There is a moment, in between his words and the stranger’s, that he hears only the wind whispering through the plains-grass and the flowers murmuring a greeting back to him.
He watches as they lift their heads towards them, petals unfurling as if in greeting. Somewhere nearby he can hear animals rustling through the grass, and the cries from a flock of blackbirds passing by overhead; there’s peace in it, in the muted sounds of the earth. And it makes him forget, if only for a second, that they are not a part of it: that they were not the same as the dreaming bison or the wandering coyotes. He almost forgets the way the mountain plovers scold him when he wanders too close or how the cottontails froze when they saw him coming, the way their eyes watch him remind him that he does not belong.
He feels like the earth for half a heartbeat, like the root-tangled soil under his hooves.
But when the other stallion raises his voice in response, it reminds him.
An almost-smile hides itself at the corners of his lips as he listens, light-quick and amused. A part of him is thankful that he might look ordinary enough to be mistaken as only a passing stranger - Ipomoea has never liked starting conversations with titles (with aren’t you the king?). It makes him feel something like a thief, stealing away knowledge from an unsuspecting passerby - and yet, it feels better than ruining the casual greeting because of a separation of class.
He would rather people get to know him as Po before they know him as the king (and besides, was he truly a king here, in no-mans-land?)
“No,” the word comes out like a sigh, as paper-thin as the bark on his birch trees. “No. I am only out for a stroll, as you say.” He doesn’t tell him it was the desert that had called to him, and not the grass; or that he longed for the comfort of the forest canopy as much as he ached for the endless sky above the Mors. Today was not the day for confessions, not when the prairie whispered peace in every shush, shush, shushing of the wind.
He follows the stranger’s gaze when he turns it to the plains, watching as the grass ripples like a wave against a shoreline. It almost makes him feel wrong to long for Solterra and its heat and the scratching of its sand; Eluetheria had always been more welcoming a place. Here his magic did not have to claw its way through cactus and yuca, was not choked by the endless weight of the sand piling on top of him; here, surely, was where he should be at rest.
And yet, he has to consciously force himself to relax. It does not come easy here, not today.
“Would you care to walk with me?” he asks, turning back to the stallion. This time, he doesn’t try to hide the smile from him, letting it spread across his features in invitation. “I always find walking is better with company.”
He is already stepping forward into the openness of the prairie, feeling the grasses and the flowers patting gently against his sides when he stops, and regards the stranger from over one shoulder. “I’m Po,” he adds like an afterthought, as he takes another step forward and only the swish of his tail indicates the other should follow..
He watches as they lift their heads towards them, petals unfurling as if in greeting. Somewhere nearby he can hear animals rustling through the grass, and the cries from a flock of blackbirds passing by overhead; there’s peace in it, in the muted sounds of the earth. And it makes him forget, if only for a second, that they are not a part of it: that they were not the same as the dreaming bison or the wandering coyotes. He almost forgets the way the mountain plovers scold him when he wanders too close or how the cottontails froze when they saw him coming, the way their eyes watch him remind him that he does not belong.
He feels like the earth for half a heartbeat, like the root-tangled soil under his hooves.
But when the other stallion raises his voice in response, it reminds him.
An almost-smile hides itself at the corners of his lips as he listens, light-quick and amused. A part of him is thankful that he might look ordinary enough to be mistaken as only a passing stranger - Ipomoea has never liked starting conversations with titles (with aren’t you the king?). It makes him feel something like a thief, stealing away knowledge from an unsuspecting passerby - and yet, it feels better than ruining the casual greeting because of a separation of class.
He would rather people get to know him as Po before they know him as the king (and besides, was he truly a king here, in no-mans-land?)
“No,” the word comes out like a sigh, as paper-thin as the bark on his birch trees. “No. I am only out for a stroll, as you say.” He doesn’t tell him it was the desert that had called to him, and not the grass; or that he longed for the comfort of the forest canopy as much as he ached for the endless sky above the Mors. Today was not the day for confessions, not when the prairie whispered peace in every shush, shush, shushing of the wind.
He follows the stranger’s gaze when he turns it to the plains, watching as the grass ripples like a wave against a shoreline. It almost makes him feel wrong to long for Solterra and its heat and the scratching of its sand; Eluetheria had always been more welcoming a place. Here his magic did not have to claw its way through cactus and yuca, was not choked by the endless weight of the sand piling on top of him; here, surely, was where he should be at rest.
And yet, he has to consciously force himself to relax. It does not come easy here, not today.
“Would you care to walk with me?” he asks, turning back to the stallion. This time, he doesn’t try to hide the smile from him, letting it spread across his features in invitation. “I always find walking is better with company.”
He is already stepping forward into the openness of the prairie, feeling the grasses and the flowers patting gently against his sides when he stops, and regards the stranger from over one shoulder. “I’m Po,” he adds like an afterthought, as he takes another step forward and only the swish of his tail indicates the other should follow..
@"avallac'h" !
”here am i!“
