I am not a lady, she thinks, when the letter arrives on the wing of that tired bird. Her chest is filled with a sharp kind of surprise as she reads through it. Lady. I am hardly even a girl.
But how can she be hurt? He thinks she is a lady. What a bizarre measure of praise. (She could be, maybe, if the right person asked it of her. And it would be a lie to say she hadn’t thought of it before—what it might be like to shed her dirt and blood for something made of silk, or the smell of salt for the foreign perfumes that so often followed Florentine. She could be, if the right person wanted her to.)
But that was never what they wanted.
And so she would be what they wanted—less a lady than a warrior, less a person than a diplomat—she leaves a neatly written slip of parchment detailing the projected plans on Israfel’s door and, in the very earliest hours of the morning, makes her way down the steps of the citadel. Anselm is still curled up in sleep underneath a pile of richly purple blankets. Outside it’s only just starting to light; the sky is washed with faint yellows, pinks, oranges; a cold, cold breeze howls through the streets, and Marisol squeezes her eyes closed for a second against the sting of it.
The world is quiet. So, so quiet. And perfectly calm. There is no movement, and little to be worried about as far as anyone can see. The lights in the windows are turned to their lowest. Trees groan and whisper just beyond the cityscape. For a moment, Marisol simply stands and drinks in the wind, tastes it in the darkest corners of her mouth, wonders with a bruised and still-bruising if this is the right choice, if any of this is the right choice.
For what it is worth, Marisol of Terrastella, bravery is worth more than luck.
Well. Perhaps it is some back-handed gift, then, to be born so stubborn. If it’s true. If he knows enough to say so. There is no evidence, at the moment, for or against him. And, like they say at home—innocent until proven guilty. Right until proven wrong.
The desert, by the time she lands, is colder than she’d expected.
How long has it been? Last time she was here—
Well. Last time she was here, many things were different; no use reminiscing on it when it only brings around new bouts of pain. No more Isra, no more Raum, no more girl-queen Seraphina. Now Solterra is noiseless as death, choking on the cold wind that sweeps up little sandstorms at her feet. There is no life here. Or maybe that is what separates the Day court from the rest of them—maybe there is simply life she cannot see, buried in places she can’t find, and she is the fool for thinking this place is a graveyard.
Still, she thinks it.
The windows of the apartments and the storefronts are shuttered. Ghost town, she thinks as she passes silently over the streets; streets where the stones are encrusted with sand and dust lines the windowsills; where flowers have wilted in their vases, where even the gold has started to rust. Where there was all life and gold-fever.The few people that do pass through the streets are hurried, their heads low, their shoulders crunched together. There is not the faint sound of music or the smell of food cooking, as there always is in Terrastella.
They are afraid. And Marisol cannot blame them, but oh, it hurts her heart.
Marisol, the lady of dusk: I have heard you have eyes like slate, and you are a warrior.
WEARY OF WARS AND BLOODSHED, WEARY OF YOUR PRAYERS FOR VENGEANCE
OF YOUR WRANGLINGS AND DISSENSIONS; ALL YOUR STRENGTH IS IN YOUR UNION; ALL YOUR DANGER IS IN THE DISCORD; THEREFORE BE AT PEACE HENCEFORWARD, AND AS BROTHERS LIVE TOGETHER.
Orestes watches her approach the citadel and
his heart
aches.
I know,
he thinks.
No city
should look like so much
death, decay, desertion.
There is no music, no scents or incense, no boisterous conversation in the market square; there are few open vendors; and those that inhabit the streets have the expression of cowed dogs, struck one too many times by a master who only fed them scraps. There is a roiling within Orestes; he closes his eyes and tastes iron; he thinks of injustice and wrath and all the things that deserve punishment. Only there is no one left to punish; the sins now belong to the victims to bear. He could be filled with hopelessness; instead he chooses to see the beauty of it,
Orestes watches her approach to the citadel. Do you know? he wonders. What did the sea tell you? The thought follows him down the spiral stairs, through the empty sandstone corridors. It follows him as he stops to glance out the windows, desperately trying to glimpse her in the streets.
