lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
The flowers were bright and full—the very best Ipomoea could find. He had searched for them all day, carefully, critically selecting the prettiest and the most perfect, rejecting hundreds in the process. During this search had he also selected five long and sturdy strands of prairie grass, braiding them together into a hardy cord that he tied around his finished bouquet. It was impressive in size and sight, yes, the many blossoms arranged meticulously to best please the eye, but even more so in effort, for Ipomoea had devoted many hours singularly to his flower-picking task.
If this was not good enough for a god, he didn’t know what was.
He had picked the northwestern portion of the clearing, for if he were to draw a map of Novus onto the ground the northwest would align with Dawn Court, and the Dawn Court aligned with Oriens. Carefully had he laid his bouquet down amongst the grass and moss, its flowers bright against the dark green background. Without a word he bowed, inclining his head low to his ankles and paused for one, two, three long breaths. Still speechless, eyes downcast in reverence, he laid beside his offering and waited.
An expectant breeze filled the clearing atop the Veneror Peak, ruffling the petals as his bouquet lay on the ground. Ipomoea’s breath caught in his throat, straining to keep his eyes on the flowers, sure some great, miraculous sign was about to occur.
The breeze died, and the flowers became still once more.
With a huff, Ipomoea relaxed again, swishing his short tail across the ground. He wasn’t sure why he had spent so much time carefully crafting his offering, hiking the rocky paths to reach such an empty place, save that it was his duty as Emissary to align himself with Oriens. Perhaps he had expected more: his life had been so filled with adventures and with helping hands that it seemed impossible for it to have not been orchestrated by a god. To leave his journey up to pure chance seemed silly—chance would have seen him dead in the Day Court as a struggling weanling, unable to tolerate the heat and the sand and the dry. It would not have seen him, an orphan, traveling the world and ending in the Dawn Court, elected as Emissary. This was why he had taken so much care in creating his offering: he had had little to return to a god who had given him life itself, so he had decided to give him his most favorite of things: flowers.
Still, it did not seem as though his actions were pleasing to the god, for here he still lay, alone, without any sign of something greater.
It seemed silly now, in retrospect. Why would a god want flowers? Surely, Oriens had his pick of the entire meadow of Delumine! Oriens could make himself the most perfect flower, creating a new species singularly for himself, the brightest and fullest with the most intricately arranged petals—Ipomoea could see the possibilities in his mind, the beauty and detail of a god making something beautiful for himself.
It made his own offering seem small, pitiful in comparison.
A tear rolled down the Emissary’s speckled cheek. How foolish of him, to devote so much time to an unworthy gift. But what else could he have done? He knew not what would be considered worthy to a god—if only Oriens could have left instructions, a list of the things he liked most, Ipomoea would have fulfilled all of them if it meant gaining his favor. As it was, his flowers were met only with silence, and Ipomoea was left waiting.
“Oriens?” he called out, his voice sounding small and shaky. He had no idea if a god would answer a mortal—but it was at least worth a shot?
As she climbed, Messalina felt like she had left her weary, mortal body a thousand feet below. Her past, her burdens—they vanished with the land as she pressed onwards, towards the peak and into the clouds. A breath in—the scent of sweet moss, the kiss of cold fog—and a breath out. White clouds of steam streamed from her lips and nose, yet oddly, the cold didn’t bother her in the slightest. She did not know what to call this feeling, this weightlessness… delight? Is that what it was?
Nevermind that. For the first time in a long time, the ivory girl’s lips spread into a smile as bright as her gleaming pelt.
That morning, she had been aghast when the old sage she was employed to summoned her in his wheezing gasp (made hoarse from the eons of dust that had accumulated in his ancient abode, no doubt) and requested that she climb Veneror Peak to offer prayers in his place. She had accepted without protest—a habit she found hard to shake—but her mind was awhirl with horror. How thoughtless of him! Requesting that a lady such as herself risk life and limb to ascend the infamous peaks? All for a prayer to silent gods? Religion remained a foreign concept to her, the lengths that the citizens of Novus took to show their veneration baffling. The old sage took pleasure in assigning Messalina "recommended" reading, so she was familiar with the ancient lore of the land. However, belief requires more than faded words in a dusty scroll.
