the caged bird longs for the fluttering of high leaves. the fish in the garden pool languishes for meeting waters of whirled streams.
F
eet brush along a changing surface, crunching below grates like broken glass, and the sand shifts evermore with pearls and shells falling to the wayside. Once-long hair, now cut, and cropped and tied back into a fierce and battle-ready form, seems to shiver with the sighing of the seas. Waters reach forth, beg to touch dark feet, press against naked ankles save for golden bracelets and children’s dreams.
They are denied by the woman and tiger.
Orange stripes streak over the land next to the winged creature. Together, they are sleek. Together, they are strong.
Rumors spread like wildfire, lifting into the air on dandelion seeds, running through the people as wind through stalks of grass. Murmurs of the colt who fell. The colt the healer had rushed to, checked his pulse and head, checked for bruises and bandaged as best she could. Stories that came of it were of little consequence. Yet here she walks, along the edge of the world, looking for that song in her blood that calls for something...something more than her, more than the tigress, more than everything.
Something new that is not quite him and not quite her and not quite of this earth.
So they seek Time hand in hand.
@ | "speaks" | notes: open to any who wish to delve into the island with a pensive girl
The ink was neat and pretty upon the page where he left it, black on white, elegant and sloping. Dear Mateo, it started, in fancy, crisp script. I hope this letter finds you well...
But it did not make it far down the page; the quill tapped impatiently against the desk, the ink dried upon the page with no fresh words to add to its length. He had gone over his letter over and over, until there was not a single part of it that was untouched. Lines had been scratched out and alternative words written in the margins, and still it remained an unfinished disaster. Try as he might, his mind refused to focus.
And that was before the rumors had reached him.
When Ipomoea heard that the ivy had fallen at last and that a statue of a unicorn had appeared overnight, when he heard that magic and time ran amuck on a world seemingly separated from Novus - he had left his desk and his letter at once. Even now it lay curled upon his desk, pushed back and forth by the wind drifting in through the open window, and the regent was gone from his chambers.
The air on the island seemed fresher, crisper; a stark contrast to the stale and dusty air from his room. Each breath was restorative, as if the magic in the air were infecting him in the best of ways. He could get drunk on breathing alone he knew, if only he stayed here long enough.
And he supposed he would. There was enough gossip to make his head spin here - gossip of gods and monsters, of silver men with daggers in their teeth and a relic older than time itself. So he strides along the beach with a determination he didn’t know he possessed, a sureness in each step that he would not have found had he stayed within Delumine. The world is changing, and Ipomoea is changing alongside it.
”You’re not the only one changing,” Odet’s voice was welcome in his mind, as the songbird landed upon his withers. ”Look.” He gestured with one wing, blue feathers glinting in the sunlight, and the dawn child followed their course.
His first thought is that he doesn’t recognize her - his second thought is that he should.
He comes alongside her and her tiger, the brightness in his eyes nearly synonymous with the shine of her feathers. And when he turns to look at her there’s something knowing in his eyes, for Ipomoea has heard the stories of Denocte’s Emissary.
“Miss Tonnerre,” his breath is a sigh nearly lost on the wind. “I was wondering if I might find you here.” And he couldn’t help but wonder when he looked into the other mare’s eyes -
- Had she heard rumors of the flower-crowned boy, as well?
I have come back to the square enclosures of my fields And to my walled garden with its quiet paths.
E
mbarrassment is a stain upon dark cheeks, a curling lip and sultry eyes turning as a midnight lover to caress the crown of a man made from flowers. They’d met once, she thinks, long, long ago at a Flower Festival when he’d made her a wreath of wildflowers to woo a boy that stood beside her. How she’d been a wild and wanton thing then!
Still so much a child before more of the world sought to strip her down until only bones remained, and even then crush bones into stardust to return to the cosmos.
But she is a girl no longer, and she is not unfamiliar with all who reside within these lands. The smile comes unbidden to her lips, as easy as the sea breeze that plays with their dark hair. Ipomoea is every bit as handsome as she remembers and much taller when beside her.
Neerja merely flicks an ear, feeling nothing of negativity nor darkness radiating from him. A huff has her falling behind to watch the two from further down the beach, letting them walk side by side (hand in hand) over strange shores.
"I’ve been caught, Ipomoea,” she says lightly. Head dips even as that song in her blood that cries for Time sings on forevermore. "You must let me show you around Denocte sometime to make up for having been unable to greet you before?” And she thinks of the hidden libraries, the underground treasures, the Scarab and its delicacies.
Her home is a jewel of the sea, wearing its own crown of diversity and splendors, and it boasts of none of these things too loudly should strangers flock in and overrun the carefully crafted culture. Theirs is a nation of art and freedom.
She will protect them with her life.
But perhaps, the phoenix thinks, Ipomoea is not so unwelcome and different from them. He has stars in his eyes too, and his breath reminds her of the cosmos and lighter things. "What brings you to this strange land today?”
@Moira | "speaks" | notes: table 1 for the lovely mo <33
”I’ve been caught,” she tells him, and his name is gentle on her lips when she turns her eyes to look at him. He can’t help the similar smile that blossoms like a rose across his face - happiness had always been contagious, when it came to Ipomoea. He couldn’t help but smile when others smiled, laugh when others laughed, dance when others danced.
He was beginning to learn that anger, too, was an emotion he could soak up and reflect as easily as any other. But oh, how much nicer it was to be happy and at peace!
Too few of the world had that, these days.