There is so much the sea could have said.
Did she tell you, Orestes wants to ask
Did she tell you, I was a saviour?
It is a lie. It sits within him like a poison.
Did she tell you, I was their undertaker?
Orestes can hear his own heartbeat. He can hear the resounding echo of his hooves against the ground,
dun dun dun
din din din
His mouth is dry. He wonders,
Did she tell you I fell in love with my enemy? That I set her Free?
Did she tell you she abandoned me on the coast of Solterra?
Did she tell you she took everything from me?
But he finds himself at the door of the grand, empty citadel. He can feel the heat waft in from outside and realises, only now, that his courtier had set the fires ablaze in the foyer. Their heat is dry but their light flickers along the darkest alcoves. Orestes feels the heat of it center and pool at his head; he feels light; he feels distressed; and he knows he is the colour of the sun.
He opens the door on her second knock.
He smiles.
“Queen Marisol.”
Her eyes are the colour of slate.
She does not look like a queen.
“Come inside.” Orestes leads her through the foyer, which is long and ornate, perhaps resembling Solterra’s ancient prestige. There are lavish curtains and tapestries; jewel-bright chandeliers; and everything is covered in the dust of a forgotten monarchy. He looks at her sidelong and cannot help the roguish smirk that passes across his face. “Unfortunately, there’s little you can do about the dust in the desert. You’ll be trying to get sand off of you for weeks to come, Lady Marisol.” Do not stare too long at her eyes he reminds himself. They are the cool slant of the sea beneath an overcast, sunless sky; they are sharp as weapons; they are beautiful. Through the foyer they go; up the spiral staircase; into a large, airy room with windows that overlook the sea.
It is the only place within the citadel Orestes does not think smells of forgotten stories, of dank parchment, of decay.
His study is the only area he has put the energy into redecorating. There are no ornate tapestries, or curtains—in fact, there are no curtains whatsoever. Instead an entire wall is dedicated to a view of the distant Solterran coastline, where the sun sets. What decorations exist are not lavish; in fact, they are nearly brutish in their simplicity. Arcane sun symbols; a vase of brilliant yucca flowers; an aloe vera plant. Then there are the books. Scatter haphazardly; stacked on the floor, in the corners, in towering book cases. There is a large wooden table; it is slightly disheveled, but notably more organised than the rest of the room, with two cushioned seats. The best I could do, he almost says, but does not. He blows hair from his eyes and shrugs, a little apologetically. “Please, make yourself at home. Charles will bring up refreshments shortly.”
Orestes looks at her fully for the first time.
As always, there are many things he wants to say; for just a moment, none of them have anything to do with their courts. For just a moment, he wants to ask, why is the expression you wear so hard? For just a moment, he wants to ask, has your body ever been anything but a weapon. He does not. He clears his throat and pulls out one of the chairs, to offer her a seat. At last, Orestes himself sits and spends a moment gathering his thoughts. Then:
“You wrote of peace.” And the sea. They are not yet intimate enough for him to add that. He stumbles and finally, simply, says: “I would like that very much.”
There is a boyish earnestness to his expression that does not bely the fact when he says it he is thinking of what bodies look like bloated in the surf, and how it feels to live in a prison, and the way he had once asked for peace on a clifftop. The last time he had asked for peace, the symbol of the sun had been seared onto his flesh with gold that burned the magic from his blood as though it were a sin. The last time he had asked for peace, he had sentenced his people to slaughter.
King Orestes of Solterra, the sea tells me that she knows you, and she says good things.
Orestes sits across from another Sovereign, in a land more foreign than a dream to him, and he wonders why. Somehow, past his bitterness, past the welling of his old fears and hurts, he speaks a second time: “It is rude of me, however, to skip straight to politics. Please, Queen Marisol, tell me of yourself.” There is another smile. It lights up his eyes, and inside his heart is the sea against the shore, inside his heart wells with waves and frigid waters and feels as if it is drowning. He says, “Don't spare me any details, and I'll return the favour. I believe if anyone is to have a successful truce the best way to begin is by knowing one another.”