But now, surrounded by snow-tipped peaks and closer to the sun than the earth—she began to see why the citizens of Novus believed. There was a breathtaking rawness to the beauty that lay before her, a fierce sublimity that suggested a higher power responsible for it. Her heart beat fast and strong as she paused for a moment, breath leaving her in short puffs as she attempted to process the maelstrom of sensations coursing through her veins.
A blue flower lay at her feet, wholly out of place among the moss-coated rocks. It was a lovely shade, and preserved in a moment of exquisite bloom by the crisp mountain air. She picked it up, and without further thought, wound it into her mane. The sparse air must be getting to me—why else would I place another flower, and a discarded one at that, in my braids? Though she couldn’t see it, her thoughts drifted to the red rose nestled behind her ear. She no longer felt it there, and she no longer wondered why it remained as pristine as the day she received it. Mother’s spell would never leave her, it seemed.
“Oriens?” A shaky voice yanked her from her thoughts, and she frowned as her frost-blue eyes squinted ahead to no avail. The fog remained thick and impenetrable, allowing nothing but sound to pass. Intrigued (perhaps the mountain air did get to her head), she stepped forward, the lean outline of a painted figure slowly materializing as she approached.
"Why do you call out the God of Dawn’s name?" she wondered, realizing too late that she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
— ♕ —
@Ipomoea notes: delighted to RP with the precious Po! ^u^
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
He had not been expecting an answer--not from Oriens himself, and most certainly not from a curious stranger. Ipomoea had failed to even consider the option, believing himself to be truly alone with his flowers and the god. It startled him for a moment (foolishly considering for a half beat that this feminine voice may have come from the god of knowledge), lifting his head to search all around him for the source.
Of course, gods had no origins, so he had been told: the voice belonged to a girl instead. She was dressed in white and curls, a rose as red and bright as anything he'd ever seen before tucked behind one ear. And weaved also into her hair was a blue flower he recognized: it had come from his bouquet, so carefully and perfectly picked, fallen free and discarded. Was this flower why Oriens had abandoned his call? At least the flower had received new attention after he had so carelessly left it behind on the mountain trail.
He was so consumed in his thoughts, in the unexpected appearance of her, that he forgot to speak for several seconds.
"He is my patron, as a servant of his court." The words stumbled ineloquently out, a stutter here and an awkward pause there. It is what he was supposed to say, wasn't it? As Emissary to his court, he was indebted to the god of wisdom, to Oriens the god of knowledge and guidance.
'But I don't know him...' He was barely able to stop himself from speaking the words aloud, biting his tongue back. "I um, came to give an offering," he says instead. "But I'm not sure Oriens likes flowers as much as us." He gestured between the flowers in her hair and the bundle he had at his feet, the match undeniable.
"Why do you ask?" The words are not blunt, but curious rather: she smelled of spring, with those flowers tangled up in her wild hair. He could guess that she, too, might be from the Dawn Court--but he knew even less of her than he knew of their god.
As her eyes adjusted to the sudden starkness of the clearing and the garnet patches that gleamed like a burning sunset upon the stranger’s ivory pelt, Messalina abruptly paused in her stride as it dawned on her that she was intruding on a moment never meant for her ears. Had she not spoken so thoughtlessly, she could’ve slipped away, melting back into the fog like a wraith. But her voice was akin to a stone thrown into a tranquil lake; its effects were as inevitable as the ripples that would overcome the once-pristine surface.
Wide, robin-red eyes flitted towards her own sparrow’s egg blues, bewilderment evident in his gaze. For a fragile moment, they simply stared at each other, each not quite knowing how to respond. She, for one, simply wished to quietly retreat and act as if she hadn’t just infringed upon the poor boy and his solitude. After what seemed like an eternity of distress on her end, words mercifully tumbled out of the painted worshipper’s lips.
