The date trees hang as heavy as pregnant women close to term; their fruit is protected by finely woven nets, placed their with the gentle and courteous hands of the orchard’s labourers. The nets protect the fruit from birds and insects. Everything is so quiet. Everything is so still.
Except for me.
Except for me,
pain, heavy breathing,
panting,
thundering,
down the aisle of dates.
Above me the palms cut against the sunrise, the soft pink of a waking sky. I am running with the monotony of a man who runs this route every day; who sees no deviation. I should only see the trees spaced evenly apart, and the sky through them. But the memories paint a vivid and brief mosaic of pain; my mind fast cuts through them like photographs flipped quickly through and:
There is a boy with eyes the colour of marmalade. "Corry, don't be so tough here--"
and a girl who loved the orchards more than me, whispering,
"Just you and me forever, right?"
I breathe out the memories; I let the sweat foam on my flanks and I go further, to the end of the property. It is there I stop and for a moment look out at the desert beyond the orchards. Barren, aside from sagebrush and scrub-oak. I steal my breathing. I try to think of anything else and so I close my eyes and imagine the city, imagine what they must think of a noble-born Solterran running in a low-man's orchard. But even as I wonder I know I do not care. The orchards are one of the few places I find a semblance of peace from the anarchy of my mind.
I know when citizens of other Courts think of Solterra, they do not think of the date orchards. They do not think such a prolific, fruit-bearing tree can possibly grow in the desert. The flesh of the sweeter species tastes rich as caramel; walking through the maintained groves of palm trees, the delicate, mild odour of the fruit permeates the air en masse. Delumine, Denocte, Terrastella; they can keep their rich crops of maize, their orchards of apples, pears, peaches, their fields of grain and grass, their vibrant, vegetables. Expensive imports, perhaps; sometimes not worth the trouble. But these—these palms tower and sway in the wind, heavy with their produce. I don't want them to know about it; I breathe out, out, out. I listen to the rustle of the palms.
I listen to my pulse, my heart beat, beat, b
As far as Solterran summers go, this one has been mild yet; as early as it is in the morning, a cool breeze eases the sweat from my skin. I open my eyes and turn from the fence. I begin to walk down the familiar groves. Panagiota, the owner of the orchard, has allowed me to run it since he discovered me glutting on fruit one afternoon as a child. Rather than complain to my parents, the old man had sat with me a while and shared his crop. It did not occur to me until I was much older that he was middle-class and could scarcely afford losing his crop to a bratty child; it did not occur to me that, as nobility, I had no place resting between the trees in a place far from my estate.
But I do, as if my heritage is not evident in the too-glossy sheen of my skin, the healthy vigour of my body, the way may mane is ornately pleated today, braided by one of the talented servants of our household. My jewellery alone is worth more than an annual salary of a farmer. I think about this as I weave my way through the trees, settling my heart-rate, forcing my heaving sides to relax. I follow a well-trod path to the well at the edge of Panagiota’s property. I draw water up, up, up and drink deeply from the pail. Then I send it back down to crash into the water, a sound that echoes up and meets me.
This is where I am most at peace, if fatigue can be considered such; it is a way to sate the demons, I suppose. It is a way to think of things other than blood and lust and anger, or all the rumours that exist. The sun is up, now, and I turn to leave; I begin walking down the dry-wood fence at the end of Panagiota’s orchard, trotting the path back into Solterra.
I see something out of the corner of my eye, however; there is a horse further down the orchard, removing a number of dates from one of the palms. I know the exact hour when Panagiota’s hired hands come to harvest the fruit, and it is certainly not now. I change my course to confront them, and shout out, “Hey!” I clear my throat to shout a little louder, “You can’t do that!"
There had been a child in the streets, begging scraps from burgeoning merchant stands and getting little more than words in return. Words and the slap of leather or wood on her rump. She was hungry- for food, for adventure- her eyes gleaming as she’d slipped like shadows between the various vendors. But she had got nothing.
I see her every morning, earlier than the sun as I made my way to the wall. And every morning it is the same. I remember what it was like to hunger, to starve, to be scrawny and weak. My family had been poor as dirt before they traded me to the child King and I had been little more than a feeble beggar too. Now my body was a weapon, honed to the perfect standard and gleaming beneath the early sun’s rays. But there would be no such baptism, by fire or pain, for the street urchin. Nor would I want her to suffer as I have suffered, no matter how necessary it was.
I turn away from her little corner of shadows, feeling her gaze still burrowing into my neck as I wander further down the streets. Today my destination is not the city walls, towering above the surrounding land like beacons in the desert. No today the training ring beckons with claws of iron, ripping at the nightmares that still haunt my visions even as sleep had slowly released me.
