the war of the flowers
He is trying not to think of Emersyn as he makes his way to the Steppe.
Or the cottage that stands on the edge of Illuster meadow, the roof of it collapsed and open to the sky like an eye staring up, unblinking, at the sun. He is thinking of his garden, and unicorns tangled leg-to-leg and horn-to-horn beneath the weeping willows. There is a path that runs between the rose bushes, half hidden by overgrown by canes and blossoms, a path he follows now in his minds eye. Each step he takes is not a step leading him on to war and ruin, on and on to a mock-battlefield littered with the memories of fallen soldiers — but a step leading him past roses that grow ever darker, petals unfurling in shades crimson then burgundy then black.
But every time he blinks he can see it, and her, and the vines twisting half-dead to claw their way through that torn-apart roof like monsters freeing themselves from their graves. The smell of saltwater and brine and death (the sea has always smelled a little bit like death), flowers covering up bones, blue flashes of light turning everything stark and grotesque.
When he blinks he is standing before Andras, a flash of blue so bright it is nearly white illuminating both their faces.
He could laugh then, at the irony of it all — at the hunger lining the points of Andras’ face, hunger he is sure is reflected back to him in his own eyes. But a war is no place for laughter, even when the only war is the one that lives inside both of their chests. So he smiles instead, and when he blinks again he begs a little more of his fire and fury to return.
It works.
The ground beneath his feet trembles, and he is not sure if it has to do with the thunder of the pegasus’ heart or the roar of his own veins answering the call of it. His magic leaps into his throat, ready and waiting — but he swallows it down, feeling it burn and scratch at his lungs all the way. Each step as he moves closer to Andras feels easier than the last, and soon his body feels alive with magic and desperation and the bright, flashing arc of lightning behind his eyelids.
“I think most would disagree with your definition of fun,” he tells his Warden — his friend — but he does nothing to tell him he’s wrong.
He is only moving. And as his steps turn from a walk, to a trot, to a run, it is both to war and to his garden that he is galloping. Somewhere behind him Rhoeas is pacing, watching and waiting, but for now —
oh, for now, it is Ipomoea’s turn to remember what it is like to feel close to death.
He runs and he runs and he does not stop until he feels Andras’ flesh against his, rising up on his back legs with his teeth reaching out for the curl of his neck. And for the first time, he wonders what it might feel like to be struck by lightning.
Or the cottage that stands on the edge of Illuster meadow, the roof of it collapsed and open to the sky like an eye staring up, unblinking, at the sun. He is thinking of his garden, and unicorns tangled leg-to-leg and horn-to-horn beneath the weeping willows. There is a path that runs between the rose bushes, half hidden by overgrown by canes and blossoms, a path he follows now in his minds eye. Each step he takes is not a step leading him on to war and ruin, on and on to a mock-battlefield littered with the memories of fallen soldiers — but a step leading him past roses that grow ever darker, petals unfurling in shades crimson then burgundy then black.
But every time he blinks he can see it, and her, and the vines twisting half-dead to claw their way through that torn-apart roof like monsters freeing themselves from their graves. The smell of saltwater and brine and death (the sea has always smelled a little bit like death), flowers covering up bones, blue flashes of light turning everything stark and grotesque.
When he blinks he is standing before Andras, a flash of blue so bright it is nearly white illuminating both their faces.
He could laugh then, at the irony of it all — at the hunger lining the points of Andras’ face, hunger he is sure is reflected back to him in his own eyes. But a war is no place for laughter, even when the only war is the one that lives inside both of their chests. So he smiles instead, and when he blinks again he begs a little more of his fire and fury to return.
It works.
The ground beneath his feet trembles, and he is not sure if it has to do with the thunder of the pegasus’ heart or the roar of his own veins answering the call of it. His magic leaps into his throat, ready and waiting — but he swallows it down, feeling it burn and scratch at his lungs all the way. Each step as he moves closer to Andras feels easier than the last, and soon his body feels alive with magic and desperation and the bright, flashing arc of lightning behind his eyelids.
“I think most would disagree with your definition of fun,” he tells his Warden — his friend — but he does nothing to tell him he’s wrong.
He is only moving. And as his steps turn from a walk, to a trot, to a run, it is both to war and to his garden that he is galloping. Somewhere behind him Rhoeas is pacing, watching and waiting, but for now —
oh, for now, it is Ipomoea’s turn to remember what it is like to feel close to death.
He runs and he runs and he does not stop until he feels Andras’ flesh against his, rising up on his back legs with his teeth reaching out for the curl of his neck. And for the first time, he wonders what it might feel like to be struck by lightning.
Summary: Ipomoea comes to the Steppe reminiscing about the good ol' times he's had with Andras when they nearly killed their Emissary together. After a brief pause, he begins to gallop in a head-on charge for Andras. When he reaches him he aims to bite somewhere along his neck, and tries to pull him up with him as he rears.
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: October 31, 2020
Tags: @Andras, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @layla, @griffin
Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: N/A
Response Deadline: October 31, 2020
Tags: @
