the same song the earth does, if only to forget for a moment that he is something more than a man.
But he’s not sure he knows the words to it.
“I’m not used to seeing others up here,” he confesses.
@aeranas !
”here am i!“