Somehow, somewhere, he thinks of what it would feel like to swim. He wonders if she loves the water or is committed to the sky. And he wonders if, perhaps, there is hope within their tragedies after all.
His eyes are blue like the ocean. He looks like a king.
At once the gnawing pain in Marisol’s chest burns, compresses, flattens in on itself like so much concrete on a butterfly wing: it’s jealousy, and it makes her whole body sting like clear alcohol in an open wound—
He looks like a king, and that, just that, is something Marisol does not ever think she will achieve.
Queen Marisol. She forces a little grin, diplomatic. Her jaw hurts. “King Orestes,” she responds, half-smiling, and her throat is dry, and everything in her wants to say I am not a lady, don’t look at me like that, but she doesn’t, she can’t, and only God knows if the idea of what he sees in her is repulsive or worth yearning for.
They stand there, for a moment. In the doorway. Halfway between this and that and not fully invested in either. Both options are not quite alive, and terribly silent; the castle behind him is as listless as the streets she’s just come from. No waving banners. No clattering silverware or bustling servants. Just ear-ringing silence. Silence. Silence. Her heart is in her throat, plump against the white ridges of teeth. There is no reason to feel guilty, but she does.
The wind blows sand in and out, across the steps and back over them. Her ankles are frosted with pale, gritty dust.
She follows him into the foyer. The dim glint of the fireplaces (it’s too hot in here already, why are those on?) plays tricks on the metallic shine of Orestes’ tattoos. Like there’s something inside him, twisting and turning against the light. Like the lines themselves are alive in a way she’s never seen before. Marisol thinks of her own warpaint—how it eats the light instead of reflecting it, thinks of what that might mean, if anything. His skin is dusty-dappled like sun on sand. His muscles move like water over stone. He smells like salt. Smoke. Smells like he belongs somewhere other than here, anywhere other than here.
She follows him into the foyer, whose floors are lined with plush and ornate rugs, whose walls are draped with velvet curtains, whose chandeliers cast diamonds of colored light across the sandstone they walk over. Everything smells of sandalwood and amber and the hot, dry danger of the desert following Orestes like a veil. The air in here is stale, laced with nose-itching, chest-scraping dust. Marisol’s mouth has turned irreparably dry.
The office relaxes her a little. Up the stairs, through the door, and now they are standing in a place that she can only imagine looks like the inside of Orestes’ head (or heart, or both)—cluttered and beautiful, vibrant, utterly distracting. The so-precarious piles of books that make her skin itch in concern. The yucca flowers, the spiny, bright-green aloe vera. Despite herself she finds herself looking at the towering book-spines, pausing on the ones she recognizes. (Many are nonfiction, but she chooses to disregard those.) The Velveteen Rabbit. An embossed Anna Karenina. Alice in Wonderland.
“You would like Don Quixote,” she says, without the usual musing. Her voice sounds a little timid. Shyer than someone in power should be. “I think.”
And then she swallows it all down, and takes a seat, and looks at him as he talks.
Such fine lines in his face, all the little intricacies of kelp cells and the simple, clean, curving ribs of seashells, such an aura of salt and cool wind, his expression like the sun on water. The silky curl of his pale eyelashes up, up, up against the golden brow and the ocean-dark blue eyes. The smooth and curling wisps of nacreously white hair waved like seafoam against his cheek, against the satin-dappled skin on his neck, against the china-silk smiling lips and flashing white teeth. The faint distraction of the tattoos gilded into his skin, how they move when he speaks. Leaves in the wind. Fish under waves.
She realizes she is staring. She realizes he has finished talking.
“Oh,” says Marisol.
She thinks of the ocean and the sharp teeth and what she had said to him, the murderer—
She thinks of what he had asked of her and what she could not give, and all the ways she has wrecked herself on the training grounds, the beat of her wings, gnawing on the iron-cold head of a spear—
A used pair of wings.