Orien’s court? Then he is of the same court as I. She took the smallest bit of comfort from that thought, as she’d grown so much accustomed to Delumine that she was beginning to feel a touch of affinity towards all those loyal to Dawn. "I am surprised to have met a fellow citizen of Dawn so high in these mountains,” Messalina replied, dropping into a graceful bow. She willed for her tense muscles to relax, for a smile to replace her frown (she’d failed to correct her grim expression in the midst of their unexpected encounter) as the boy’s uneasiness became more apparent with every stuttered syllable. It would not do to have two skittish birds in these sacred peaks. The girl mused that the gods would take them too lightly then.
As he motioned towards their shared fondness of flowers, her eyes fell upon the bouquet that lay by the offering altar. This is where that flower originated from. What a meticulous eye for beauty he has. Every petal was perfect in placement and hue, stalks held together by a braid of finely woven grass. So this was what went into a proper offering; the gods must be pleased by such a gift.
But his words puzzled her. What Oriens likes? Was he such a partial being, to care more for material offerings than the intent of the heart? She moved closer towards the boy as she approached the altar herself, steps muffled by the dewey moss below her hooves. What a curious one—his dedication in preparing his offering betrayed his veneration, yet doubt still clung to his heart like cobwebs. What does he seek from Orien so desperately? Her expression morphed into one of concentration as his question perplexed her as well. Was her question so… out of the ordinary? Perhaps she had committed some sort of faux pas by asking.
"I am not originally from these lands,” she began, shifting her slender frame towards him. "Where I am from, religion did not hold nearly as much significance as it does here—that is, if it even existed at all. I am not sure.” A frown touched her lips as she struggled to piece together her thoughts, not understanding why she was validating instead of pardoning her previous mistake. "I was not a believer of your gods. I read about them—all the lore, all the traditions—and I was intrigued. But that interest stemmed from a purely scholastic standpoint. The deities remained nothing more than folklore to me.” Her gaze slipped from him to the moss-carpeted earth as words poured like a tidal wave from her mouth.
"Yet even to this day, the beauty of this land continues to fascinate me. There was no such beauty where I came from. ‘Novus—it must be dearly loved to display the blessings of the gods so bountifully,’ was what I thought.” Blue orbs found crimson ones as she peered at him, deeply, for the first time. "Now that you are aware of my position, my opinion may be trivial. But I believe Orien likes your bouquet very much. Your devotion to him is embedded into every petal. Is that not what matters most?” Her words hung in the air. The girl felt… odd, exposed. She’d spoken so much, even expressed an opinion that was uncalled for. It was not like her at all, to voice such meaningless thoughts.
The mountain air had truly turned her mad, she lamented.
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
The blue eyes upon him were so captivating, and so much different than those he was used to seeing; Ipomoea simply couldn’t look away. Her voice was melodic, and so very different from the sound of his own strained thoughts and voice. Did she, too, lament the silence of the gods? If she did, it didn’t show in her voice or across her features.
A bit of envy rushed through him at the thought that perhaps the gods had revealed themselves to her, and not him; he quickly pushed the feeling back down, suffocating it in his mind. Such feelings had no place in his heart, especially towards another child of Dawn.
Instead, he lowered his own crown towards the ground in a delicate arch, head dipped low upon his outstretched foreleg. His eyelashes brushed the delicate skin of his knee as he closed his eyes, just for a moment. His heart pounded hard against his chest, straining alongside his mind for something more. And then he was straightening again, brushing any remnants of dirt and traveler’s dust from his shoulders so that he might seem more presentable. “Nor have I,” he admitted, though he was sure she could have suspected so herself. His surprise was rather evident, after all. “I can’t say I’ve made the journey here often, myself. It is a rather long way,” he agreed.
