[P] in the end there will be dust;

[Raum]

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

 


She is wild before him. Her blood is vital in her veins. If he spilled it upon the throne room floor would it fall hissing like a riled cat? Or clang like bells set peeling with drama and discord?
 
As he watches her, the rise of the hairs along her slim back, the press of her lips, tight, tight to the blunt lines of her teeth, he thinks he could admire her. Yet he enjoys bettering her more. To see her cowed, to see her weak – is that not better still?
 
Her blood surges as strong as Rhoswen, yet Elif is the sun’s heat beneath which he lies like a cat, content and warmed. But Rhoswen makes him Icarus and always she has him flying to close, always she burns him and he bears so many scars for loving her. As he moves in the light, he wonders if Elif can see them there, glowing black beneath the silver of his skin.
 
She talks of leaving, Elif does. She snaps her tail against her hocks and stands tall. There is no mane to fly defiantly about her slender throat. There is no wind to use it to tug her to the door. She is straight and angular, small and slim but she stands tall and rigid and tries to become a giant from the torso of an ant.
 
“Then go, Elif.” Raum says, as if bored of her. The guards stand sentinel, they do not move, they do not flinch or even stir the smallest millimeter. They would not stop her if she left, not when their king has told her she could leave. But oh there is something daring in their king’s eyes, the soldiers see it and they know it. Raum does not hide it from Elif, he wants to see if she is brave enough, he wants to see if she dare excuse herself from the king’s company, if he might let her leave and keep each piece of herself that she brought in.
 
He might take from her everything. “You value your tongue too much.” Raum says as soft as a kiss, as soft as a blade lying between her teeth. “I would be careful how you use it when you do not know where your god is, when he does not know or care for you enough to come and save you…”
 
The king turns from her, releasing her from a silver gaze of chains and ice. He looks out the window, to the deserts that roll like waves, like crimson waters swelling with leviathan backs.
 
She says she came here to beg and he agrees, “You did. And yet your tongue does you a disservice and your knees are still too clean.” He does not look to her, his attention is on the workers so far below his window. Does he make them orphans? Does he wish to make them all orphans? He might make Solterra great, or he might not. He might wish to turn it into ruins, or he might not…
 
“Your queen,” Raum addresses Elif’s last question at last, “Is buried in the Steppe.” He lies with the ease of water pouring along a river’s path. “I believe it is now covered in gems and flowers. Good luck finding her grave to offer her respect.”

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@Elif