He sighs against her. And in the trembling of his lungs he feels the way a flower does in the spring, when it fights its way through the frost in the morning to open its flowers to the sun in the only way a meadow knows how to smile. And the promise that paints itself across Florentine’s skin is bleeding there across his, spreading from her brow to his and smiling at him from the mirrors that surround them.
Vines are creeping across them all, like his magic is reminding him in whispers that this world is the one that matters today. And while he does not forget about those other worlds, it is enough for now to tell that pit of magic simmering in his chest not today, and to feed it with the promise that its day is coming.
“One day,” he promises her, and his heart is carving the words into the muscle of it.
But Ipomoea does not let her leave alone. He only falls instead step beside the friend he thought he had lost (and he is so very glad he did not). Because friends do not let friends search alone —
and Ipomoea is not ready to watch her leave just yet.
He would tear this island apart if she asked him to, and if he thought it might reveal the secrets she is looking for. But for now he leaves only a trail of flowers in their wake, making a path of all the wildflowers she wears in her hair.
Vines are creeping across them all, like his magic is reminding him in whispers that this world is the one that matters today. And while he does not forget about those other worlds, it is enough for now to tell that pit of magic simmering in his chest not today, and to feed it with the promise that its day is coming.
“One day,” he promises her, and his heart is carving the words into the muscle of it.
But Ipomoea does not let her leave alone. He only falls instead step beside the friend he thought he had lost (and he is so very glad he did not). Because friends do not let friends search alone —
and Ipomoea is not ready to watch her leave just yet.
He would tear this island apart if she asked him to, and if he thought it might reveal the secrets she is looking for. But for now he leaves only a trail of flowers in their wake, making a path of all the wildflowers she wears in her hair.
@
rising // blooming
