Petty and small, they easily could become the most overwhelming aspect of one’s day if they decided to rear their ugly little heads. Such as it was, nearly every single nerve had reared said head on the dawn of a midwinter day, and Llewelyn felt her flesh prickle beneath her own scrutiny. She was cast in candlelight, the tiny flames casting her skin golden and painting her antlered form in darkness along the wall. Some dawns, the mare remembered what it had been like to dance with her own shadow, to pretend that she felt the touch of the formless dark and the whisper light caresses of the corpses she had slept alongside.
The scholar shivered, the momentary distraction dislodging her telekinetic hold on her mane and causing the whole heavy mass to unravel from it’s half-formed braid. Huffing in irritation at her small failure, Llewelyn gathered her concentration once more and doggedly finished the lengthy plait. Tying the braid off with a smaller separate section of her mane, the maiden gave a sigh of relief as the heavy gathering of hair thumped gently against her shoulder. The weight was comforting, a constant companion that had grown steadily increased in size and mass year after year. Llewelyn knew that she should trim the silken tresses into a more manageable length, but couldn’t quite make herself commit to the act; her hair was her last homage to innocence and girlhood, and she was loath to dislodge such a mark of purity from her carefully crafted image.
Exiting the bathing chamber, golden leg markings fresh and glistening, Llewelyn steeled herself for what was to come - tea with Dawn’s patriarch.
She understood that such an appointment may not seem so fraught with pressure and worry to someone outside of her upbringing, but she could not shake the anxiety nipping at her hooves. Ipomoea had been crowned while she was hidden away, the beloved and ever-revered Somnus and his partner, Eulalie, having stepped down from their positions amid what Llewelyn had come to understand was a period of strife and danger within Dawn’s borders. Ipomoea - better known as ‘Po’ by his friends and peers - had then shouldered the mantle of the kingdom and, from what the gossip-mongering mare could tell, ushered in an age of peace. A respectable and capable ruler, by all accounts, Llewelyn was reasonably curious about Delumine’s second sovereign, for she had only seen the stallion in passing.
So when the invitation to a morning tea had arrived on a splendidly thin pink marble tray, - Llewelyn had luxuriated in the craftsmanship of the featherlight slab - the maiden had busied herself with looking as presentable as she could. Yet, as she made her way down lacquered stone halls and sunlit interiors, the scholar begin to fret. Had she applied too much or too little honey rose oil to her hair? Had she missed any spots when polishing her horns and their adornments? What if she had missed a tangle in her tail?
The nervous energy practically spilling from the courtier’s soul caused the gemstones dangling from scythe-like horns to begin their incessant whispering, the sound echoing down the corridor like a nest of serpents. The sound, as one might guess, did nothing for the mare’s anxiety and set her teeth rather on edge. Slowing to a stop just outside of the archway that lead to one of the many tea rooms housed within Delumine’s magnificent palace, Llewelyn breathed in the scent of snow and evergreen. The holiday season was swiftly approaching and there was no shortage of decorative wreaths or sprigs of holly to grace the walls and entryways of Dawn.
Taking the time to soothe herself, Llewelyn fell back on her often-recited Principles of Etiquette and felt her pulse begin to slow as she silently repeated the phrases. Beauty adorns virtue...Virtue denotes beauty...
At last, she found herself prepared, and stepped into the golden light of the sitting room. Within the chamber, there was an abundance of new-day light streaming in from gauzily curtained windows along the far wall. Steam wafted up from a pair of delicate cups and Llewelyn could smell the calming scent of lavender and mint. She lingered in the doorway, noting that she had arrived early enough to be second only to the staff who had laid out refreshments.
It wouldn’t do to settle in before the guest of honor arrived, now would it?
why are my Llew starter posts so big? This idiot has far too much to say. @Ipomoea
flowers grow back
even after they have been stepped on
He isn’t sure now when he stopped enjoying the quiet.
It used to feel strange, to look back and consider how more of his life had been spent as an Emissary, or a Regent, or a Sovereign, than had been simply spent as Ipomoea. He used to wonder why Kasil had chosen him (me! a boy! even worse, a Solterran, an orphan, a newcomer to the Court-), and further, why Somnus had chosen him.
Now, Ipomoea only thinks how strange it would be to be anything else.
Who was he, if not a king?
He had tried, in Denocte, to understand who he was. But in the end all that wondering and searching had only led him back to Dawn, and Ipomoea had known before setting hoof to Delumine’s soil that he was returning as a Sovereign. The world had not yet known it, perhaps Somnus had not yet known it - but he had. And now he carried that secret around like his own personal noose tied loosely around his neck.
He had hoped that would be the only dangerous thing he would face as a new Sovereign, if only for a while -
- Of course, he should have known better.