Though there are a few soldiers out among the practice dummies and targets the I find myself a quiet section where the other soldiers cannot see me, cannot see what Viceroy’s training made of me.
The sun is barely high enough to crest the ocean behind the city and the air temperature is surprisingly mild- welcoming so. This far at the edge of the city I can make out the orchards leading out into the desert, the sweet smell of dates and tangerines culminating with the smell of spice from the market in the air.
To beat of my steady heart and the clash of metal on make-shift dummies, I begin me dance. The world melts away as I draw my spear, clutching it with invisible hands near the top and swiping it testily. And then I move, sweeping with the weapon, spinning on my hooves. Dodging, stabbing and dodging again. I pick up the pace, weaving around the hay-filled dummy, hacking and slicing and stabbing and reaching as though the spear were but an extension of my body.
The sun climbs steadily higher into the sky, framing the sandstone city and casting rays of gold out across the desert land beyond the court. I would guess an hour has passed and the solid ache of my body is a welcome familiarity. Sweat shines against my russet coat, I can feel it gripping the nape of my neck beneath the tufts of my mane. Yet my mouth is dry and my stomach growls silently, reminding me that I had no eaten since late the previous afternoon. Yet I cannot help but think of the little urchin filly, her stomach far emptier than mine. There is little I could offer beyond the odd bit of food, but it would not change her circumstances, it would only make her hungrier. I am little more than a soldier, a lowborn one at that. My own income is enough to sustain a living but little more. And I care not- I have no want for expensive worldly possessions. I need only sustenance, my weapon, a roof over my head and a purpose. Nevertheless the sweet smell of dates on the air calls to me and I shoulder my spear, turning in the direction of the nearest one.
The fields are empty, quiet, lines of trees stretching as far back as I can see. I would pick a few dates and then find out who the owner is later- pay him back when I get the chance. With my gaze fixed solidly on the dates above me, reaching with intangible tendrils of telekinesis, I do not notice the other man dressed in shades darker than I. Not until his voice loudly permeates the morning quiet. I am only slightly startled, twisting my head in his direction, the metal collar cool against my neck as I fix him with a stare.
Ignoring the confrontation in the other man’s voice I call back. “Are you the owner?” At least now I might not have to spend my evening tracking him down.
I demonstrate none of this. I only arch my brows in a lethargic, nearly indolent expression. In true Ieshan fashion I ask, “Do I look like the owner?” and in the asking I draw attention to the raven-slick and raven-brightness of my skin, the ornately pleated mane, the obnoxious show of wealth in Solterra’s austere culture. I smell strongly of lavender even covered in fresh sweat; and it is the carriage of self, I know, I have practiced since boyhood. The exact way a Prince walks. The exact way an Ieshan meets the eye. The exact way one can sneer without changing their expression whatsoever.
Is that not what one inherits, with an upbringing in a stucco palace?
I do not spend long assessing the other man. He is handsome in the way of a commoner; bold rather than understated, brightly coloured and marked with a chimera stain. There is something in his disposition that makes me think soldier, and I suppose it is from a lifetime of them living in the background of my life. I recognise him in the same way one recognises familiar scenery, the way the educated can glance at a field full of flowers and say, ah yes, that’s the desert marigold and that there is the yucca.
This boy is a soldier. My eyes linger on the cool metal collar on his neck and I say, “There is no reason not to remove that beneath the new regime.” I ensure my tone remains noncommittal, but that beautifully practiced art remains; how to sneer without sneering. It’s all in the voice. It’s all in the eyes.
I say it in such a tone because there is a part of me—one I smother—that wants to step close enough to touch it. The longer I am forced to regard him the more I discover he is exactly my type of conquest. There is an edge to me that remembers the days of my youth—well, younger youth when I had picked fights with soldiers just to know I bled.
At last, I close the distance between us. And in doing so I nearly brush his shoulder, but only in a gesture of reaching for a trio of figs. I pit them and eat them there, in front of him. “The owner is named Panagiota. He lives on the hilltop there.” I jerk my chin in the proper direction; the orchard of palms seems to stretch endlessly, to the point where one cannot even see the farmer’s simple stucco home. “But the labourers will be arriving any moment, if you are looking to pay for the figs. There’s a head picker; her name is Maria.”
I could have stepped back away from him, but I don’t. I stand close enough to feel the heat radiate from his body in the dry Solterran air.
