[P] horror in the halls of stone

[Jahin]

eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone

The smooth texture of unmarred marble beneath his cloven hooves is both alien and familiar. An uncomfortable tightness builds in his chest as the walls of the palace close in around him. His muscles are taut with apprehension and he can’t seem to unclench his jaw. He’s never been one to enjoy the luxuries of indoor life (why does it always feel like he’s walking into a trap?) and that hasn’t changed any since he last spent time in the capitol under Seraphina’s reign. 

Guards escort him on either side until they reach the entrance to the throne room. One enters to announce his arrival to Orestes, while the other remains posted in front of the door. The young guard doesn’t stare vacantly into nothingness like most trained guards do. Instead, the young guard ogles Jahin like he is some sort of carnival freak. Damn capitol fools. To be fair though, it’s probably not every day that a Davke warrior (one in sore need of a bath, at that) waltzes around in the palace. 

“Have I sprouted another eye or appendage that I’m not aware of?” Jahin growls, flattening his ears. The young guard startles to attention with a stuttered apology and then does not meet his stony gaze again. Jahin snorts with amusement, satisfied with his handiwork. These capitol pups are too soft. 

He thinks about pacing while waiting to be admitted into the throne room but that seems like an unnecessary waste of energy. So he stands motionless, trying to shrug off the uneasiness resulting from the four walls that surround him. He occupies his mind by agonizing over every choice that led up to these past few weeks (which in retrospect, ruminating on things he can’t change also seems like an unproductive way to spend his time and energy).

He doesn’t know what hurts worse--Makeda’s death or the loss of Avdotya’s respect. Both had been a dagger straight to the heart. He’d seen it in her eyes--his khan thought him weak. He’d like to say he hadn’t lost any sleep over it--that it didn’t matter what she thought of him--but that would be a lie and Jahin didn’t much care for liars. 

But it does matter. She matters to him immensely. And her opinion? That matters more than anything. But maybe that in itself was true weakness, and in a way, an obscure form of slavery. So why doesn't he feel liberated? Why--of all the possible things he can feel at this point--does he simply feel like a massive, worthless pile of sandwyrm shit? 

A question for another day. 

The doors swing open silently. The outflow of cool air ruffles strands of fire-colored hair across his face. The older guard motions for him to approach. To his surprise Orestes is nowhere to be seen. Hurry up and wait. He cocks a hoof on its tip and resigns himself to more waiting. 

The throne remains relatively unchanged since the last time he’d stood in these halls. Ornate, elegant, expensive-looking. A symbol of everything he has been raised to hate, everything the Davke detest, everything that is supposedly wrong with Solterra. But as he stands before this symbol of destruction and tyranny, his blood doesn’t boil, his teeth don’t grind. Overall, the experience is rather underwhelming. Jahin figures that the only reason it holds such sway is because people unwittingly give it power by making it out to be more than what it truly is in essence: a harmless, grossly ostentatious eyesore worth a pretty penny or two. 


J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known

@Orestes

[Orestes]

orestes

—
« but you are gold in a world of glass »

Y

our Regent is here, although it is not me who should be telling you.

Ariel crests the spiralling staircase to Orestes’s study, where he spends significantly more time than the throne room. The lion takes up the breadth of it, luminous and golden, and Orestes rises from his work. There is a note of judgement in Ariel’s tone, despite the fact he speaks in that moment only telepathically. The lion turns in the stairwell and dips back down. Orestes follows close behind; Ariel has a way of making profound suggestions in few words, simply by the way he says it.

Disapproving again, I see. Orestes responds through their telepathic link. The lion’s tail flicks just in front of him and, at the mental comment, Ariel pauses to appraise Orestes over one supple shoulder. There is a glowering expression in the smouldering suns that are Ariel’s eyes; and in response, Orestes sighs.

Perhaps the reason he has not yet met extensively with Jahin is due to the fact Orestes, for once, does not know what to say. The man strikes him as one of immense capability and passion; yet after his encounter with Avdotya and general understanding of the desert’s tribal inhabitants, Orestes is at times uncertain of what approach to take. He understands trust is earned, not demanded; and he bides his time patiently because of it. 