Thoughts of the forest (of Emersyn’s map, of the blood drops on the ivy leaves, of the ghastly hue the snow took on as it settled over the bodies) are still bright in his mind as he makes his way through the Court. The click of his hooves against the marble flooring is a welcome distraction, echoing almost too loudly for comfort through the hallway. He has to force himself to slow down, until his hoofbeats no longer sound quite so rushed or frenzied, as he turns the corner leading to one of Delumine’s tea room.
He expects to find the woman waiting at a table for him, perhaps already starting in on a plate of scones with a half-empty tea cup settled beside her. But Llewelyn is standing in the doorway, looking in on the sunlit room, half-in and half-out, like she’s caught on the edge.
“Llewelyn,” he says, coming to stand beside the antlered woman. “I hope you were not waiting long, I’ve been running a little late today.” He turns his cherry eyes to her then, an apologetic smile turning the corners of his lips up.
“Shall we find a seat?” he asks, gesturing towards the tables waiting for them.
He can hear the sound of a fountain singing away from within, and to him it sounds more like shattering glass than something peaceful.
The scholar didn’t know why she had been so nervous.
She had observed Ipomoea as Regent and had known that Somnus would choose no fool to replace him; indeed, the golden stallion had selected a fine successor in the flower laden Sovereign. Ipomoea was a gentle and intelligent sort, someone who spoke softly but with words that rang with surety. Truthfully, Llewelyn had been pleasantly surprised at how respected the male had become within the Court and had she come to admire him, albeit from afar.
So, when the King of Dawn spoke her name and deigned to offer an apologetic grin — to her! a common scholar! — the maiden felt all pretense and anxiety slip from her shoulders, an invisible cloak pooling to the marbled floor. Llewelyn felt herself responding in kind, a warm smile spreading over her features as she nodded toward the stallion, “I’ve only just arrived, my Lord.”
With another polite nod, the femme made her way for the seat facing away from the doorway and toward the depths of the tea room; she knew better than to leave her Sovereign with his back toward an entryway, even if it was in his own palace. As she settled upon a large maroon cushion, an ear swiveling to catch the chiming melody of a fountain, Llewelyn considered the sort of conversations that would take place during this meeting Of course, she knew which subjects should be discussed, but the mare found herself growing more and more curious about the Poaching incidents.
Though, glancing up at the ivory splashed King, Llewelyn couldn’t force herself to broach such a sensitive topic. After all, he must have been practically overrun with inquiries about the stranger, and a tea appointment was hardly the time or place for such gruesome talk. With a slow blink and a dazzling smile, the mare filled Ipomoea’s tea cup and then her own, resisting the urge to stoop down and inspect the exquisite china. Placing the pot gently back upon the table cloth, she tilted her head just so and asked “Do you take your tea with sugar?”
Blowing upon her own cup and taking a tentative sip, the lass curled her tail about herself — practically the image of a pampered housecat lounging by the hearth — “My apologies,” She started, voice light and eyes glimmering, “I wasn’t present at Court to witness your coronation. I’m sure it was a lovely affair and I’d like to offer both my belated vow of loyalty and a congratulations.” The pursing of her lips was only to hide what would have been a wide, and rather improper, grin, “You wear the mantle of King with grace, truly. I do wonder, though,” Llewelyn leaned in conspiratorially,
“Was it really all that surprising? The Folk here have adored you for as long as you’ve breathed Delumine’s air.”
flowers grow back
even after they have been stepped on
It feels like relief when she first begins to speak, and all at once the silence shatters into pieces so small they seem to have never been significant to begin with. He can hear the fountain again, and the birdsong coming in through the window, and the shuffling of the trees from outside. Their hoofbeats are achingly sharp against the marble floor, as together they turn and make for the table waiting for them.
It is only as he settles down onto the cushion - large and maroon, stuffed with what he imagines to be feathers until he sinks down so far down it seems like he is trapped - that he realizes he has no idea what to expect from their meeting. Ipomoea studies the scholar from the corner of one eye, head turned towards the cut crystal glass that he lifts carefully, slowly, from the tabletop. Llewelyn had always been difficult for him to read. Most of the nobles (and noble-esque) had been; they were all too polished, too impassive, too quick to say one thing and mean another entirely.
When compared to him - Ipomoea who had no refinement, Ipomoea who wore his heart on his sleeve - it had always felt as if they could see through to his very soul. And the feeling of being placed beneath a glass and studied was all too uncomfortable.
He had sometimes felt that way with Messalina, too. And now he turns his eyes quickly away from the horned girl, unwilling to meet her gaze.
“No, thank you.” He had, once; maybe it had not been all that long ago that he still ached for something sweet, but it feels like a lifetime had passed.
He follows her lead, setting down the water glass and politely taking the tea cup she offers him. Steam curls in the air above it, the honey-colored liquid smelling strongly of cloves and cinnamon. He has to force himself to exhale, blowing over it much the same as Llew.