Did she not recognize him? Instinctively, the small wings graced upon his ankles folded themselves up tight, as though to hide themselves from her sight. No, they weren’t the most distinguishing feature of his; but who else in Dawn had wings like his? In all of Novus? Ipomoea had become used to the bird’s wings, both their blessing and their curse. But still, there were times he wished it were not so… often, he’d prefer them to be upon his back, and larger—much larger!—like the rest of the pegasi. Today—he wished they didn’t even exist.
But she had not offered her own name, either, making no move to identify herself; for now, he would follow suit. There was always time for introductions later.
He lifted his head when she began speaking again, although he was unsure just when he had began to study his fetlocks so intensely. The words poured from her mouth unfettered, a frown shifting rosy lips downwards. He could see the struggle on her face, evident in her eyes and the slant of her brows. Ipomoea was drawn in by her narrative without even realizing he was, leaning forward as if on the edge of his seat. As if by any moment he could spring forward and drown himself in her words, lose himself in the story she wove. He hung onto her every word, running them over and over again in his mind at the speed of light, savoring the sound they made thrumming in the air between them.
And when she stopped, the pause, the silence hanging between them pulled him back into reality, reminding him that it was his turn to speak. What has gotten into me lately…
“The scholars and priests say it is,” he blurted, turning from her piercing blue eyes to study a small boulder nearby. His eyes roved over the cracks and blemishes on its skin, the moss covering one side of the stone. From the intensity of his stare, it might seem that the rock was the most interesting thing in the world to him, rather than the girl who had interrupted his prayer. “They say Tempus loved the sun so much, he had children who he instructed to care for it. The sun is what blesses our world so, for no other world has so many gods to keep it in line.” He spoke of the sun like it was a living thing, with its own unruly temperament—but if it were not so, why else would it need so many gods to harness it? He took a few steps forward, touching the tip of his nose to the moss growing upon his rock.
“They also say we are supposed to honor them. That’s why I bring flowers to Oriens; they’re beautiful, and beauty is honoring, is it not?”
He offered a shy smile, peeking back at her from the corners of his eyes. “After all, he and his siblings give us the sun, and the sun gives us the trees and the grass and the flowers and all other things beautiful in nature. I thought that was something to be thankful for, to show them that I’m thankful for it.” Silence separated them again, but his talking had made him braver. He turned now to look back at her, meeting her azure gaze head on. She claimed that Oriens liked his offering, without any discernible sign from Oriens himself. Yet she had read the all same books about Tempus and hid children as Ipomoea had; was he missing something then, to hold such a different mindset than her?
“Do you speak for Oriens? I’ve never met someone, other than a priest, who thought to understand the feelings of the gods.” And she had already admitted to not being one. In fact, she was someone who had already admitted to being raised by a people who held little care for their own deities; how was it that she could know more than he, who had been born here and instructed in the ways of worship? Yet his tone wasn’t accusing; it was wondering. Longing shone in his eyes, though if asked he wouldn’t have been able to recognize the emotion, nor explain where it came from.
Memories flooded her mind like a roaring waterfall, and for a moment, Messalina could not escape the clutches of its frothing depths.
Her childhood was defined by solitude. As the sun rose and set, a small girl dipped in ivory and donned in lace would sit at the ledge of her cavernous window, blankly observing the golden disc trickle slowly across the skies; distant laughter from the children below would echo through her ears, yet she showed no sign of hearing it. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon. For every day when the sun dipped low, just before night’s ascension—every day, she would solemnly whisper her deepest wishes to the departing sun.
Messalina’s words to the boy of crimson and pearl had been delicately littered with small, white lies. Religion wasn’t merely insignificant; it had been outlawed in Algernon generations before her time—the holy books burned, the temples destroyed. She had known only the concept of it from the hushed sentences the nursemaids whispered to each other, when they thought she was not listening. Yet what was religion, if not a way to comfort the hearts of the hopeless and the sorrowed? The longing for a sympathetic higher power could not be beaten out of the kingdom’s people; and to little Messa, who remained firmly tethered at the side of the viperous Enchantress—she found her solace in the Sun and the Moon and the Stars.
