YOUR HEART AND MY HEART ARE VERY OLD FRIENDS
Orestes’ companions currently consist of the yearling courtier who runs his errands, and a half-starved cur that lives on the street outside his quarters. Orestes had thrown the dog a scrap one time and the canine had taken it as an invitation to move into the palace.
In other words, Orestes has no friends. The castle is empty to the point of eeriness, and he thinks far too much, far too often. Orestes has always been a creature of action, and the threat of inaction is in itself a prison. He feels the madness gnaw at his edges like a dog at a bone, his doubt and fear compiling into a thing of self-deprecation. The sea does not sing and in her silence he can only hear his failure, again and again and again, and that silence follows him in his dreams and in his waking and all he can do to quell it is glance out at the streets and hope it is all for a greater purpose.
How does it feel,
She had once asked.
How does it feel, to be the last?
He had pushed his head against the bars between them,
close enough she could feel the heat of his skin, but not touch it,
and his lips almost brushed her shoulder, but couldn’t,
he said, “Like this.”
Orestes stares out the window, where the city spreads symmetric and grand. He stares out the window toward a foreign peoples that make his heart grow, and grow, and grow, and he thinks
it feels like being a small fire in a great storm.
He could have stood for eons. But there is a frantic clatter of hooves against the sandstone floor downstairs, and he listens to the echo clip-clop its way to his chambers and study. There is the courtier, dark bay and out of breath, saying, “The Night Court Emissary has arrived.”
Orestes turns to follow him, looking back, still, over a shoulder—beyond the city, to the outer wall and the cresting sun, thinking
It feels like holding your breath for something to change,
and hoping it is for the better.
He does not say this. He says, “Thank you, Charles.” And shakes his head into the present. Into the now, spectacular and aching. His courtier leads him out of the palace into the streets, then beyond, at that half-run half-trot, until they are beyond the gates. The half-starved hound follows up until he can see out toward the desert, and stops, staring forlornly after the pair. The streets of Solterra's capitol are still too quiet, too starved, and the gaunt hound reflects it.
“Charles, I thought you said they were here.” Orestes tone, at first, sounds stern. But when the yearling glances at him apprehensively, there is a butterfly-soft smile on his lips that dances like a shift of light.
“I didn’t want us to be late, sir.” And Charles’s bonded, a Harris’ hawk, launches from the yearling's shoulder to guide them in through the dunes. They stand waiting at the outer gate of the city; long moments pass before Orestes’ sees three dark shapes cresting a dune. A Solterran sentry leads them closer, closer, closer, and the hawk circles overhead as though to mark their passing.
The desert does a funny thing to time. It makes each second seem infinite, in the way the ocean never did. The ocean is too much movement, too much ferocity—but the desert is still and patient and always waiting, with half a breath held. At last they are near enough to speak, and Orestes dips his head in a respectful bow. “It is a pleasure, Moira.” It is the name Charles has given him, for the winged mare. He does not know her companion and offers a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I was not aware there would be two of you, I apologise. The pleasure is mine. I am Orestes, and you are…” He trails off, waiting for an introduction. Even as he speaks, his words sound strange, too incomplete; there is no song to them, no undertone of... of more. His heart aches for a moment, fierce and poignant, but there is no language to convey what he has lost, that speaking was only ever half his poetry. Stop, he demands of himself. And so, Orestes does, and asks:
“Would you prefer to rest before escorting me? I hope the desert was not too hard on you.” He thinks it was, because it is hard on everyone, and it is something he loves fiercely about it.
Orestes
