Anatoly knows the sweet heat of the Solterran sun, grew with it draping across his back like fine silk soaked and sticking. Anatoly knows the heat of the Solterran breeze, scorching his lungs for taking it, breathing into him the fire of his people and the life of the desert. Dust to dust as it were, or sand to sand, Anatoly will die in this land as he was born for it, and it will be a privilege for the Mors to swallow him whole.
And for all that, he has spent far too long outside it’s borders, has grown lazy on plots and poison and predictions. He may have been born for this land, but he was not born in it; may have grown amongst his people, but he did not age into the finest of his parts within Solterra’s bindings. Stepping back into this place, feeling the drape of the sun and the burn of the breeze, is not a balm as once he might have imagined.
No, stepping outwards was a balm; teasing and tricking and taking, all that was a balm. Out there the ground does not shift beneath his feet, does not sweep airborne like a startled bird, stays steadfast. Out there the air sits like moon dew in his chest, sweet and tranquil. Out there is languid, easy, never wondering, never tasting blood in your teeth, never bearing a carcass’s weight.
The fresh wash of heat is like being born anew, blood boiling in his veins and air scraping at his throat until he feels he might cry with it. Aged like fine wine he might be, but here he at last distills; all the impurities, the softness he’d allowed to gather close to his breast, slowly evaporating into the clear afternoon sky. He feels weak from it, new in his skin, like the babe he was Before, but this, this cleansing by fire, reignites the ember in his chest and he is renewed.
No more. Years has he waited, learning patience at Mama’s knee and falling prey to inaction even after she had gone. No more. Anatoly is what his mother made of him, a snake in the sand, and too long has he been mollified by easy prey. No more. Anatoly is Davke, is a dragon, is of the desert he had been torn from by boy kings and blood and pretty words. No more.
Dripping with the finery that hides his nature so much more cleverly than a cloak, all of Solterra is open to him. There are none alive to recognize him now, certainly not looking so soft, so frivolous in his warm gold and gleaming jewels, scars neatly hidden away as many a Davke are too proud to do. All of Solterra, and only one destination.
Not to the Mors does he go, though he longs for desert sands and the remainder of his people, but the Canyon. Here, the whispers say, has there been strange movement. Thrill seekers, they say, getting lost amongst the twists and turns. Ghosts, they murmur, a Queen dead and haunting the only remnants of her Kingdom she can reach from her final resting place on the Peak. Refugees, they scoff, hiding from the King. The rebellion, he thinks, gathering what strength they may at the very edge of the Kingdom.
The Canyon is a twisting thing, full of stops and starts and dangerous drops. It was not a place often frequented by himself when he haunted the Mors, too busy tempting travellers into the dunes and spilling blood into the sands as he was. But his time with the Davke well equipped him for finding cleverly hidden patrol routes, taught him how to get around them to dive into the heart of a camp, but he has no interest in getting around them now.
Let them find him. He will walk, bold and brazen into their refuge if he must, but he will be sorely disappointed should he make it there. A poor showing that would be, a travesty foretelling failure. No, he will follow the carefully concealed routes, and head for their camp, but he will not hide in doing so. Let them find him.
And for all that, he has spent far too long outside it’s borders, has grown lazy on plots and poison and predictions. He may have been born for this land, but he was not born in it; may have grown amongst his people, but he did not age into the finest of his parts within Solterra’s bindings. Stepping back into this place, feeling the drape of the sun and the burn of the breeze, is not a balm as once he might have imagined.
No, stepping outwards was a balm; teasing and tricking and taking, all that was a balm. Out there the ground does not shift beneath his feet, does not sweep airborne like a startled bird, stays steadfast. Out there the air sits like moon dew in his chest, sweet and tranquil. Out there is languid, easy, never wondering, never tasting blood in your teeth, never bearing a carcass’s weight.
The fresh wash of heat is like being born anew, blood boiling in his veins and air scraping at his throat until he feels he might cry with it. Aged like fine wine he might be, but here he at last distills; all the impurities, the softness he’d allowed to gather close to his breast, slowly evaporating into the clear afternoon sky. He feels weak from it, new in his skin, like the babe he was Before, but this, this cleansing by fire, reignites the ember in his chest and he is renewed.
No more. Years has he waited, learning patience at Mama’s knee and falling prey to inaction even after she had gone. No more. Anatoly is what his mother made of him, a snake in the sand, and too long has he been mollified by easy prey. No more. Anatoly is Davke, is a dragon, is of the desert he had been torn from by boy kings and blood and pretty words. No more.
Dripping with the finery that hides his nature so much more cleverly than a cloak, all of Solterra is open to him. There are none alive to recognize him now, certainly not looking so soft, so frivolous in his warm gold and gleaming jewels, scars neatly hidden away as many a Davke are too proud to do. All of Solterra, and only one destination.
Not to the Mors does he go, though he longs for desert sands and the remainder of his people, but the Canyon. Here, the whispers say, has there been strange movement. Thrill seekers, they say, getting lost amongst the twists and turns. Ghosts, they murmur, a Queen dead and haunting the only remnants of her Kingdom she can reach from her final resting place on the Peak. Refugees, they scoff, hiding from the King. The rebellion, he thinks, gathering what strength they may at the very edge of the Kingdom.
The Canyon is a twisting thing, full of stops and starts and dangerous drops. It was not a place often frequented by himself when he haunted the Mors, too busy tempting travellers into the dunes and spilling blood into the sands as he was. But his time with the Davke well equipped him for finding cleverly hidden patrol routes, taught him how to get around them to dive into the heart of a camp, but he has no interest in getting around them now.
Let them find him. He will walk, bold and brazen into their refuge if he must, but he will be sorely disappointed should he make it there. A poor showing that would be, a travesty foretelling failure. No, he will follow the carefully concealed routes, and head for their camp, but he will not hide in doing so. Let them find him.