Cerulean orbs blinked, as the weight of consciousness returned to her. It had been only a split second really, too short for him to notice; yet as her scorching eyes sought his, a flutter of anxiety danced in her stomach as his crimson gaze remained stubbornly set upon that dratted, moss-covered rock. Had she… upset him? Strangely, the thought of that disturbed the girl far more than she cared to admit.
But then his vibrant eyes met hers, finally, and all was well again.
After all, he and his siblings give us the sun, and the sun gives us the trees and the grass and the flowers and all other things beautiful in nature. I thought that was something to be thankful for, to show them that I’m thankful for it. His melodic words could paint the sky gold, if he wished. She found herself stepping closer as he grew bolder, and when the boy held her gaze this time—unwavering in its intensity—then it was her turn to avert a burning gaze to the exasperated stone.
"The way you put it—it sounds wonderful,” she murmured, voice just loud enough to reach his slender ears. And this time, her quiet words rang with truth. For a moment, Messalina could envision the world as he did—pure, sublime. Everything in focus. But like a sunbeam it slipped from her hands, and once again she was drifting through an endless void. Alone, like always.
Do you speak for Oriens? I’ve never met someone, other than a priest, who thought to understand the feelings of the gods.
She turned to him then, thoughts tense yet somewhat relieved as his weighty question gave her the mental probe she’d needed to regain some composure. Ivory braids rustled as she gingerly shook her head. "I am not worthy enough to bear Oriens’ blessings and will—you are far more suited, boy of blue poppies,” and she aimed a muted smile towards the bright blooms that lay still on the altar. As she admired them once more, Messalina suddenly remembered why she was there in the first place.
Moving with dancer’s steps across the moss-carpeted floor, she drew out the sparkling bottle of aged mead the old sage had given her that morning. And along the rim, she tied a blue satin butterfly she’d embroidered with gold thread the night before. Her skills were not as polished as she would like, but it cast a sapphire reflection across the stone-carved altar. It also complimented the poppies wondrously well, as she set her offerings close to his.
Lowering herself into the position she’d found him in, snowy eyelashes rested upon her cheeks as she sent a prayer to the God of Dawn. Her first one. As she rose, she felt the vast distance that stretched like an ocean between herself and the starlight boy painfully well.
"When I was younger, I used to call upon the Sun like an old friend, the Moon like a soothing hand. I did not know of gods nor worship, yet I allowed myself to be comforted by the belief that they would understand me. I’m afraid it is this naive assumption that still guides me today.”
She did not know why she was telling him so much. Why she was revealing bits and pieces of herself, when she never did so even for Mother. All her life, Messalina had locked her heart away behind a gilded cage. Yet now, it strained against its bonds, and soon, she was afraid the bars would break. The thought terrified her—and so the girl of satin and roses wrapped golden chains around that cage, and shuddered as they locked in place.
"I realize now that I still do not know your name. Please, forgive my manners. I am Messalina, and I was a… dancer, at my previous court.” A pause separated her words, as the girl wondered at what to call herself. Well, it is not far from the truth.
For the truth was a monster she did not wish him to see.
— ♕ —
@Ipomoea notes: this is long ;o; po's got her flustered!
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
They went back and forth with their eyes, fleeting glances of blue and pink that turned the whole world in between purple when they met. First his own, then her’s, then his again—it was like a game they played to find out who could hold whose gaze the longest. And yet, they both were quick to turn away, both were apt to fail.
But in the seconds when their eyes did meet, there seemed in an instant to flash such a great burst of energy that thrummed and nearly burst—whether it originated from the pale-skinned girl or himself, or some combination of the two, Po was not entirely sure. But in that short amount of time, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of something lingering in her eyes. Yet it was gone before he had a chance to properly place, unidentifiable and lost forever.