Marisol inhales, and says:
“There is little of me that has not been eaten up my work, so there is very little to tell you of myself. I was born in Terrastella. I am nearly sure I will die there. In between it will be mostly hardships, if life up to now is any indication.” She smiles, then. Darkly humored, morbid, knowing. “I visit my mother every week, out in the slums, and my father, though he is long dead. She refuses my money but I leave it for her anyway, as is my duty. The Commander I ousted hated me deeply but needed me more, which apparently you knew, and all my life I have been making sure I prove him wrong. I know how to throw a spear but not how to be a water-horse. The sea is new to me. It was always supposed to be the sky. When I find the man who chose to turn me against my will, I think I will kill him, but I have not decided yet. I like to read.” Then a real grin—guilty, pleased, personal. Mari ducks her head. “Poetry, especially, things about nature and—love. And I assure you I am much less Spartan than I might sound, at least when it comes to friends. Which I hope we can be.”
“And you?” she offers, and for once the Commander’s voice is hopeful.
HOW SHALL I HOLD MY SOUL, SO THAT IT DOES NOT TOUCH YOURS?
They both wear titles
that do not suit them.
King.
Queen.
Or ought they still be,
the Prince of a Thousand Tides, and the
steely eyed,
Halcyon
Commander?
Pleasantries aside, it is too easy to imagine her dressed for war. He decides in that moment he never wants to see her prepared for such an occasion, and to him the decision is as simple as that. That utilitarian body, seal bay and ivory-winged, has seen too much disaster already. The poignancy of her letter returns to him; the tragedy of her position; and all of it is sentiment enough to drown him in sorrow, if he were to let it. He thinks of this as he passes the scorching fires, and enters his quiet refuge of books, sunlight, sea.
Orestes was always better at feeling other peoples’ suffering.
He is much more relaxed when they reach his study, and they have passed the tragedy of Solterra. The decadence, forgotten. The warmth, overbearing. The pride, unattended. You would like Don Quixote. At once the comment tells him she is a reader, and Orestes smiles. “Perhaps I will have to visit your court to read it then, Marisol.” It is the first time he has said her name without a title, and it at once as warm as the sun and as profound as the sea. He says it as he says many things: softly, almost huskily. He says in the same way that he prays; as if it is simply him and her.
Orestes notices her staring, but does not pursue it. It only provokes a small, boyish smile. It is an expression that refuses to leave his face as she begins speaking, and Orestes leans forward as she speaks. He has never been able to feign indifference, or professional apathy; no, he is utterly and strikingly absorbed in her conversation.
There is little of me that has not been eaten up by my work, but Orestes already disagrees. Does she not recognise how powerful she is, how striking? Does she not know her eyes cut him to the bone? But he hears it in her story: the undercurrent of service. It is something he deeply respects. Orestes respects it as she speaks of her mother; he respects it as she speaks of a former Commander. But what is more, Orestes respects her forward honesty. He would be a liar if he did not find it deeply moving, and profoundly attractive. Finally, she says, I like to read.
He smiles broadly, because he already knew. What he does not expect is her admission of poetry and he wonders at it; a battle-hardened warrior, who reads love poetry. The story of her turning breaks his heart; in that the one who did it did not first teach her to love the sea and Orestes wonders, for a moment, if he had been born with wings he would not resent the water as well. A buried part of him would like to teach her otherwise; would like to show her the savage beauty of it. And you? she asks.
Orestes laughs, a little shyly. He cannot prevent the blush that colours his cheeks as he recites:
“Tonight I can write the saddest lines,
Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars
Are blue and shiver in the distance.’
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance
My soul is not satisfied that it lost her.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
My voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long."
Orestes cannot help it. He shares it; because he believes they already are friends. His heart has opened to her words like a flower since he received her achingly beautiful, honestly searching letter. He says, “Perhaps one day I can show you a sea that you could love. It is not so hard to be a water horse. It is much harder to be one on land. As for me… I also love poetry.” Orestes smiles again. He can feel the warmth of the sun against his skin, and he can almost smell her. She is not harsh like the desert; but smells of clean sweat, a bit of brine, something lush and earthy. She smells like life.