“I would love that,” he tells the red woman, and he means each word he says. “Your city is marvelous, as soon as I think I’ve seen it all it shows me something new.” He’s walked the streets of Denocte under three different Sovereigns now, at very different times of the Court’s history - it was a second home to him, a place that always made him feel as if he were waking up from a long slumber. But there was something in the lightness of her voice and the shine of her golden eyes that promised adventure, that promised to show him places of the city he had never seen before. It piqued at his wanderlust soul.
So when she asks him why he’s here, his heart sings with laughter.
“Adventure.”
And maybe a bit of a hunt, as well. For gods, for relics, for monsters.
“This island makes me feel like a boy again,” he tells her, and there’s a sly sort of smile hiding at the corners of his lips. “Like all the world is just one great treasure hunt, and all we have to do is fight the dragon to find it.” Now he knows better - dragons didn’t always look like dragons, and sometimes dragons were more friend than foe - but still, the island has a way of singing sweetness into his ears.
The tigress falls behind them, and he settles into step beside Moira. For a moment all he hears is the gentle crash of the sea, their muted footsteps on the beach, and the sighing of the wind through the nearby trees. He knew the quiet would not last for long - it never did, here in this strange and exciting world - but he found comfort in the lull.
“And what of you? Does the island tell you similar fairy tales?”
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
S
he hums beside him her agreement, her contentment, and finds herself almost relaxing near the stranger who could be a friend. Words from shared letters sent back and forth as not-quite-lovers, but friends divided by a plague by the name of Raum and a continent, echo in her mind. Seeking advice, sending warm thoughts and and affections despite never having seen the other’s face.
Now that she has, Moira knows she’s seen a kind soul, near perfection given flesh, the spirit of unity and serenity combined into the ethereal form of Ipomoea as he lives and breathes before her, beside her. Mentions of Denocte fall from him like flower petals through the sky, like the waves lapping at their feet, and she cannot help the smile, the burst of pride and love within her flaming and pale chest. Honey and amber eyes look to the dancing wind over waves, feel the song of the sea like the ancient song in her chest, and for a moment she knows the depths of Asterion and why he always returns to the water. “She is a world full of secrets and splendors, it would take a million lifetimes to unwrap and unravel all Denocte has to offer a person, let alone their soul.” Like a sinner at confessional, hers is a voice that is breathless and whispered, afraid that others would overhear and come to plunder that which she’s come to love. From birth to arrival to the time spent in the world of Night and Beauty, Moira’s heart has splintered so many times, slivers burying themselves into the cavities and breasts of others that are not herself. They carry bits and pieces of the phoenix as living memories which pulse in time with their own heartbeat.
Questions and answers continue, flowing endlessly, unforced and not entirely unwelcome. Before him, the pegasus is laughing, is smiling, is sighing like a girl twirling hair about long, pale fingers and grinning gaily at that which gives her attention. Petals unfurl before his sunlight, and Moira finds herself nodding along, agreeing with more than just the physical, her blood singing out that same song of adventure.
"The island is teeming with possibilities undiscovered, it sings a song I wish to learn. Neerja feels on edge and at peace - jungles are her home, but such creatures as we’ve known here make her uneasy. I come for my people and to know that which is old and new.” Pausing, the phoenix casts a contemplative glance at her beautiful, flower wreathed companion. "“Between you and I, Ipomoea, I came in hopes of seeing a man I only just learned I loved so deeply. There is time yet, and I hope it will happen before we all leave.” Such longing fills her voice, an endless, depthless void that can be filled with but one thing. Somewhere in the leaves is a man staring at green, and she wonders if he will think of her red and flaming skin, of her bleeding heart that is lain before his feet as an offering, a sacrifice. She is but a lamb ready to be slaughtered in the war that is known as Love.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: she admits it at last to a most unexpected gentleman <3
It’s easy to walk alongside her, this women of red with her tiger trailing along beside them. It’s almost easy to forget where they are, to forget they’re on an island that seems more than sand and palm trees but something alive, and intelligent, and full of magic. He can almost ignore the way the birds seem to watch them and the how the trees seem to bend the way light moves.
He almost doesn’t have to think about how he’s here looking for a god, and for a killer, and for the answer to why this place was necessary in the first place.
But he puts it to the back of his mind for now, in that place where tigers prowl. It’s a hidden place, one that only makes itself known when it’s already too late - when the tiger has her jaws wrapped around her prey.
He smiles, brushing his shoulder against Moira’s. “I believe it,” he says, and laughs. It sounds like glass shattering and waves crashing, like the streets of Denocte when the sun sets. “It makes me want to stay ever longer, knowing that each night brings with it something new.” He wonders if it’s the same sense of mystery and adventure that keeps her, that keeps all of them, wandering the streets of the Night Court like beggars holding out their hats, wishing not for copper pennies, but for stories. For secrets.
A million lifetimes. It made him feel homesick, but in a way that made him not want to go home at all. Denocte was enthralling, with enough mysteries to keep him entertained indefinitely. Delumine felt as stale as an old, discarded book in comparison; a book that was only half-finished, whose author had run out of things to write about.
The Night Court would never have that problem.
He tilts his ear towards the red woman, even as his gaze wanders again. To the waves, to the trees, to the sandy beach that stretches on and on and on. But at her admission, he can’t help but tear his eyes away so that he can look at her properly.
Slowly, a new smile begins to spread across his face, like a flower unfurling.
“Is that so?” he asks, and again bumps playfully against her. “I hope you find him here, then. Life is far too short to keep such passions to ourselves.”
His wings are fluttering now, matching the beat of his heart as they ride and fall and rise again.
And then, coyly, daring a glance at her from the corner of his eye as he pretends that he’s not trying to take notes from her, he asks: “What will you tell him, when you see him again?”
There was time yet for her, for him, for all of them.
