even after they have been stepped on
He knows now that he has always been a liar.
And he supposes they all were, perhaps without even knowing it. They lied about their motives, about their feelings, about their fears. Small truths stretched just thin enough to be lies he were still lies. Small lies based in truths were no different than outright falseties.
Later he would tell himself it was only the focus of her gem-like eyes staring at him (staring through him, as he imagined.) Later he might say it was only the summer wine and heat making him sweat, or that he was too preoccupied listening to the forest, and the flowers, and the silence of his court, that he did not know what he was saying.
Later he will acknowledge that he is a liar.
But in that room with her, the sounds of the garden drifting in through the open windows, the music of the fountain a constant backdrop to his thoughts — Ipomoea learns how many secrets he truly has. And he begins to understand which of those are more important — and perhaps more dangerous — than the others. So that by the time he bids Llewelyn a good afternoon and finds himself wandering the garden paths alone, he cannot shake the feeling that he has made a terrible mistake.
So he walks. He walks, and he walks, and he does not know where he is going (only that he must go, he must). And as the night falls he cannot stop glancing over his shoulder —
And feeling like his lies are catching up to him.
@llewelyn
just going through and closing some old threads!
