like the holding of hands
like the breaking of glass

he desert was unforgiving.

She knew that when she came. It was the first cardinal rule of the Mors.

But it did not stop her from making the journey, her wings long exhausted and her lips slightly parched. It did not stop her from traveling over the hot dunes, from leaping into the air with excitement at the sight of the long winded spires of the Day court. She had done it. She had bested the hot sand and merciless sun. She had made it to the other side. Now she was only a little worse for wear, her hair a tangled mess and her wings crusted with dust in every feather.

But she was here. She had made it!

Or, at least, she thought she did.

What she thought was a castle in the distance had started to morph into something entirely different. The long beautiful spires had transformed into long columns of detrimental rock; the arches were still the same at least, though now they lacked that certain hand-made touch. They were formed by the earth, by the hands of a god that had since forgotten about his creation. She only huffed in frustration, stomping her small hoof in disappointment, as she turned to walk the other way.

Soon she would be good and utterly lost. But that had never really stopped her before, and she had never been one to quit halfway through her journey.

The desert would have killed him.

Like this: 

too much sun, 

no water.

Sweltering, 

sweltering, 

sweltering, 

The surface of a star, 

one dune, another dune.

They all look the same. The sand rolls—sometimes, sometimes

it rolls a body underneath. 

The austerity of it returns to him occasionally, when the heat beads sweat at his withers or along his brow. He thinks of the harshness, the savagery, the unforgiving nature—how there is a greediness to the heat, a hunger… or, more adequately, a thirst. 

Sometimes at night, when he is awake and alone, he thinks it whispers to him. He can hear the wind howl and the sand shifts in a beastly murmur over and over itself, an endless cycle. It is as if Time itself speaks, and It says: I am eternity. And eternity always craves mortal blood. It always craves youth. The wind, in particular, howled last night. It howled and howled with a hunger he knows only from the sea in a storm; he stared out the towers of his citadel and into the pristine night, where the stars shone like so many flecks of silver dust. A moonless night. When at last Orestes’ slept, it had been restlessly. He awakes, the next day, with that same restlessness. It is if the sand shifts within him now, too, and there is a bottomless thirst reflected in his very being. His mouth tastes like sand. 

But he cannot chase his restlessness, so Orestes shifts through paperwork and history books, searching, searching, for an answer to his Court’s many problems. He is interrupted some time later by his courtier, Charles, knocking on his door. “Lord?” he questions. Orestes gestures him inside. “The sentries report a girl wandering the Mors. She is very lost." 

It is not an uncommon occurrence. “ Would you like them to bring her in?” 

He feels stiff, and restless. There is a wind howling cavernous within his ribs, encircling his heart. “No, Charles, I’ll go find her.” 

— — — — 

The young Sovereign crests yet another dune, somewhat winded from the ascent. The heat of the desert is not as oppressive as it had been some months ago; instead, a brisk and chilly wind whips across the face of the Mors. Despite his newness to the territory, Orestes has become quite adept at navigating. He has taken note of the Eastern cast of the sun—after all, it is not quite noon—and the distant presence of the Veneror Peak, hazy and bluish, marks the rough South. He had been told the girl was beneath the shadow of the sun, and so Orestes simply trekked eastward and away from the Court, stopping atop each dune to scan his surroundings.

When Orestes finds her, it is past the sediment castle and heading the opposite direction of Solterra back toward the rising sun. She is in the miniature canyon between two large dunes and he calls down from her from where perches above. “If you are trying to find the Court, I regret to inform you it is the other way. Perhaps I can escort you?” 

Orestes is surprised to discover the quick beat of his heart, the rise of excitement in his blood. He has yet to grow accustomed to the diversity of Novus’ inhabitants, and he finds himself marvelling at her bicoloured wings. A pegasus! In his life, Orestes had thus far seen only a handful. “I am Orestes.” he says politely, and begins to descend the dune. 

like the holding of hands
like the breaking of glass

he knows how easy it can be to wander endlessly through the waves of sand - to forever be searching for your way back home while the desert consumes you whole. She knows how easy it can be to let the dunes open their jaws and swallow you whole.

That is when the jaws open wide and a breeze like a yawn rolls across the shifting hills.

With the breeze comes a man. He is alive with the splendor of the sun - of a Solis blessed child - as it rises behind him, casting a long shadow across the sand. The tattoos on his skin seem to shimmer with each step. She watches the way his muscles move beneath the warmth of his hide and the stories etched into his skin.

”If you are trying to find the Court, I regret to inform you it is the other way. Perhaps I can escort you?”

She turns to look at him when he speaks, the softness of his voice surprising her in a world so harsh. In a court who’s crown jewel has been the hardiness of their warriors, the toughness of their people. She has always loved their wildness, their boundless fervor, their passion.

”I am Orestes.”

“Thank you! I would really appreciate the guidance.” Her voice is singsong sweet. “It’s so easy to get turned around, I’m afraid I’d be lost if you hadn’t come along.” She stretches her wings, once, before she leaps. She barely hovers above the ground, using her wings to glide on the air towards him. “I’m Anemone.” She lands a few paces from him, so that he may not have to climb the entire dune again.

Her excitement bubbles out before she can stop it. “Is the city very far?” She chirps. “I’ve heard that it’s not much to look at. I’m sorry, that sounded so rude. I just meant that Solterrans don’t like to decorate. Or, I guess they do, they just don’t have much to decorate with. Just banners of Solis. Well I’m not sure, actually. I really only know what other people have told me and what I’ve read.” She takes a breath before quickly continuing, “I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s very beautiful.”

Someone, please stop her.

Orestes, in part, expects the girl to be anxious or fearful. When he realises this is not the case, whatever concerns he had that she had been wandering for ages are banished. She cannot have been in the desert long, and he is relieved. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Anemone.” There is something familiar about her introduction, although Orestes is unsure what it is. Orestes cannot help but smile at her arial display. 

He nearly comments on it, but Anemone’s girlish excitement leads to several questions. The Sovereign’s smile only broadens as he turns and begins to walk in the direction of the Court. “It is not so far… a few miles, is all.” 

In the desert, the distance could seem much farther than first anticipated. The sand has a way of wearying muscles; and the heat has a way of magnifying distance. She begins to ask questions, and Orestes laughs softly. “It is not much to look at, I suppose. But its austerity is what makes it beautiful. You will see. Everything is gold. There are some banners, and we are not as festive as the other courts when it comes to decorations. There has been some adjustment after Raum’s rule.” 

Orestes descends a dune, and trots up the other side. The capitol is not quite within sight, but Orestes knows it will be soon. “What Court are you from, Anemone? Your name sounds familiar.” Orestes finds himself enjoying her company and youthful optimism. Solis knows he has not seen much of it, in recent weeks.