« don't die so far from the sea »
Orestes, old as the sea, knows it is her poem.
Perhaps that is why he shares it; the struggle of life and death, of ecstasy and fear, of summiting and ending in the same hairsbreadth. There is nothing so brilliant as life at the edge; of the cape buffalo meeting the lion’s jaw, the clash of titans.
What happens between them is quieter.
The pooling of blood; pain that reminds him how close he had been to being a monster, once.
The sea is awakening in his bones; it whispers in his blood and begs for more, more, more.
Show her, something arcane demands. Perhaps it is her violence, or the way Orestes has known the way death feels. Perhaps she feels a bit like an old friend, knocking, knocking, and this time Orestes is not ready to greet her. It is the almost-kiss that undoes him. It is the hard press of her nose against the wound she has left on him.
And Orestes realises it too late—the voice does not belong to the sea. The words are not soft, or sweet, or mysterious, or dark. The words are bright, violent, brazen. They are the sun in a cloudless sky.
Orestes begins to radiate. The golden glow of his tattoos bleeds into the rest of his flesh, until his skin's surface is nothing but light. The heat comes next; the hot wafting of a fire, of a summer storm. It shimmers in the air; nearly a mirage, if not for the burn.Pebbles lift and rotate; the sand at his hooves ascends, ascends, and becomes a dust-fine ring, not unlike those that encircle Saturn. His mane whips into a frenzy. He feels strong; he feels Solis at his back, in the form of the sun.
And for once, the sea is not in his ears.
Just the light in his eyes.
“Lady Death, do you think my skin is begging to die?” Orestes’s voice is heat and rage.
Those eyes—those winter-sea, noon-blue eyes—are more brilliant than the sun. He is light and heat and celestial and he presses into her as she steps away; he wants her to feel the burn, just as she had caused his flesh to sting. Even the remnants of his blood on her horn turn to the colour of sun-bright gold. The rubies become bullion shards.
“It is better you do not write; but you are the reason men write.” He burns, burns, burns. “You are the reason poetry exists… it is a shout into the void, don’t you see?”
Orestes draws back at last; still glowing; still bright. He feels his head rush, his stomach churn. There is a lethargy that creeps into his movements and he drops his head, pins his ears. It does not matter. Orestes is nearly too bright to look at. “‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you…’ Not quite a poem, but words, writing. What abyss have you stared into, Lady Death?”
Just as abruptly as he had begun to mimic his beloved sun, Orestes’s becomes a man again. He is flesh and blood and a body covered in foaming sweat. “You are alive, Lady Death. You may as well shout into the void with the rest of us.” He cannot help it. There is a roguish grin that breaks the indifference of his expression; there is something mischievous in his eyes, but in his mind:
Orestes remembers the way the spear pierced his breast in his first life—always the hardest to die in—and the way the blood flooded in his lungs. He coughed on it, and then choked. Even as he died he had become water but there had been a red, red stain to everything for a long time after that. Orestes nearly thinks—but does not let himself, no, he cannot—of how this is the last chance he has to live.
And how he treats it recklessly now, so recklessly; how he nearly longs to walk hand and hand with her through a herd of stone elk, and leave everything else behind.
THERE IS A LONELINESS IN THIS WORLD SO GREAT THAT YOU CAN SEE IT IN THE SLOW MOVEMENT OF THE HANDS OF A CLOCK. PEOPLE SO TIRED, MUTILATED, EITHER BY LOVE OR NO LOVE. WE ARE AFRAID.
Perhaps that is why he shares it; the struggle of life and death, of ecstasy and fear, of summiting and ending in the same hairsbreadth. There is nothing so brilliant as life at the edge; of the cape buffalo meeting the lion’s jaw, the clash of titans.
What happens between them is quieter.
The pooling of blood; pain that reminds him how close he had been to being a monster, once.
The sea is awakening in his bones; it whispers in his blood and begs for more, more, more.
Show her, something arcane demands. Perhaps it is her violence, or the way Orestes has known the way death feels. Perhaps she feels a bit like an old friend, knocking, knocking, and this time Orestes is not ready to greet her. It is the almost-kiss that undoes him. It is the hard press of her nose against the wound she has left on him.
And Orestes realises it too late—the voice does not belong to the sea. The words are not soft, or sweet, or mysterious, or dark. The words are bright, violent, brazen. They are the sun in a cloudless sky.
Orestes begins to radiate. The golden glow of his tattoos bleeds into the rest of his flesh, until his skin's surface is nothing but light. The heat comes next; the hot wafting of a fire, of a summer storm. It shimmers in the air; nearly a mirage, if not for the burn.Pebbles lift and rotate; the sand at his hooves ascends, ascends, and becomes a dust-fine ring, not unlike those that encircle Saturn. His mane whips into a frenzy. He feels strong; he feels Solis at his back, in the form of the sun.
And for once, the sea is not in his ears.
Just the light in his eyes.
“Lady Death, do you think my skin is begging to die?” Orestes’s voice is heat and rage.
Those eyes—those winter-sea, noon-blue eyes—are more brilliant than the sun. He is light and heat and celestial and he presses into her as she steps away; he wants her to feel the burn, just as she had caused his flesh to sting. Even the remnants of his blood on her horn turn to the colour of sun-bright gold. The rubies become bullion shards.
“It is better you do not write; but you are the reason men write.” He burns, burns, burns. “You are the reason poetry exists… it is a shout into the void, don’t you see?”
Orestes draws back at last; still glowing; still bright. He feels his head rush, his stomach churn. There is a lethargy that creeps into his movements and he drops his head, pins his ears. It does not matter. Orestes is nearly too bright to look at. “‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you…’ Not quite a poem, but words, writing. What abyss have you stared into, Lady Death?”
Just as abruptly as he had begun to mimic his beloved sun, Orestes’s becomes a man again. He is flesh and blood and a body covered in foaming sweat. “You are alive, Lady Death. You may as well shout into the void with the rest of us.” He cannot help it. There is a roguish grin that breaks the indifference of his expression; there is something mischievous in his eyes, but in his mind:
Orestes remembers the way the spear pierced his breast in his first life—always the hardest to die in—and the way the blood flooded in his lungs. He coughed on it, and then choked. Even as he died he had become water but there had been a red, red stain to everything for a long time after that. Orestes nearly thinks—but does not let himself, no, he cannot—of how this is the last chance he has to live.
And how he treats it recklessly now, so recklessly; how he nearly longs to walk hand and hand with her through a herd of stone elk, and leave everything else behind.
@Thana / speaks / notes: text text
☀︎