If she had been staring, Orestes is doing so unabashedly now. It is the proud lines of her face; the contrast of her grey eyes against her dark bay skin. It is her wings, which are so strange to him, but no less lovely. Orestes continues:
“I do not know what the sea has told you, but she is my mother. I came from a land very far from here, with black cliffs and a people that hated me. I was prophesied to save them, but I could not.” He cannot hide the way the statement is coloured with so many things; bitterness, regret, sorrow, perhaps even rage. There is a tremble, slight and nearly imperceptible, before he continues. “I attempted to offer those who warred against us peace; but they refused the treaty and trapped me, enslaving the last of our resistance. I was sentenced to die and somehow… somehow… I woke up on the Solterran coast, and was taken in by two travellers who taught me the customs and the history. The magic of my old land is gone, but I took it as a sign I am meant to do here what I could not do elsewhere. Solis has given me new powers, and a new people.”
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
“I have become an avid reader. My soul has always loved poetry, although I did not know what it was until recently. I love the sun but will always miss the sea. As you can tell, I am far from Spartan, but I believe very much in duty. I love beautiful things, and people, and being for others the thing that makes them better. I hate the cruel; I hate injustice; and I hate confining wild things.”
Orestes does not say I live for other people but it is there, in the way he looks at her, if nothing else.
At that moment, opportunely, he hears Charles clambering up the stairs. The young appaloosa delivers an assortment of different teas, hot water, cream, and assorted breads and scones. He shyly addresses Marisol as “Sovereign,” ducking his head before he retreats. Orestes stares fondly after him for a moment, before redirecting his attention to the ruler across from him.
“Marisol—if we may drop the titles—I would prefer to talk all day about the intricacies of us as people, but for now perhaps we ought to turn our attention to business. What kind of alliance is it you seek? Simply mutually assured peace? What is it your Court needs?” The questions could have been abrasive, from one who did not speak so softly; if they were spoken without so much gentle, genuine intrigue. “Although, forgive me for admitting, I would much rather continue discussing love poetry.”
He cannot help himself.
He means to—he tries too—
But the words come out soft and sweet and earnest,
And because of that, the words are instead spoken with a tinge of something that cannot be described as professionalism or courtly manners. No, there is a breathlessness within the comment that is too elegant for polite table talk; instead, it belongs behind closed bedroom doors and within the embrace of soft, warm sheets.
She is surprised at the comfort she feels in this study, foreign and familiar at once. She is surprised at how the huskiness in his voice almost has the power (already) to make her shiver. She is surprised at how much her heart responds to the soft, boyish smile that curls his dark lips—how it starts to beat louder, and how it skips against her teeth.
She is surprised at how easy it is for her to shed her titles, and for him to shed his, and and most of all how warm her skin is turning in the dusty light of his office under his true-blue eyes. The room smells of old books and blown-out candles; it smells like the perfume of the desert and the sea, intermingled. Mari breathes deep and her chest burns with the salt of it.
And then he starts to recite that poem,
And Marisol’s heart stops completely, weightless like a feather in whatever, and then it sinks like a rock passing straight through her chest and down to the floor.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines, and Mari’s face lights up like a child’s; I loved her, and she can’t hold back trembling, sheepish smile; love is so short, he says, and though it makes her heart hurt, though sorrow rises in her like so much salt, an equal part of her is already in love with the song of his voice and the way he looks at her like she is something more than a shield or a spear.
“Ah,” she says. She is smiling and yet her voice threatens to break, so low and unsteady it’s become. “Neruda.”
