[P] eyes flecked with ash

[Antiope]

If only Ipomoea could know that Antiope does not dream. It is true that she rarely sleeps, relying on her magic to carry her across days and weeks without so much as an occasional rest. But even when she does sleep, she does not dream.

To her, the word dream means something else. Something you do in the day, when you’re standing on the steps looking down over your court and imagining all of the places that you could take them. To her, the word dream does not mean something you do in sleep, when your body is vulnerable and your mind under a spell of dormancy.

Who is to say why. Perhaps because she was not born but made; maybe the gods did not give her the right pieces to dream. Perhaps it is because she came into the world an adult, and not a child. She never had a chance to experience the wonders of an imagination, as she was thrust immediately into a world of war. Who is to say.

She can’t say she recognizes the look of wanting, of feeling like he is not in the right place, but she understands how he fell in love with this city. The sovereign had, as well, even without trying to. “Denocte is always open to you, Ipomoea. I hope that even with Isra gone you will feel welcome here.”

As he finishes his tea, she has this sudden and overwhelming feeling that their time together is coming to an end. It upsets her, for some reason she cannot identify. Perhaps it is that she feels some sort of unnamed kinship with this man. Perhaps it is that looking upon him fills her with hope of what Denocte can become.

Antiope stands, “I would like that,” her voice is quietly honest, her eyes less like storms at sea and more like gleaming sapphires. She would like to go to Delumine, and get to know Ipomoea and his people, “I would like our courts to learn from each other.” A smile curls up the corners of her lips, hopeful and genuine.

“If you’re not in a rush, there is a small bakery in the markets I would love to take you to,” She moves toward the door, pulling open the heavy dark wood. It swings slowly, and a rush of air blows over her as it rushes in from the hall. “What do you say?” The Denoctian sovereign glances over her shoulder, almost as a dare, and then steps through the door and out of the room. Out of the past, and into the future.

"Speaking."

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@Ipomoea fin c;

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