He watched her as she turned away, and the time separating his heartbeats shortened, blood thundering in his ears and in his chest. A blush, as deep a red as his eyes, set his cheeks aflame as it flared. Was it wonderful? He wouldn’t have found it exceptional, had she been the one to say so. "I suppose it does," he murmured back, his tone equally pensive. Perhaps it was just the way he had grown up, always looking for the bright side of things. He had never stopped to consider there was a dark side to life, for he had never seen it for himself, at least not truly.
And still, he failed to consider how different they might be, he the boy from the bright side of life and she the girl who’d seen too much of the gloomier variety. He failed to notice the history hiding there, etched into the delicate lines of her face and the way she carried herself; he only saw a friend.
A friend that had made him blush.
”You are far more suited, boy of blue poppies.” Boy of blue poppies. He liked the way the title lilted so carelessly off of her tongue, ringing through the cold mountain air. He’d never minded being associated with flowers—most often it was the ones braided in his hair, a mix of roses and morning glories and wildflowers and carnations, whatever he stumbled upon each day when he wove his crown. But these could suit him just as well, he decided. Maybe his choice in offerings had been alright, after all. Maybe Oriens was just a quieter god—could gods be shy? Ipomoea wouldn’t know, but undoubtedly one of the scholars back home would. He made a mental note now to research it better then—but now, he was watching Messalina present her own prayers.
The way she moved was so graceful, appearing effortless in a way he had not observed in many other men and women—and Po had done his fair share of people watching, particularly recently. And when she bowed down low, he felt the blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheek again, though he was unsure why. Quickly, he looked away, feeling as though he were intruding now on a moment that was meant to be quite private.
Only a moment of silence passed, and then her voice was back in his ear. And it was almost too eagerly, too naively, that he turned back to face her.
But she spoke of her beliefs like they were a bad thing; like she had no place for them now, as an adult. But what she called a naive assumption, didn’t many others brand as hope? As faith? The only difference was that one side was frowned upon, and the other respected. “I don’t think that’s naive,” there he was again, letting his tongue speak without permission, without forethought. He smiled shyly, hesitation catching up to his words. “I think it’s only natural to want to be understood… to want someone to understand you.”
This time he was prepared for the blush, turning his head ever so slightly to cast his face into the light. Red reflected off the hairs of his cheek, natural enough to be attributed to his bay color.
And then came the introductions, and his dread and conflict returned with their arrival. It was selfish, really, to withhold information about himself—his teachers and advisers had groomed him to own it, to interject it into the conversation whenever possible, but here it just felt wrong to. He didn’t want to be tied to that title, not just now, when it might make her see him in a different light. After all, Emissaries were supposed to be religious, knowledgable to a fault about their deities—and he was still sorely lacking in this area of his studies. Oh, if only his teachers could see him now, for surely they'd have their own words to say about the way he conducted himself tonight. Maybe he wouldn't tell them about his trip to Veneror Peak after all.
“I am Ipomoea.” His tongue caught in his throat, and for a moment he believed he was going to give in to his temptation, so willing to hide this part of himself from her. But then his better nature kicked back in, and he added on, albeit reluctantly: “…Emissary to King Kasil.” And his innocent conscience sighed a breath of relief because of it.
He coughed a little then, clearing his throat. “What was your previous Court, girl of red roses?” Turning her earlier title, first given to him, back upon her now. The smile was back, shining now with a hint of amusement in his cherry-pink eyes.
She was not at all familiar with this elusive dance. Of fleeting glances, timid steps, heated cheeks—none of it was deliberate, none of it rehearsed. The moves simply eluded her, like a cat that had slipped ever so coyly between her legs, only to dash off as soon as she extended a cautious hand. Yet as foreign as it felt, Messalina wished to dance it again and again, each time more certain than the last—with him alongside her.
To her chagrin, she could not explain why, could not maneuver through this encounter with grace and charm guiding her like faithful friends. They had abandoned her, and try as she might, she could not make heads or tails of the path she once knew like the back of her hand. But what she did know, what she felt sure of—was that something about the cream and crimson boy drew her inextricably, hopelessly, to him. It defied all reason, all logic. But perhaps… all good things did.