And now he is staring at her with those pretty eyes, blue like the sea, blue like magic, and Mari’s pulse is trembling in her throat like the wingbeats of a hummingbird, and when she does meet his eyes it is shyly, through a curl of dark lashes, and something that is almost a smile but not quite, an expression that hovers between interest and uncertainty, warmth and caution. But when he speaks—oh, she listens. She listens with rapt attention, with large, curious eyes and her dark ears pricked forward, all the lines of her body earnest and relaxed. She listens, not with the face of a warrior but the look of a girl.
I was prophesied to save them but I could not.
I have been given new powers and a new people.
I believe very much in duty.
I love beautiful things. I hate the cruel; I hate injustice.
She looks at him with her lips half-parted, comically, tragically surprised, and she wants to say we have so much in common, too much; what do you not know about me, then? but she does not.
Instead she rearranges the sharp lines of her face into a faint blue smile and meets his gaze with warmth, head titled slightly, eyes still searching. There is so much to talk about and so much she wants to say and, for the most part, those things do not intersect. How does she decide? Between these two duties—between wanting and giving—between the things that claw at her heart and then at her head? She can’t, she can’t. There will never be enough time, and now it’s all slipping away, and she’s running out of things to say and the will to say them and the time to ask—
There is the sound of hoofsteps on the staircase and she breathes a tight sigh of relief.
The young Appaloosa who enters the room bears a tray of teas and water and baked goods; he does not meet her eyes, only pauses to address her as Sovereign, and though Mari smiles at him there is a new wave of pain wracking her chest.
She is not meant to be Queen, not meant to be Sovereign or Lady or anything royal. It should be Commander.
It should be Commander, she thinks, and blinks down at the ground for a moment, and tries so, so hard not to let any tears even begin to form in the corners of her eyes. Breathe. Her chest is tight; her throat is hard with salt. But she manages to breath. She manages to clear the film in her gaze. She manages to steady her voice, and by the time Orestes is speaking again she is able to look up at him (and does) with her usual calm neutrality. Breathe. And somehow she does.
Marisol Ibarra of Terrastella is perhaps the world’s greatest actor, and if she does her job right, no one will ever have to know.
“And I as well,” she admits. A brief pause. Then again, in a voice solid and steady: “I will not pretend to know how to help Solterra recover from the tyrant king, but I do promise that I and my people will do what we can to assist you in working toward justice. I think… I think a public alliance would serve both our courts well. We would present a stronger image to the other courts. Terrastella is a nation made for healers, and I worry…” she swallows, inhales. “I would like to ensure that no one misconstrues that for weakness. We might balance each other, in a way. Your soldiers could teach ours new methods and spar with them; our healers could teach yours of medicine, and the Ilati of the ancient ways that have kept their kind alive through untold disaster. I would extend to you and your people an invitation to our midwinter celebration and Vespera’s festivals. Well, I would do that anyway. But.” She flashes him a smile, slightly more comfortable than the last.
“My people and your people both deserve to be protected. I think—if not this agreement I’ve suggest, if I am indeed overstepping, in which case please know that I apologize—mutually assured peace would be, at least, the place to start. And perhaps the exchange of some literature. I could begin now.”
For half a second Marisol bites her lip—as if in desire, as if in uncertainty. It is a strange look on her, ill-fitting, a bizarre feeling, even to her. And then she is straight-faced again, meeting his gaze with some measure of composure, and trying to appear regal in the face of the thing that curls in her gut like fire. She wants to ask: say yes, for the good of us both. Say yes, so that we can move forward. Say yes, so that we, here, will not have to talk any longer of disaster.
Say yes, so I can move on to tell you all the poems I know about love.
HOW SHALL I HOLD MY SOUL, SO THAT IT DOES NOT TOUCH YOURS?
It is the ocean in him. It is the ocean in him that allows him to see so much. It is the most valuable lesson he has ever learned, perhaps; the depth of feeling. It is the way that light can refract; reflect; dive; disappear. It is the way a whale’s heartbeat can be heard for two miles, or more—as if a part of one great, grandiose, living thing. The lines about his eyes wrinkle and glow as he smiles; the light pours as if from within him. “Yes.” Is his voice also unsteady? He clears the huskiness from his throat, so his voice repeats the name with resonant, crystal clarity. “Neruda.” Within the dancing light of his eyes, there is more to that statement: but he is not the only love poet I know. In that moment, her expression is just enough to offset the somber girl he knows from the letter; it is enough to make her the hopeful one he speaks with now, the one that loves poetry, the one who has slate eyes that remind him not of metal but of an overcast sky, grey but somehow full of light.