“It wasn’t anything special,” he tells her, and he doesn’t bother to try to hide the small smile he wants to make. “It was a rather busy time, there wasn’t much of an opportunity for any sort of celebration.” Nor, he doesn’t say, would he have wanted one. His heart is already picking up with the lie, however small it is. He takes a quick sip to stop himself from saying anything more.
Sometimes he wonders what the Court would do if they had known. That the smiling, flower-laden Regent had come home with less than honorable intentions, that long before he had made the decision to return he had already known he would return a king. A part of him is still glad that Somnus had surprised him - and unknowingly made the transition easier both on them, and the Court.
But somedays he is selfish, and uncaring, and wishes they all knew he was not as soft as they all remembered him.
“Surprising how?” the words come too quickly at the end of her’s, and he has to stop himself again, reminding himself that it’s his own anxious heart filling in the gaps between her words with his own. He shifts, setting the teacup back down a little too sharply. He prays she doesn’t notice, as he smiles again.
“It felt natural, I suppose-“ another lie, when had he become so good at lying? “-Somnus knew it was time. All of Novus was already changing, it felt right that Delumine should, too.” He reaches for the teacup again but stops himself before he lifts it from the table. And then, as passively and innocently as he can, as if he’s not weighing each word she speaks, he asks her, “Were you? Surprised?”
The scholar hadn’t bee expecting the company of her Sovereign to be so pleasant and disjointed all at once.
Tension or discomfort, she had been prepared for; it wasn’t as if one met their ruler for the first time every day. Llewelyn had also been at least partially expecting for the meeting to be fulfilling; after all, from what she had heard and observed of Ipomoea, he seemed enthusiastic enough about his chosen people, and he was attempting to manage the Poacher issue with what could be interpreted as passion. However, the mare wasn’t quite sure what to do with the king’s contrasts.
The flower laden patriarch came off as kindly, there was no discounting that impression, but he also seemed jerky and jumpy, as if his skin fit just a little too tight and he was worried about breaking out of it. She blinked golden eyes slowly, carefully crafted expression never faltering in the face of such strangeness. Ears tilted forward and gaze intent, Llewelyn aimed to embody the very image of a doting and dutiful subject, hanging on each and every word that spilled from her beloved Sovereign’s mouth.
Of course, this was an accurate depiction, but given Ipomoea’s behavior, maybe not in the way that he or she would have expected. Indeed, the ebon spattered lass was paying rapt attention to the stallion perched across from her, though attention was fixed not upon his words, but the way he said them.
Ipomoea had always been spoken of as genuine, as honest and guileless, but noting the way that the king watched her from the corner of his eyes and how he refused to truly meet her gaze, Llewelyn began to wonder how much guile one would have to possess in order to play such an innocent part. The mare felt her lips tug upward in a prim smile; it seemed her liege was a far more fascinating figure than she has previously thought.
His voice was as honeyed as the tea they drank, the timbre something that Llewelyn knew she could fall into if given enough time. No wonder Messalina and he made such a pair, both were hypnotic, though in different ways. Briefly, the maiden’s thoughts drifted to the pale specter of a mare, and the garnet flowers that adorned her skin like drops of blood. What parts of Ipomoea did the ivory woman see that the rest of his subjects did not? Did she pry him open, splitting the heavy drapery of his near flawless facade to find the golden truth beneath? Or was she another devoted, entranced by the subtle mystery and the careful composition that mixed together in riotous harmony beneath the Sovereign’s skin?
Llewelyn would have to meet the Pale Daughter soon, and discover this for herself.
He set his tea cup down too quickly, too hard, and the sharp clat of porcelain broke through whatever musings Llewelyn had found herself in. Blackened lips curled a bit further as the stallion’s response shot into the air between them, only a fraction too quick to be natural — the courtier was practically dying to respond, to watch his reaction to her planned reply, but she forced herself to wait patiently as he finished.
The mare noticed how his smile matched hers so well, each of them playing a part so practiced that it was ingrained in their lying, blasphemous hearts. She supposed that when one lied enough, when one embodied their lie, that it then became truth — and as a scholar, wasn’t she supposed to be a seeker of truth?
She had nodded along dutifully, alternating between sipping at slowly cooling tea, stirring the steaming drink, and placing it gently back upon its saucer. As Ipomoea’s question faded into the shimmering sound of the fountain, Llewelyn allowed a beat of silence to thicken the air between them, Aurelian eyes flashing with a mix of wryness and curiosity that she had no intent of hiding.
”I had been surprised, yes, but in a pleasant way. You seemed just the innocent and kindly Sovereign that we would need to lean on after the sky erupted,” The mare leaned a bit to her left, taking some pressure off of her right knee and allowing the tendons there to relax. ”Now, though, I cannot say that I am all that surprised, my liege.”
