The other man joins him, and with two steps separating them they step out into the plains. And all the while Ipomoea can feel either end of those plains calling him.
On one side, the trees and meadows — their hum softer, but all the more persistent because of it. When he closes his eyes he can still see the flowers, red and bright and spread out like so many gemstones waiting to be plucked. But then on the other side, the sand and its dunes — and the blood-and-bone deep echo he can feel still in his veins, like the shaking of the earth long after an earthquake. He thinks he can see it as a mirage on the horizon, when he turns his head east. But when he blinks it’s gone, and only the memory of it remains dancing like ghosts through all those stalks of grass.
He found it funny sometimes, that Eluetheria always seemed so quiet. Whether it was because the lands on either side of it pulled at him so sharply or simply because he had no connections to the tall grasses themselves, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both those things and neither. Maybe this land belonged only to the dreaming buffalo and the social prairie dogs. Ipomoea liked to think he belonged to the earth, and the earth to him, and yet —
and yet, wading through a sea of emerald-green grass, with blackbirds laughing overhead and butterflies spinning like maple seeds through the air around them, he knows this is a world he does not recognize. One he finds peace in, and meaning, and companionship — but it is not home. It does not speak to his soul in the same way, it does not ask of him. He is not sure it would answer him if he asked it to move for him, if he commanded the seeds in the ground to root into trees so that the land might turn from a prairie into a forest (Illuster would — the same way Viride would drop all of its trees at once and let the flowers reign supreme if he told it to.)
He does not think it has to do with being a king. The earth did not care about who wore a crown or who the majority chose to listen to.
It had everything to do with who he was, when he was stripped free of his titles and his responsibilities.
And it made him wonder who the man he had invited to walk beside him was: if he had any history with the earth (or any place, or any person, or any thing.) The lines on his face spoke stories, but Ipomoea had never been as good at reading people as he was at reading the veins of the plants he tended.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he tells him still — even now, there is no fear or worry. Ipomoea had the earth, and the kindness in Vall’s eyes to ease away any tension the two sides of his soul might wage.
He doesn’t try to hide his smile at the man’s question. And when he shakes his head slowly and say, “I find myself here more often than I care to admit,” the sound of his voice is more than wistful. He nods over one shoulder towards the distant treeline, marking the border of Delumine.
“Over there is the Dawn Court, the place I” rule “live,” he tells him amicably. “This is one of the few free lands of Novus that separate the four Courts from one another. Eluetheria plains.”
But then he turns his head, and something in his gaze grows a little darker, a little more conflicted. “And on that end is the Day Court, where I was born. All sand and desert and sun. Sometimes I find myself coming here and stopping just at the edge of it, wondering—“ he shakes his head, and offers a smile back towards Avallac’h. “It’s funny isn’t it, how one decision can change a person’s life. Or another’s.” And yet something in his voice suggests it to be more sad than funny.
But he is not one to dwell for long on himself or his past (as much as it seems to catch up to him.) So he slows his pace just enough to hint for the other man to walk beside him, and once they stand shoulder to shoulder he asks, “Where do you come from, Vall? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Somewhere, a hawk is diving on a rabbit. And he thinks that rabbit might be him, in another life.
On one side, the trees and meadows — their hum softer, but all the more persistent because of it. When he closes his eyes he can still see the flowers, red and bright and spread out like so many gemstones waiting to be plucked. But then on the other side, the sand and its dunes — and the blood-and-bone deep echo he can feel still in his veins, like the shaking of the earth long after an earthquake. He thinks he can see it as a mirage on the horizon, when he turns his head east. But when he blinks it’s gone, and only the memory of it remains dancing like ghosts through all those stalks of grass.
He found it funny sometimes, that Eluetheria always seemed so quiet. Whether it was because the lands on either side of it pulled at him so sharply or simply because he had no connections to the tall grasses themselves, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both those things and neither. Maybe this land belonged only to the dreaming buffalo and the social prairie dogs. Ipomoea liked to think he belonged to the earth, and the earth to him, and yet —
and yet, wading through a sea of emerald-green grass, with blackbirds laughing overhead and butterflies spinning like maple seeds through the air around them, he knows this is a world he does not recognize. One he finds peace in, and meaning, and companionship — but it is not home. It does not speak to his soul in the same way, it does not ask of him. He is not sure it would answer him if he asked it to move for him, if he commanded the seeds in the ground to root into trees so that the land might turn from a prairie into a forest (Illuster would — the same way Viride would drop all of its trees at once and let the flowers reign supreme if he told it to.)
He does not think it has to do with being a king. The earth did not care about who wore a crown or who the majority chose to listen to.
It had everything to do with who he was, when he was stripped free of his titles and his responsibilities.
And it made him wonder who the man he had invited to walk beside him was: if he had any history with the earth (or any place, or any person, or any thing.) The lines on his face spoke stories, but Ipomoea had never been as good at reading people as he was at reading the veins of the plants he tended.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he tells him still — even now, there is no fear or worry. Ipomoea had the earth, and the kindness in Vall’s eyes to ease away any tension the two sides of his soul might wage.
He doesn’t try to hide his smile at the man’s question. And when he shakes his head slowly and say, “I find myself here more often than I care to admit,” the sound of his voice is more than wistful. He nods over one shoulder towards the distant treeline, marking the border of Delumine.
“Over there is the Dawn Court, the place I” rule “live,” he tells him amicably. “This is one of the few free lands of Novus that separate the four Courts from one another. Eluetheria plains.”
But then he turns his head, and something in his gaze grows a little darker, a little more conflicted. “And on that end is the Day Court, where I was born. All sand and desert and sun. Sometimes I find myself coming here and stopping just at the edge of it, wondering—“ he shakes his head, and offers a smile back towards Avallac’h. “It’s funny isn’t it, how one decision can change a person’s life. Or another’s.” And yet something in his voice suggests it to be more sad than funny.
But he is not one to dwell for long on himself or his past (as much as it seems to catch up to him.) So he slows his pace just enough to hint for the other man to walk beside him, and once they stand shoulder to shoulder he asks, “Where do you come from, Vall? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Somewhere, a hawk is diving on a rabbit. And he thinks that rabbit might be him, in another life.
@"avallac'h" !
ahh this is so late, forgive me!
”here am i!“