The thing he cherishes most, however, is the way that between his many books and in slanted rays of lazy sun, they are just a man and a woman, a boy and a girl. There is a refreshing novelty to it; unexpected and earnest, and her rapt attention earns his even more impassioned words. For her, his story is not a recitation; it is a gift, trembling with emotion and unconfessed sins. There is not enough time between when he finishes speaking and when Charles arrives for her to comment; but there is something slightly tumultuous beneath her expression, in her slight smile that raises to meet Charles as he addresses her.
The tea sits there, steaming. Orestes is no stranger to the eyes cast downward, the sudden stiffening of features and resolve—he almost asks, he wants to ask, if she is alright—but already they are moving forward and that brief, ephemeral moment remains in his mind as something he ought to have done but did not, and will regret later. It is so brief he does not even know if it is real; but regardless, it remains, an itch, an anger. I should have asked—
Yet he listens with rapt attention as she transforms into a woman of business. She becomes everything he would expect of a woman who first described herself as a vessel for work. Something about the transition draws his eyes to her wings—to the line of them, and the way the white undersides are nearly tinted gold in the soft light. He would like, very much, to see her fly.
Orestes refocuses, however, on her resolutions—and acknowledges the weight of them has the ability to sway the future of his Court. Orestes nods his assent, sipping briefly at tea he took the time to pour each of them—first his guest, and then himself. “I think these ideas would benefit both of our kingdoms immensely. And, perhaps—“ he says it shyly, with a slight smile. “Terrastella may even teach us a little of peace and humility. The only thing I can think to suggest is strengthening of our trade; I intend to invest in the Solterran blacksmiths of old, which were renowned for their steelwork. Perhaps we could arrange something specifically for your Halcyon; light-weight armour, or weapons. In return, we are low on fresh produce. Our growing season is very short, and often sporadic due to drought. I do not want to linger long on specifics—but would such an arrangement interest you? Of course, all that you said would be reciprocated in kind. Invitations to our festivals and celebrations. We will have some soon, I imagine, but we can settle such matters through letters. I can think of nothing that would strengthen our kingdoms more." And just like that, Orestes suggests further correspondence as if it it does not make his heart tremble like a fawn. “You do not overstep, Sovereign of the Dusk Court, Commander of Halycon. Marisol, I am eager for the peace between our kingdoms..” And perhaps the exchange of some literature. I could begin now. She bites her lip, briefly, so briefly he almost doesn’t notice—
Perhaps Orestes's heart does not tremble like a fawn.
Perhaps it roars, roars, roars, in an ineligible language, a language of flesh and blood and something dangerous, a little dark, but full of light on the edge of blossoming. A flower, turning, turning toward the sun.
“Yes.” He says, and it is the affirmation of a boy taken aback, a boy flustered but endearingly. A poet who has forgotten, for just a moment, the eloquence of his art. Orestes smiles broadly. “There is nothing that could ensure lasting peace between us then an exchange of literature… We couldn’t possibly come to a disagreement, or we might never get our favourite books back.”
Orestes cannot help himself when he says, “Share with me something you love; your favourite verse, or quote.” When the palominos stallion says it, he thinks of her expression when Charles had arrived; the transient moment where, briefly, there was something tense beneath her face. He thinks of how he does not want to see that expression plague her again. He thinks—I should have asked—but the words do not yet come to his tongue.
Instead he thinks of the way her eyes are like the sun behind the clouds; grey, grey, grey, but not hard, not metal, soft like rain on a still sea. Orestes is enraptured; he cannot look away; and his mind turns and turns and turns around the potential of their Courts, the benefits the alliance could gain for both his people and hers. He thinks of festivals, celebrations, and trade.