As her trailing eyes wandered to his glowing cheeks (in stark contrast to her stubbornly bloodless ones) she felt her worries diminish just a touch. Perhaps he was feeling as lost as she was. Or, perhaps he is as charmed by me as I am by him. With a start, cerulean blues blinked in frustration as Messalina banished the traitorous voice instantly.
Much in vain—for as it faded, it left a trail of sapphire petals in its wake.
“I think it’s only natural to want to be understood… to want someone to understand you.”
Did he truly think that? Her wary gaze stilled as it probed the angles of his fine visage for a trace of deception, a tail of a lie. Sincerity greeted her at every turn.
“If you think it is, then so shall I,” she remarked, a light smile tracing the edges of her solemn mouth. The urge to see the color deepen his pale cheeks again, to know that she was the cause of it, sent the girl’s stomach awhirl in a terrible mix of amusement and abashment. How incredibly light she felt, then, as she entrusted him with her name. Could she consider him a... friend, now?
Oddly, the term did not taste as sweet as she thought it would have in her mouth. And as if in mockery of her increasing distress, the condemning voice had returned in a flurry of blossoms: You do not want him for a friend, do you? Yet she was spared from answering, by a much more immediate revelation.
The… Emissary? It had been the last thing she had expected him to say. To her horror, Messalina felt her shock drip like corrosive poison into her gaze. Swiftly, she averted her eyes. He could not know.
"I—Please, forgive my ill manners. I was not aware of your rank,” she breathed, slender back arched as she held her curtsy for one, two shaking breaths—before drawing herself upright again. Head tilted ever so delicately downwards, as Messalina gingerly avoided his cerise gaze. So casually she had spoken, so many indecorous glances she had shared—with the Emissary of her own court! It had been a terrible mistake to remain ignorant of Delumine's inner court. Like an arrogant fool, she had wished to distance herself from nobility and etiquette and crowns, certain she would never again walk amongst them. But Ipomoea... he had smiled at her so warmly, addressed her so gently. All while she had remained blatantly ignorant of his position and duties.
“Girl of red roses.” His words were fatal hits to her spiraling composure. Stop! She wanted to shout. You do not know how I shall struggle to face you, Ipomoea, if you say such lovely things.
He wished to know of her court. And she did not wish to tell him. "My previous court... it is far away, across the ocean. The Court of Algernon.” Slowly, Messalina dared a glance back into those depths of beautiful crimson. A mistake, for she could never, never hold herself back when she did. "I do not miss it, in the slightest.”
— ♕ —
@Ipomoea notes: omg this post is everywhere ;-; sorry this took me so long!
lay me down in golden dandelions ‘cause i’ve been waiting
He wasn’t used to people agreeing with him; it took him aback a little. More often than not, he found himself in the position of the one learning, being instructed rather than instructing. He agreed with other’s ideas; others rarely agreed with his, because he was never the one to speak first (at least, not when it mattered it seemed.) The reversal of roles was nearly enough to cause him to blush again—but perhaps his cheeks were still recovering from the last one.
He peered at her from beneath his long lashes, and for just a moment all of his nerves and worry left him, dissipating into the thin mountain air. Ipomoea was content: to hit pause, worry-free, to be still with her.
It was as if in slow motion that he watched the horror slide into her eyes, her expression following suit. Ipomoea wished he could take the words back, to stuff them back inside of his mind where they belonged, where they could cause no harm. But it was too late, and he knew so — he’d made his decision, and now he would deal with it.
But did it have to be such a big deal? His lashes drooped in sorrow, the corners of his lips tugging into a subtle frown. He was only the Emissary; it’s not as if he was quite so important as Kasil or Somnus, nor was he excellent enough to be a Champion. And neither could he punish her for a misdemeanor, for that, too, was the Warden’s job. His role was not nearly so reputable as all of these, yet still it seemed to draw a wedge between himself and the pale-freckled girl. And it surprised even himself how much he hated it.
