IPOMOEA
let's be wildflowers
I
pomoea.His name was a whisper on the wind, a sigh of the trees that wave gently at him from the distance. His name, spoken by the earth; how long had it been since anyone had last used his name, his full name? It took him too long to recognize it as his own now, but the call. of the forest was unmistakable, reverberating through his bones. He stepped into a trot.
The grass of the plains tugged at his fetlocks, begging him to stay, but for once he did not listen. He shook off their grasp, and the ocean of wild rye parted before him, leaving a trail. The forest edge was in sight, a dark strip that lined eluetheria and separated the court from the freeland, stretching as far as he could see in either direction. He hurried towards it, his heart lurching like a wild thing inside of his chest. His wings strained, struggling to fly, to carry him.
Ipomoea.
The wind pushed at his back, tossing his loose hair until it floated like a dark halo all around him. Each step brought him closer, and closer, and closer still, until the distance shrank and the grasses thinned and the cool darkness of the forest reached out to embrace him. And then, only then, did he force himself to walk, not run. The branches wove themselves tightly together overhead, blocking the sky from view. But here and there the sun crashed through in dazzling, unbroken streamers, suspending dust motes in its golden rays.
A dusting of wildflowers followed him as he ventured deeper into the forest, where the trees seemed to hum with delight and warblers and finches perched as noisy sentinels upon each bough. The trees grew older and taller around him, as the rest of the world faded from view and all that was left was Ipomoea and the forest.
Thoughts of the desert and of Raum and of the island and of Denocte faded from his mind, taking with it his rage and sadness, casting away any part of him that was not content to simply be him.
He stopped beside a large conifer, muzzle brushing against its bark, and shivered as the tree’s ancient thoughts pressed against his consciousness.
His voice, when he spoke, seemed impossibly soft beneath the evergreens. “We made it, Odet.” The statue did not answer him; the stone had no ears with which to hear his words, but he spoke to it as if it did. And all around him the forest seemed to come alive: the branches overhead began to shake of their own accord, their leaves sighing. Animals forsook their hiding places and crashed through the underbrush with wild abandon. All the world cried out, in welcome and homecoming.
A smile, small and fleeting, took the place of a shout on his lips.
@Thana | "speaks" | notes: <3
