Around them the dawn is an explosion of color, light kissing the earth and blossoming across the court. It catches in the spires above them, glinting off of a bell and breaking itself into pieces through the stained glass windows. Somewhere, in the distance, the first few birds of the morning are heralding its coming with song.
It reminds him, for a moment, that there is one bird who will never again join them. Beyond the castle walls his new bonded is running, running, running between trees and flower stalks on his way back to him. But he knows it is not the same, will never be the same. And the thought weighs heavy on his heart like a noose.
But he is not a ghost, as much as he sometimes feels like one — and reflecting on the ghosts in his lives has never brought him peace. So he forces the smile on his lips to persist, even if his eyes turn a little blue, even if his heart is starting to ache, even when the other man’s admission takes him by surprise.
He’s one beat too slow in answering (funny, he thinks — that he should be one beat faster than the earth, and still one beat slower than the rest of his race.) “I suppose even ghosts need to be roused from their haunting. Perhaps even more so than the living might.”
Sometimes, he likes to watch other’s faces as he introduces himself; particularly when he does so with his full name. And he has narrowed a multitude of personalities down to three reactions: realization, dawning with either surprise or horror. Embarrassment, sometimes accompanied with an attempt to brush off their ignorance. And then, of course, there was no reaction — and it seems odd to him, that he should feel most comfortable with those in this category.
So he finds himself watching Aerie closely when he says his next words.
“I didn’t even notice,” he promises, and his smile turns genuine. “I am Ipomoea.”
And sometimes, he wonders if it is not better to pretend to be a ghost somedays after all, if only because ghosts are rarely as recognizable as the living.
It reminds him, for a moment, that there is one bird who will never again join them. Beyond the castle walls his new bonded is running, running, running between trees and flower stalks on his way back to him. But he knows it is not the same, will never be the same. And the thought weighs heavy on his heart like a noose.
But he is not a ghost, as much as he sometimes feels like one — and reflecting on the ghosts in his lives has never brought him peace. So he forces the smile on his lips to persist, even if his eyes turn a little blue, even if his heart is starting to ache, even when the other man’s admission takes him by surprise.
He’s one beat too slow in answering (funny, he thinks — that he should be one beat faster than the earth, and still one beat slower than the rest of his race.) “I suppose even ghosts need to be roused from their haunting. Perhaps even more so than the living might.”
Sometimes, he likes to watch other’s faces as he introduces himself; particularly when he does so with his full name. And he has narrowed a multitude of personalities down to three reactions: realization, dawning with either surprise or horror. Embarrassment, sometimes accompanied with an attempt to brush off their ignorance. And then, of course, there was no reaction — and it seems odd to him, that he should feel most comfortable with those in this category.
So he finds himself watching Aerie closely when he says his next words.
“I didn’t even notice,” he promises, and his smile turns genuine. “I am Ipomoea.”
And sometimes, he wonders if it is not better to pretend to be a ghost somedays after all, if only because ghosts are rarely as recognizable as the living.
@aeranas !
”here am i!“