But there is also a part of him, a personal part, hot and glowing and sun-like, that cannot forget the way her lips shaped the word “love.” The way her eyes hardened as she spoke of her country. The line of her wing, and what it must look like in flight…
Marisol feels like a child again. Again. Well, not quite—she was not a child, not even when soft and small with youth, not even when her wings were too weak to fly with, not even when her parents still cooed over her like a baby. Even then she hadn’t been a child; responsibility choked her from the moment she was born. There had been no novelty to it and very little excitement. The bright-white feeling of a pleasure just found, teeth filmed with sugar, a heartbeat that did not stutter—foreign concepts. Nothing new and nothing good. There were no playdates. No running and laughing. Just drills and spear-throws and sleeping cold on the floor of the barracks, and the horns blaring in the morning, and the light coming pink through the windows.
So to say again is not accurate. She feels like a child, then, for the first time.
Like a child in that things are new and clean, that they are not recognizable, that the thing she feels fluttering in her chest like butterfly wings is a feeling she has either never had or never been able to put a name to. Like a child in that, whatever this thing is, she has no handle on it yet.
The Commander blows out a short, mild breath and watches it ruffle the loose leaves of the teas in front of them. A ripple crosses the surface of a saucer of milk. It smells like so many different things in this sunny room, like dust and saffron and black tea, like caramel and ginger and sour lemon; it stings the inside of her nostrils and burns deep into the back of her head, drilling and spinning, though most parts of it she finds pleasant. It doesn’t smell like this at home, she wants to say, and almost does. These are not things I know. The only thing familiar about this place is the books: laid like bricks, dusty and solid, spined in gold.
Home smells like home. Sea salt, clean linen, lavender. And it feels like the hole in her chest that pulses worse every passing moment that Marisol is away. It feels like an ache—like gnashing, grinding teeth. In her head, she sees it. Home. The gentle crashing of the waves on the sand. The rising and falling of the blue-shadowed mountains. The lights sparkling on the wet streets, the glitter over everything, the spell of spices and sweet alcohol. She cannot imagine what is like to be someone like Orestes, always changing, always traveling. She cannot imagine what it is like to shed not only your skin but your brain, your tribe, your home.
How is that not like dying?
There is a long silence after he finishes speaking. A long, uncertain silence, as if neither of them quite know what to say or how to act. Finally Marisol says “I am glad to hear it,”sincere if a little soft, and then with a little smile begins to pour steaming-hot water into her teacup, then into his. A cloud rises up between them, then disappears, like a breath in cold air. “Our fields are quite good for blackberries. I will send some soon; I think you’ll like them.”
You would like everything about it. The ocean, the fields—Mari’s vision is starting to blur, a glittering, silver-red gauze. Her lips prickle from sharp teeth beginning to come uncovered. I could show you the sea again. I could show you what it’s like to be out of the sun. Unbidden, she thinks of Amaroq and what it felt like to drown. Unbidden, she wonders whether they have become the same kind of monster.
You would like it. You would love it.
Mari licks her teeth and swallows her pride.
The office is still for a long moment, stiller than a held breath or a bated heartbeat. Orestes’ voice is a balm in the dry air. And she laughs at his joke, bright and clear, brief and happy; a flash of white teeth, a blink, a sheepish turn of the head, quick and easy. Laughing does not come easy to her. It does not even feel particularly good. But it is the right thing to do, she knows—the thing Orestes wants—and even she cannot take that from him, this boy with the golden tattoos and the terribly loud heart. (She could not take anything from him, she thinks, or would not. And that scares her.)
(It is not the kind of thing a Commander should fall prey to.)
“My favorite?” she repeats, as if the question is incomprehensible, but of course she already knows the answer. Yet Marisol wavers. Until now there has been dignity to save. Until now there has been a way to turn back. If she tells him, that will all be gone. If she tells him—
Marisol sips her tea. Steam curls against her seal-soft skin. She says quietly:
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