Helios fixes the man with his burnt umber eyes, refusing the break the gaze. The soldier was not one for grandstanding or peacocking- mostly because he was no one of stature; any infamy and importance he gained was only from being a soldier and not from any familial title. But also because any pride he might have once had was relinquished under Viceroy’s training. The most important thing to him now was Solterra and Helios was little more than a sword in her arsenal, a chink in her armour. The Black Sun knows what the spotted steed is getting at, the way his statement draws attention to the obsidian of his coat, the satin smooth waves of hair the gleam beneath the sun’s early rays. But he refuses to rise up to the dark man’s games, no matter how much his arrogance irks the russet soldier and instead continues to hold the stallion’s emerald gaze. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never met the owner.” Perhaps his statement might have come across as insolent were it not for the level bluntness in his tone, the refusal to assume that someone who looked like the midnight steed could only ever be a noble.
Those emerald eyes flicked over Helios’ body, a dismissively quick assessment and one that almost every noble made of a soldier like him. Especially when they saw the collar and wondered exactly what monstrosities he had committed on behalf of the child King. And Helios cannot deny that flicker of surprise like a flame in his gut when the site of the silver metal around his throat does not deter the steed’s eyes. Most nobles dipped their gaze when they saw the collar- out of fear and out of guilt. No one wanted to know what child soldiers like him had been through to secure them their wealth and safety. No one wanted to think about what those child soldiers would do when they realised the nobles had not suffered beneath Zolin’s reign- certainly not like them. It was a choice. They would say- as though at the tender age of 1 Helios had intended to be tortured and forged into a deadly weapon. The children don’t know any better.They would think- as though Helios could not see what life was like when you didn’t spend your childhood training to kill every hour of every day. But it bothered him not. What had happened had happened and it had been necessary for his family to give him up and necessary for him to kill in order to save lives.
As though reading his mind, the stallion comments on Helios’ collar, a comment voiced by dozens on many other occasions. He tips his head just minutely to one side hearing the scorn in his voice and seeing the jeer in his eyes. “I know that.” Helios would not waste his time explaining himself to this stallion who clearly considered himself so much better than soldier.
Still regarding him with those eyes of embers, Helios watched the man approach, smelt the lavender rich upon his coat, mixed with the faint tang of sweat. Exactly what was this steed doing out here if he considered owning an orchard so beneath him?
That display of carelessness, ignorance of those who could not afford food was staggering as the onyx-hewn stallion plucked a few dates from the tree and eats them ceremoniously. Helios felt his blood simmer, his eyes smouldering, but he did nothing, said nothing.
“I will wait for the head picker,” he offers, tight-lipped but as the other steed maintains the nearness, so too does Helios make no move to part. It was upon a matter of principal that he would not back down to a noble as many expected him to.
Call me old-fashioned, but the unrelenting amber stare of the man seems downright disrespectful. My parents are certainly rolling in their graves. I can imagine my father’s voice, the way he would say, In my day, a man in a slave collar was terrified to even meet the eyes of the lowest free class, much less the likes of the Ieshans!
I’ve never considered myself particularly prejudiced, especially compared to Old Solterra, but there is something… that makes those thoughts seem defensive rather than proactive, or genuine, as if by convincing myself of his otherness I will not feel the urge to hold a conversation, or admit just how handsome those amber eyes are.
I know that.
I hmm noncommittally and nearly leave it at that, but the curiosity is stabbing and so I ask, with as much guile as I can muster: “Then why keep it?”
What I dismissed as merely handsome turns increasingly attractive as his expression hardens, almost imperceptibly, at my nearness. It must infuriate him and even I can admit I am pushing the boundaries more than I ought to. This, however, is a dance I know well. And it is one I enjoy not as a matter of class, or division, but simply this:
How hard can I push? I fancied at as a way of breaking wills. In reality, it is always much less romantic. In reality, I imagine my psychiatrist would say something along the lines of, it’s Corr’s way of trying to receive attention.
“What do you even need the figs for?” I ask, still too close.
Though Helios was a relic of an outdated regime, he believed in the new Solterra. A Solterra where those with collars encircling their neck did not have to gaze at the ground when they passed the nobles. A Solterra where servants and farmers were just as important as council members and soldiers. So he did not dip his burnt umber gaze from those gleaming emeralds, not even when he found their intensity both uncomfortable and difficult to depart from.
The ebony man’s question is not unexpected, even if it falls from his tongue a few seconds after his dismissive grunt. Why did Helios’ keep it? He didn’t need to remove it to know that he’d feel naked with the cool metal against his skin, the ever present silver that had encircled his throat for as far back as he could remember. But it wasn’t a fear of feeling unclothed that kept the collar at his neck, nor was it enjoyment of the looks of fear and pity that graced those around him. Were he to take it off the russet steed might find himself suddenly more popular, without the metal marking him as a slave those still beholden to the draconic views on slavery might actually see him for once. No. It was none of those things. It was because, deep down Helios had convinced himself that the cruelty and barbarity shown to him was necessary. That the collar surrounding his neck was a sign of his patronage, his promise to Solis and the people of Solterra. To Helios it was a reminder of all that he was and all that he had become, the oath of his servitude. “Maybe it serves me well that the upper class underestimates and overlooks me because of it.” It was a lie told from a steady tongue but it was a point. He was slave no more and should he so desired, were it not to go against every fibre of his being, he could gather those also made invisible by their collars and overthrow the rich and noble houses who saw them as nothing. But revolution of that kind was not in his nature. He was a patron of the Triskevma, intent upon seeing Solterra weather whatever storms followed each new Royal.