Llewelyn took another sip of tea and pursed her lips at how quickly the winter chill had lowered the temperature. Taking her time and moving with a habitual grace, the scholar took a larger drink to make space before spilling some of the hotter and more fragrant tea into her cup from the pot. Stirring the mixture in with a filigreed spoon, she once again raised the teacup to her lips and took a tentative sip, sighing in satisfaction when the temperature proved to be more to her liking. Setting the china back down with a gentle click, Llewelyn returned her gaze to the cherry red of her king’s before continuing.
”You’re a liar, Ipomoea, and a secret keeper — It takes one to know one.” Her smile became wider, and her eyes became softer, taking the edge from her words and forming them into something akin to acceptance, ”There is no blame in it, of course, it is doubtful that there has ever been a Sovereign who is not at least one of those things.” Another sip of tea, another contented exhalation, ”I don’t intend on doing anything nefarious, if you have any concerns of that, but I would like for us to understand one another. I keep secrets, my liege, but I also disseminate them. I study how the tiniest ripples turn to waves in the grand machine of the Court and the continent — I am a scholar after all.”
Her last statement is punctuated with a soft laugh, and the mirth in her eyes belied the serious nature of her words.
”Whatever you did or didn’t do to obtain the throne, whatever plans you had, they mean nothing now, for here you are and I have no care to change that. However, I would extend an invitation to share your secrets with me, and the secrets of others that you gather. I wish to watch them in motion, an observer with enough information to understand the experiment, and I shall share with you whatever whispers I find have yet to reach your ears — if you wish to hear them.”
Llewelyn treads dangerous waters, this she knows. Such words, such an offer, could be perceived as a threat by lesser men, but having watched the sharpened edge of Ipomoea’s wit these last few minutes, the mare had every faith that her Sovereign was far from being anything close to a lesser man.
flowers grow back
even after they have been stepped on
It was not lost on him, how easily she carried herself. How steady her gaze was on his own, how unnervingly balanced she seemed as she continued to stare upon him, as if she were peering through his eyes and down to his very heart to see how it betrayed him with each tremulous beat.
He supposed it was a part of their upbringing (and their heritage, although he still refused to count his own.) She had been born into this life, had had it ingrained into the fiber of her being since her birth.
Ipomoea had not been so lucky. The desert would never let him forget that he was an orphan, a wanderer, a nobody; that the flowers he wore tucked into his mane were only ever the earth apologizing for the sand and the salt that filled his veins. His blood was starting to roar again, and it was only the sight of a vine, creeping across the marble floor, reaching out with spade-shaped leaves for him that distracted him enough to keep him from fidgeting. And when the first flower pressed itself against his ankle like a kiss, he could almost forget that he was born into a different life than this one, and pretend that it had only ever felt natural to wear a crown that was equal parts gold and petals.
A part of it still felt like a lie (so many things felt like a lie now, now that he knew why the anger felt so right, now that he had seen death and had not been as afraid as he once thought), but less so than before.
And as the silence stretched between his words and her’s, he lost himself for a moment in a sense of tranquility. Ipomoea was not so great a liar as he thought - how could he be, when he had only come into it so recently, so suddenly? He was not practiced enough to lie so well as to not be caught, nor was he experience enough to know what it felt like to be caught.
But oh, how that sense of calm that had settled his wings if only for a moment shattered much the way he imagined the porcelain tea cup would if he were to stand and drop it against the marble floor.
He thought his heart might have stopped at that first now, though. Surely it was traitorous enough to leave him now to deal with this fallout on his own. All he could do while he waited, painfully, endlessly, for his heart to resume, for Llewelyn to say her next bit, was stare at a fixed point on her horns, at a jewel that sparkled like a dying sun in the midmorning light. And still his heart - and his voice - betrayed him.
You’re a liar, Ipomoea.
He still wanted to rebel against that, to deny, deny, deny. They had not been true lies, he told himself, only half-truths, as any king was apt to tell. But he couldn’t bring the words to his lips - you’re wrong, I’m not, Pinocchio is a better liar than I - because he knew now. His entire life had been a lie, before he had even known it to be, why would now be any different? He was desert-born, and there was a part of him that would never belong here in a room full of flowers, and the rest of him hated that part.
It was a relief, as much as it was a torment, to have that part of him recognized.
As Llwelyn finished speaking, he moved his eyes to her’s at last. And with a grip that was almost imperceptibly shaking, he lifted the tea cup to his lips again, barely tasting the honeyed wine. His heart was still raging, begging him to tell her she was wrong even when it knew she was right, but he knew better than to try.
”And say I shared them with you.” His voice was quiet; it sounded far too dry to have been borne of springtime. This time, he was slow, careful, as he set the tea cup back down on the glass table, staring at the horned woman all the while.
”What would you do with them, Llewelyn?”
He knew too many people would trade them like flowers.
flowers grow back
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!
