like a flower in the desert, I only wanted to bloom
There are memories that he might not have remembered were they were not printed into his bones like scars. He can feel them aching there like places for the magic to gather in, to bleed out from the gaps like sap from the wound in a tree. Ipomoea wonders now if they were where his magic came from all along: from the broken pieces of himself he is still trying so hard to put back together. If with each break, with each fractured part of his soul that he tears into wider and wider cracks each time he has to choose between the forest and the desert. If by doing so he is swinging open the gate holding his magic at bay and allowing more and more of it to bleed into him.
Had he been born anywhere else, had he found a home instead of looking for forever in temporary places, would he have ever found the depths of his magic like he is now?
Because now, oh now there is magic enough to create the world anew that lives in his blood like gold, running in rivulets of sand and petals down his cheeks instead of tears. It burns more than it should, cuts lines into his face for more magic to pool in. And if there is an end to it, if there is a bottom to all this wanting, and aching, and desperation Ipomoea knows he will only find it when his body becomes sand and roots burrowed in it.
He wishes he could be made of the softness of a rose and not the thorns of it. He wishes he could tame the wildness of the earth into something that is content to be only a garden and not the thing a garden seeks to hide. But if he could take back the violence of it and leave only the beauty, he thinks he would not know how to recognize it.
So he smiles where he feels only sorrow, and swallows down the wild parts of his magic that do not know how to be satisfied. “The morning will be whatever you wish for it to be.”
Behind them the garden is still weeping pollen, and before them the music is still dragging them forward as if to make up for the lost way they move towards it. And flowers are still blooming around each step that he begs to press against her ankles instead of his. He hopes she can find an end to her sorrow, that she will fill the places it leaves behind with something other than magic and hunger.
“All you have to do—“ he weaves black and bloody poppies around her horn like an anointing as they walk, presses his lips to the hollow above her eye like it is the promise of the world that he is giving her and not a goodbye, “—is ask. So tell me your dream Danaë, and then you and Isolt will grow it into something beautiful and strong. She will listen to you.” He thinks it a good thing, that they were born two halves of one whole; that one daughter would not destroy this part of the world if only because the other asked her not to.
It should feel wrong, to feel like he is not-himself anymore. It should feel wrong, that he cannot hear the forest whispering for him to stay, or the flowers calling him back when they leave the garden, or the headless wheat sound of his daughter’s steps. He cannot hear any of it over the sound of his own blood telling him to go, go, go. As every bit of sand in his blood turns to a sea of gold that is crashing against his ribs, calling him —
he knows it is not home that he is turning to, each time he lifts his eyes to the sun trembling below the horizon (if there was a home for him in this world, it was wherever there was sand and soil for him to grow a garden upon.) But he thinks it is close to one; he thinks an ocean of sand might be enough to press into his scars and pretend they were healing him instead of burning. And he thinks it is better to give a home to his daughters to root and bloom in, than to let them grow into something like him.
The music and the crowd are waiting, as each step brings them closer to the inevitable that he only now feels brave enough to face. But when he turns to the lost look of his daughter’s eyes he thinks that this, this is the one thing that could make him want to stay when all the rest of the world is calling.
“I promise it will not be a goodbye. There are too many pieces I am leaving behind to not come back. I will — if you need me to, I will.” Even if he does not want to — even if he does not know how to pull himself back from the sands and the violence of it — still he will. For Danaë, for Isolt, for the garden that welcomes him back each time even when it should not. He does not tell her that he asked Rhoeas to stay, but that, too, is another thing that will call him back again and again the way the desert calls to him now. Like a god returning to the eden of his creation, he would come back.
They make it to the gates, around each twist and curl of iron black roses and ivy is woven. It seems a strange thing, to think that fate lies on the other side of it; for her, a kingdom, and for him, another broken thing to put back together. And when he should feel sorrow at the sight of it, he hears only the fury of the sand and his magic begging to be let out.
On the other side, the sun is ready to rise.
Had he been born anywhere else, had he found a home instead of looking for forever in temporary places, would he have ever found the depths of his magic like he is now?
Because now, oh now there is magic enough to create the world anew that lives in his blood like gold, running in rivulets of sand and petals down his cheeks instead of tears. It burns more than it should, cuts lines into his face for more magic to pool in. And if there is an end to it, if there is a bottom to all this wanting, and aching, and desperation Ipomoea knows he will only find it when his body becomes sand and roots burrowed in it.
He wishes he could be made of the softness of a rose and not the thorns of it. He wishes he could tame the wildness of the earth into something that is content to be only a garden and not the thing a garden seeks to hide. But if he could take back the violence of it and leave only the beauty, he thinks he would not know how to recognize it.
So he smiles where he feels only sorrow, and swallows down the wild parts of his magic that do not know how to be satisfied. “The morning will be whatever you wish for it to be.”
Behind them the garden is still weeping pollen, and before them the music is still dragging them forward as if to make up for the lost way they move towards it. And flowers are still blooming around each step that he begs to press against her ankles instead of his. He hopes she can find an end to her sorrow, that she will fill the places it leaves behind with something other than magic and hunger.
“All you have to do—“ he weaves black and bloody poppies around her horn like an anointing as they walk, presses his lips to the hollow above her eye like it is the promise of the world that he is giving her and not a goodbye, “—is ask. So tell me your dream Danaë, and then you and Isolt will grow it into something beautiful and strong. She will listen to you.” He thinks it a good thing, that they were born two halves of one whole; that one daughter would not destroy this part of the world if only because the other asked her not to.
It should feel wrong, to feel like he is not-himself anymore. It should feel wrong, that he cannot hear the forest whispering for him to stay, or the flowers calling him back when they leave the garden, or the headless wheat sound of his daughter’s steps. He cannot hear any of it over the sound of his own blood telling him to go, go, go. As every bit of sand in his blood turns to a sea of gold that is crashing against his ribs, calling him —
he knows it is not home that he is turning to, each time he lifts his eyes to the sun trembling below the horizon (if there was a home for him in this world, it was wherever there was sand and soil for him to grow a garden upon.) But he thinks it is close to one; he thinks an ocean of sand might be enough to press into his scars and pretend they were healing him instead of burning. And he thinks it is better to give a home to his daughters to root and bloom in, than to let them grow into something like him.
The music and the crowd are waiting, as each step brings them closer to the inevitable that he only now feels brave enough to face. But when he turns to the lost look of his daughter’s eyes he thinks that this, this is the one thing that could make him want to stay when all the rest of the world is calling.
“I promise it will not be a goodbye. There are too many pieces I am leaving behind to not come back. I will — if you need me to, I will.” Even if he does not want to — even if he does not know how to pull himself back from the sands and the violence of it — still he will. For Danaë, for Isolt, for the garden that welcomes him back each time even when it should not. He does not tell her that he asked Rhoeas to stay, but that, too, is another thing that will call him back again and again the way the desert calls to him now. Like a god returning to the eden of his creation, he would come back.
They make it to the gates, around each twist and curl of iron black roses and ivy is woven. It seems a strange thing, to think that fate lies on the other side of it; for her, a kingdom, and for him, another broken thing to put back together. And when he should feel sorrow at the sight of it, he hears only the fury of the sand and his magic begging to be let out.
On the other side, the sun is ready to rise.
