I P O M O E A
Ipomoea is not sure when his mind first began whispering doubts into his ear, or why. He knows they were there when he came to Denocte, and when fires tore apart the Viride. He thinks they might have been there before that, too, when he walked alongside Somnus and all the other regimes to meet a god. It was hard to say for sure; they had crept in so quietly at first.
It wasn’t until they had built themselves into an army, and screamed as one for blood.
Only then did he hear them for what they were. There were times when it was quiet, when he was alone with his flowers, that he heard them most clearly. They took him unawares, when he was pruning away dead leaves or packing fresh soil into a vase. And then once they had his full attention they tightened their grip like a vice around his heart.
So at Asterion’s quiet acceptance, at the soft wondering he finds in his eyes, Ipomoea can only smile wanly. Perhaps it is, he says to himself, or perhaps we’re all blasphemers and the gods are plotting our demise. There was only ever one way to know for sure, he supposed; and once you were there, once you found yourself on death’s doorstep there would be no second chance for redemption.
Their only chance was here, and perhaps it was for that very reason that the island existed. It had a way of bringing out something childlike in him: a sense of adventure, or thrill-seeking. All of his emotions felt stronger here, as vibrant as the brightness of the leaves and the water and the sky. The island was a place of extremes, he had found, and there within those extremes he could only feel things fully, or not at all. “Would floating to the clouds be so bad?” he asks Asterion now with a laugh, and lifts his head towards the canopy. “I suspect the world appears far different from up there.” Not for the first time, Ipomoea wishes he had wings that had been built for flying.
But he does not. He has only his legs and his mind, and those alone would be enough to explore this island.
And it was, indeed, time to explore.
“Let us see where her story takes us then,” he says with a smile, and he falls into step beside the king. Be it to something great or something terrible.
The forest path is far more welcoming than it should be, with the tall shadows the trees cast over it. The palm fronds she passed through are still smoking when he reaches them, their edges still limned in glowing embers. It feels like the beginning of an adventure as he passes between them, like the smoke that wafts over him is cleansing him from the inside out.
As they walk the trees seem to shiver, the branches and brambles clearing themselves until a pathway remains in their place, the island’s way of inviting them forward. And yet with each step they take, with each stride that carries them deeper into the forest, the trees lean back in behind them. With a sigh and a rustling of leaves, as more of the forest opens before them - more of it closes itself once more behind them. And all the while there is no further sign of the doe, besides the occasional smoking leaf that flutters down to their hooves.
“It certainly is a strange place,” he muses aloud as they walk, glancing at the bay man from the corner of one eye. His voice is oddly hushed, as if by speaking the words too loudly he might somehow offend the magic of the place. “I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason for all of this, for this place. It seems too wonderful to have all been made by chance.” Too wonderful, too terrible, too magical.
It wasn’t until they had built themselves into an army, and screamed as one for blood.
Only then did he hear them for what they were. There were times when it was quiet, when he was alone with his flowers, that he heard them most clearly. They took him unawares, when he was pruning away dead leaves or packing fresh soil into a vase. And then once they had his full attention they tightened their grip like a vice around his heart.
So at Asterion’s quiet acceptance, at the soft wondering he finds in his eyes, Ipomoea can only smile wanly. Perhaps it is, he says to himself, or perhaps we’re all blasphemers and the gods are plotting our demise. There was only ever one way to know for sure, he supposed; and once you were there, once you found yourself on death’s doorstep there would be no second chance for redemption.
Their only chance was here, and perhaps it was for that very reason that the island existed. It had a way of bringing out something childlike in him: a sense of adventure, or thrill-seeking. All of his emotions felt stronger here, as vibrant as the brightness of the leaves and the water and the sky. The island was a place of extremes, he had found, and there within those extremes he could only feel things fully, or not at all. “Would floating to the clouds be so bad?” he asks Asterion now with a laugh, and lifts his head towards the canopy. “I suspect the world appears far different from up there.” Not for the first time, Ipomoea wishes he had wings that had been built for flying.
But he does not. He has only his legs and his mind, and those alone would be enough to explore this island.
And it was, indeed, time to explore.
“Let us see where her story takes us then,” he says with a smile, and he falls into step beside the king. Be it to something great or something terrible.
The forest path is far more welcoming than it should be, with the tall shadows the trees cast over it. The palm fronds she passed through are still smoking when he reaches them, their edges still limned in glowing embers. It feels like the beginning of an adventure as he passes between them, like the smoke that wafts over him is cleansing him from the inside out.
As they walk the trees seem to shiver, the branches and brambles clearing themselves until a pathway remains in their place, the island’s way of inviting them forward. And yet with each step they take, with each stride that carries them deeper into the forest, the trees lean back in behind them. With a sigh and a rustling of leaves, as more of the forest opens before them - more of it closes itself once more behind them. And all the while there is no further sign of the doe, besides the occasional smoking leaf that flutters down to their hooves.
“It certainly is a strange place,” he muses aloud as they walk, glancing at the bay man from the corner of one eye. His voice is oddly hushed, as if by speaking the words too loudly he might somehow offend the magic of the place. “I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason for all of this, for this place. It seems too wonderful to have all been made by chance.” Too wonderful, too terrible, too magical.
@asterion hope it's okay where i took this c':
”here am i!“
”here am i!“