“Please, don’t apologize,” he implored, taking one careful step towards her. How he wished he could make her understand! Couldn’t they still be friends, she and him? “I’m not—“ He wasn’t what? Ipomoea could not find the words to make her understand if he did not understand himself. He frowned again, casting his eyes back to the moss-covered rock as he tried to think.
“I can just be Ipomoea, to you.”
He was painfully aware of the change in tone of their conversation; he could sense now her unwillingness to talk to him. ’That had not been there before, had it?’ If it was, he hadn’t noticed, and he felt foolish all of a sudden for it. How could he have been so caught up in how he might have been feeling, that he failed to realize she did not feel similarly? What a poor excuse for an Emissary he was, unable to even hold a proper conversation anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, struggling to compose himself. “I hope Delumine, Novus, holds a brighter future for you.”’Is that the best you can do?’
Ipomoea shifted uncomfortable as silence stretched between them again, trying unsuccessfully to think of a way to restart the conversation. But it seemed he had doomed it and himself during the introductions. With an inward sigh, he cast his eyes to the sky. “It’s getting late,” he mused aloud, watching the sun inch nearer to the horizon, imagining Solis passing the star into his sister’s care. “I suppose I should be getting back.” He inclined his head one final time to Oriens alter, smoothing the petals of his bouquet gently with his telekinesis. He was stalling, and he knew it.
But he lifted his gaze to her one more time, painfully aware of the space separating them—physically, socially, emotionally. His heart beat once, twice, three times in his pause, reverberating off the walls of his chest as he tried to force his mouth to move.
He had already dug himself into a hole, what more harm could he do?
Would the flower-wreathed Emissary, with a voice as soft and soothing as Messalina’s finest silks, see the battle that raged beneath the dancer’s shadowed eyes? She prayed he wouldn’t—but then, she had never been well-versed in hiding emotion behind darkly hooded eyes, against close-lipped smiles. It was not like the way she spun gilded words like spider’s silk, as eloquently as breathing. This was different altogether, and unbearably, agonizingly suffocating.
Messalina wished so much that it could be easy. To take his words as they came, to dislodge his name from his rank as deftly as plucking a flower. Yet the utter opposite had been so ingrained into her very being, that it was akin to fighting for air in the midst of a furious sea. The roaring waves refused to let her surface, refused to release even a slender limb from its churning depths.
Why do things always turn out this way? Am I cursed to be a thorn to the heart towards everyone I shall ever meet? The scornful, fear-tinged gazes she’d received all her life had always pierced like small needles against her skin. Most days, they were little more than a tingling nuisance; yet some days, when the air was frigid and Mother was angry, they would manage to embed themselves deep inside her heart.
"I would like that, very much,” but Messalina’s low whisper was lost to the Veneror’s howling winds. Maybe she had never meant for him to hear anyways. There was nothing more she could say to him, regardless, without it sounding like an apology. She didn’t think he wanted to hear apologies, when he had done nothing to deserve one and she had nothing to apologize for.
As Ipomoea turned his painted face away from her, a throbbing hurt gnashed its dull teeth at the edges of the girl’s chest. Angrily, she clenched her tongue against her cheek. I do not deserve to feel this way. Perhaps it is for the best that we part ways. They no longer had any more reason to stay. Orien himself had probably grown tired of their presence upon his marbled altar.
Yet as he turned to leave, as a farewell slipped itself heavily upon her lips, the Emissary spun back around in a rustle of petals. Warily, she caught his wavering gaze. “Would you, like to accompany me?"
What? Like ripples upon a mirrored-glass lake, Messalina stared for a moment too long into eyes of the lightest carmine. As soft and hesitant as Dawn’s shy sunrise. But it was enough. It would always be enough, to clear away the stormclouds that lingered always above the cold-skinned girl of winter.
"I thought you would never ask, Ipomoea.” And this time, this time—her words pushed mightily against the winds as they danced their way steadily towards him. "I would like that, very much.”
— ♕ —
@Ipomoea notes: AHH THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG ;n; but that should be a wrap! loved this thread so much <3
