you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
She does not tell him where she went, or why she did not follow him, or what happened to her in the time that they were apart --
and he does not tell her of the monsters he has faced, or all the ways he has learned to be brave. He does not tell her of the unicorn in the woods, or the way his magic has learned how to grow more than flowers. Ipomoea does not tell her that he has stopped cutting the thorns from their roses, and how he lets them grow wild, and tangled, and free instead.
There are so many things he does not tell her today, with all the space and silence separating them. There are so many more things he never will.
He should tell her -- he knows he should. He knows he should smile the way flowers smile, in soft touches and petals unfurling. He should be telling her how much he missed her, even when there was blood on his skin and war cries on his lips and the worry that if Raum did not kill him, then the island might. He knows he should lay his lips against her ear and tell her of everything he had seen and learned when he had gone to Solterra, and how it has made him braver because of it.
There are a million things he should do. But the one thing he does do --
is pull away.
And he wonders when it became so hard to breathe, and why it is that the distance between them when she steps away started to feel less painful than her touch had (and remembering how her touch used to feel.)
"I am happy you are home." The words feel stuck in his teeth, behind his throat, echoing in every hollow chamber of his heart. And then there is only the echo of his hooves against the cobblestone, and the swinging of the door shut behind him. And outside, when he can no longer smell her roses (that used to be their roses, that is when he starts to breathe again, as his heart weeps.
@messalina
and he does not tell her of the monsters he has faced, or all the ways he has learned to be brave. He does not tell her of the unicorn in the woods, or the way his magic has learned how to grow more than flowers. Ipomoea does not tell her that he has stopped cutting the thorns from their roses, and how he lets them grow wild, and tangled, and free instead.
There are so many things he does not tell her today, with all the space and silence separating them. There are so many more things he never will.
He should tell her -- he knows he should. He knows he should smile the way flowers smile, in soft touches and petals unfurling. He should be telling her how much he missed her, even when there was blood on his skin and war cries on his lips and the worry that if Raum did not kill him, then the island might. He knows he should lay his lips against her ear and tell her of everything he had seen and learned when he had gone to Solterra, and how it has made him braver because of it.
There are a million things he should do. But the one thing he does do --
is pull away.
And he wonders when it became so hard to breathe, and why it is that the distance between them when she steps away started to feel less painful than her touch had (and remembering how her touch used to feel.)
"I am happy you are home." The words feel stuck in his teeth, behind his throat, echoing in every hollow chamber of his heart. And then there is only the echo of his hooves against the cobblestone, and the swinging of the door shut behind him. And outside, when he can no longer smell her roses (that used to be their roses, that is when he starts to breathe again, as his heart weeps.
@messalina