When Orestes enters the throne room, it is to find Jahin appraising the ornate chair and decorations. At first, the Sovereign says nothing; merely follows suit in assessing the eccentrics of royalty. Ariel prowls across the center of the room, catching the light as brilliantly as the gilded throne; the lion stops at the series of steps leading up to the chair and promptly sprawls out on the marble—imported expensively, no doubt, from Veneror. His eyes—the exact shade of gold as it melts—settle on the Regent.

“I have never been much a fan of it, myself.” Orestes, as he takes note of the way the light falls just so through the windows above, remembers a time when the entire room was aflame.

He had bowed before a flaming lion, not so unlike the one beneath the throne now. 

He shakes his head and dismisses the memories, turning at last to Jahin with a smile. “I have done you a disservice, my Regent, in not ensuring we get to know one another. I apologise. Would you like to walk with me?” There is much of the Davke he does not know; and there is much of Jahin he does not know. 

He would like to learn. “Perhaps we go outside. This room always haunts me.” He cannot help but think of all that came before him, as he should. The room gathers dust as a reminder; monarchs are not meant to sit only upon gilded thrones and delve our their demands and desires as if a small god. 

@Jahin speaks

[Jahin]

eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone

First impressions are usually a simple affair among the Davke. Unlike the Capitol, the Davke do not waste time dabbling in elegant exchanges of necessities and casual wordplay. It is easy to see if someone's war stories match up to their scars and one can discern a significant amount just by observing the condition of one's spear. Jahin likes to think he is a quick study of character but right now he feels worlds away from everything he has ever known.

All of this hits him at once with the force of a violent desert wind. He realizes just how ill-prepared and unsuited he is for the job and already feels hopelessly tangled and trapped in the web of court intricacies. For the first time, he wonders if perhaps Avdotya is right about him--if he is indeed weak. He doesn’t know this complex dance or any of these courtly rituals where any number of things could offend the opposite party. Nor does he know whether he ought to bow or not once Orestes enters the room. He’s never bowed to any one before, not even Avdotya. Davke backbones don’t bend easily.

But Orestes doesn’t seemed concerned in the slightest and doesn’t observe any sort of court routine. He simply comments on the golden throne, expressing mutual distaste. Jahin relaxes, suddenly aware of the ache from clenching his jaw. Orestes maneuvers about the room with the effortless, nonchalant grace of someone who has navigated court all his life. A golden lion meanders up the steps leading to the throne and stretches out lazily on the marble, blinking unconcernedly at Jahin. Now that they are in the same room, instead of facing each other from across a courtyard, Jahin isn’t sure what to say or do. He eyes the delicate, shimmering golden lines traced meticulously across Orestes glowing skin, wondering what they mean and if he was born with them or acquired them later in life.

In Orestes’ regal presence, Jahin feels foolish and every bit the heathen the Capitol people must think he is. He is keenly aware of the uncombed tangles in his sun-bleached hair and the jagged lines of scars that litter his body like constellations, in stark contrast to the beauty of Orestes’ shimmering tattoos. There is nothing elegant or beautiful about Jahin--he is calloused and worn by the harshness of the unforgiving desert and relentless sun. They are an interesting pair, to say the least.

“I’m sure you’ve been busy appeasing unappeasable citizens. Proving you’re not a tyrant like the last king, or the one before him, is no easy task,” Jahin responds, a hint of amusement in his thickly accented voice. Orestes suggests that they walk outside and Jahin nods in agreement, eager to leave the stifling palace rooms behind.

The day is frigid but not altogether unpleasant. He breathes a sigh of relief as the wane sunlight floods across his skin and a refreshing breeze tousles his hair. He would much prefer hot sand beneath his cloven hooves to the cobbled walkway, but he supposes he ought to become accustomed to Capitol living sooner rather than later. Silence endures between them but the lack of conversation isn’t uncomfortable. In fact, the silence is almost amiable.

“Why me?” Jahin asks at last, glancing at the king walking by his side. Orestes could have chosen anyone. Better yet, he probably should have chosen anyone but Jahin. He can’t imagine the decision to appoint a Davke warrior as Regent was in anyway popular or well-received. Jahin himself wonders at the wisdom of Orestes trusting someone from a culture that despises the Capitol and its kings more than anything.


J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known

@Orestes