Though he stiffens at the shadowy steed’s closeness, Helios does not move, does not back down. He is not one for parades of strength, for peacocking or inciting attention, but the way the stallion neared him, the almost haughty carriage of his slick form- it reminded him of darker times and a difficult past.
“There is a girl begging in the street, I was going to give them to her.” He voice is a little more edged than he intended, forced between teeth clamped shut in frustration. “I intend to pay for them,” he added a little lamely, but at least this time the words do not sound so forced.
Maybe it serves me well that the upper class underestimates me and overlooks me because of it.
I know my expression becomes one of mirth, of joyous victory. Is my entire existence not contrived, somehow, in the pushing of buttons and pulling of threads? I hope to burrow under his skin, itching and stinging as a chigger does. But then I say, “What makes you assume I am underestimating you?” There is a brilliant smile; brief, but wide enough to expose the tips of my fanged teeth. “Quite the opposite, really—would you care for one?” and at that, I gesture at him with a handful of figs. “On me. I pay the orchard-owner monthly for my trifling.”
I hate how flippantly I display my wealth; but simultaneously, I don’t hate it. It is who I am; passive-aggressively (or is it simply aggressive?) displaying my status. I am nothing but a peacock.
He is tense at my nearness; but he does not move away. And at that I flick my tail; brushing it along his legs, seemingly without thought or intention. But everything I do is intentional.
There is a girl begging in the street, I was going to give them for her.
I perk at that. “Oh, my. Do you know, there is nothing quite as attractive as generosity?”
Then, I begin to pull away. It is abrupt, mischievous, almost violent. “Except, of course, strong morals in a soldier. Don’t worry about the figs. I’ll get them, but on the occasion we meet again.” I am assured of it as I turn to leave; Solterra is too small for me not to meet him again and, anyways, it is much more entertaining to play the long hunt rather than the short game.
Helios sees, with surprise, the triumph in the ebon steed’s eyes as though he believed he’d drawn some deep secret from the soldier like poison from a wound. Were the russet stallion the kind to enjoy games he might have felt victory himself at the success of his lie, but it simply nestled coldly in his gut. Such truths were caged solidly within his chest, never to be released. And to whom would he release them? Ba’al retained enough innocence despite their shared pasts that Helios would not taint it with his darkness and there was no one else in the world he considered his friend. The Triskeva were his comrades, associates at best and though he was loyal to them, there were none to whom he’d open up. But perhaps that said more about him than those surrounding him- his mind, his heart, it was all a steel trap.
The man’s statement irks Helios, though his already hardened gaze does not alter. Instead he remains silent until the question follows, the muscle in his cheek feathering as he clenched his jaw. The Black Sun wonders what it is like to have such wealth that you can freely spare it, toss it around as though it were little more than leaves in the wind. Perhaps it was out of uncharacteristic spite, but Helios declined as politely as he could with a shake of his head, despite the burning embers in his eyes.
At the soft whip of the dark steed’s shadowy tail across Helios’ hocks, he breaks the intense gaze and flicks his gaze involuntarily to the man’s tail. The muscles in his legs tense and release as though the touch of the fine hair made Helios jump, slight surprise filtering through his amber gaze despite his frustration. Something stirs in his gut, like the fire that always burned deep beneath his russet fur, an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling that he tries to ignore. Thankfully the stallion’s voice (Helios comes to realise neither had given their name yet) draws his attention away from the tingle in his hind legs, where the ghost of a few hairs still seems to trail there. Helios begins to feel out of depth in this little game, smouldering embers of his gaze only just hiding the awkwardness that was beginning to claw its way from his chest (or at least he hoped the spotted steed could not see the unease hidden there. The sudden departure of his body heat and that scent of lavender had Helios feeling oddly bereft but he continues to stare mutely as the panther-esque man assures him he’ll cover the figs and wanders off, promising they’ll meet again. Helios, a little dumbfounded now, can’t decide whether to dread or anticipate their eventual encounter but as his picks a few figs from the tree he does decide that despite what the stallion said, he was still going to make sure the money made his way into his hooves. Helios was anything if not honourable and he did not take pay outs, even if it was for a good cause. Reminded of the entire reason for his being that, Helios turns tail and heads toward where he last saw the street-girl.
