in the garden
i will die
i will die
P
erhaps in another life — one in which he had stayed in Solterra, in which he might even still be a Davke — perhaps there was an Ipomoea who knew who the sun-gilded woman was, and the significance of her garb.Perhaps if he had grown up with a mother, or a father, or a brother who cared more for him than for tradition, a family to teach him about the heritage he knows nothing about. It is now, standing within the same room as she, that he realizes how little he knows of her — of their — people. Only that their roots grew as deep as any of the trees in Viride, and thrice as feral.
In some ways, believing his family was dead (as he had for so many years), was better than knowing he came from a pit of vipers.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says still, and wonders how the words can taste like so much sand in his mouth.
He watches her from overtop the crown of a creeping fig as she introduces herself (as if it could protect him, as if it could lessen the shiver her name sends down his spine.) Ipomoea supposes he should be grateful that his brother’s name is Ramses, and that he does not have a sister (that he knows of) named Avdotya. He supposes that should bring him some peace, and yet—
And yet as she cuts through the silence with her words, he wishes she would keep her voice down.
How many servants might pause to hear the word Davke thrown about so casually? It was one thing to find the king walking beside his bone-clad brother in the gardens, and another to find him privately greeting a — he was not yet sure what she was. A priest? A holy woman? A queen? He is not sure the Davke had any of those things. He is not sure if they have titles such as king-killer or bear-slayer, or if being called a “Regent” ever meant anything to her.
He sets the water can aside as she comes near, and with a single sweep of her tail sends leaves scattering away like lambs before a slaughter. “Do you know Ramses well?” he answers her with a question, letting his eyes flicker to her’s like an antelope watching a lion prowl around it. Nothing about the space between them is soft, or gentle, or innocent. Ipomoea looks at the scars on her skin and thinks that in another life, he might have worn them just the same as she.
“I may have only known my brother for a short while, however he does not strike me as a liar. But, I suppose you know more of this tale than I would. I was only a child when it began, after all.”
Do you remember me?
The words are there on his tongue, begging — but he does not ask it. Not yet. But oh, he can feel the bitterness of them already sinking in like teeth to a bone, like a wolf that knows too much about hunger to ever feel sated. Like an orphan that grew up on stale, stolen bread while somewhere in the desert, a boy with the same blood-red eyes laughed and danced around a fire.
He takes a step away from her. “I’m afraid my tale is not quite so exciting as the ones you’ve heard. Gossipers do love to exaggerate the details.”
@avdotya "speaks" <3
