ramses
you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower
i'll be the wildflower
For a while, as the chestnut sighed and began to speak, and for the first time since they first met out in the desert lost the smirk that Ipomoea had seen whenever he crossed his mind, all he could do was watch him.
In the absence of all that feral humor, he could begin to think that maybe he was telling the truth. Of course it was something he had already known, somewhere in the back of his mind where his memories were vague and lacking, but until now it had not been something he was willing to believe. Ipomoea had grown up an orphan - his earliest memory was of being an orphan, being alone on the streets of Solterra. It had become a part of his identity, a simple fact of who he was. He had not tortured himself with thoughts of the parents that did not want him, not since he was a foal. The traveling merchants who had taken him in had taught him to not be ashamed of that, the mare that had nursed him back to health had taught him that he mattered more than that.
“The Davke,” he echoed, when the other had finished his tale. The pelts and bones he dressed himself in told the story well enough, but still it was shocking to hear it for himself. “You’re saying that you - that we - are of Davke blood.” It was not phrased as a question.
The thought makes his heart skip a beat, though whether it was in fear or understanding he would never know. It’s the same rush of fire he felt when he had looked into Raum’s and Legion’s eyes, the same trembling fury that had promised he could do more than grow flowers.
Ipomoea swallowed, tasting bile at the back of his throat.
“If this is true,” he turns away, but he can’t stop seeing the coyote teeth wrapped around Ramses’ leg, or the skull peeking out at him with empty eyes over his shoulder, or the undeniable horse rib that circles his throat. “Then there was nothing you could have done for me. Not without being thrown into the desert yourself.”
But he can’t stop the selfish thought that runs through his mind like a ghost, the vicious pride that says I would have done it for you. Even when you didn't for me.
@ramses
woahh po
In the absence of all that feral humor, he could begin to think that maybe he was telling the truth. Of course it was something he had already known, somewhere in the back of his mind where his memories were vague and lacking, but until now it had not been something he was willing to believe. Ipomoea had grown up an orphan - his earliest memory was of being an orphan, being alone on the streets of Solterra. It had become a part of his identity, a simple fact of who he was. He had not tortured himself with thoughts of the parents that did not want him, not since he was a foal. The traveling merchants who had taken him in had taught him to not be ashamed of that, the mare that had nursed him back to health had taught him that he mattered more than that.
“The Davke,” he echoed, when the other had finished his tale. The pelts and bones he dressed himself in told the story well enough, but still it was shocking to hear it for himself. “You’re saying that you - that we - are of Davke blood.” It was not phrased as a question.
The thought makes his heart skip a beat, though whether it was in fear or understanding he would never know. It’s the same rush of fire he felt when he had looked into Raum’s and Legion’s eyes, the same trembling fury that had promised he could do more than grow flowers.
Ipomoea swallowed, tasting bile at the back of his throat.
“If this is true,” he turns away, but he can’t stop seeing the coyote teeth wrapped around Ramses’ leg, or the skull peeking out at him with empty eyes over his shoulder, or the undeniable horse rib that circles his throat. “Then there was nothing you could have done for me. Not without being thrown into the desert yourself.”
But he can’t stop the selfish thought that runs through his mind like a ghost, the vicious pride that says I would have done it for you. Even when you didn't for me.
@ramses
woahh po
