I AM ALONE IN THIS WORLD, BUT NOT SO ALONE AS TO MAKE EACH HOUR HOLY, I AM TOO SMALL IN THIS WORLD, BUT NOT TINY ENOUGH TO JUST STAND BEFORE YOU LIKE A THING, DARK AND SHREWD.
The desert would have killed him.
Like this:
too much sun,
no water.
Sweltering,
sweltering,
sweltering,
The surface of a star,
one dune, another dune.
They all look the same. The sand rolls—sometimes, sometimes
it rolls a body underneath.
The austerity of it returns to him occasionally, when the heat beads sweat at his withers or along his brow. He thinks of the harshness, the savagery, the unforgiving nature—how there is a greediness to the heat, a hunger… or, more adequately, a thirst.
Sometimes at night, when he is awake and alone, he thinks it whispers to him. He can hear the wind howl and the sand shifts in a beastly murmur over and over itself, an endless cycle. It is as if Time itself speaks, and It says: I am eternity. And eternity always craves mortal blood. It always craves youth. The wind, in particular, howled last night. It howled and howled with a hunger he knows only from the sea in a storm; he stared out the towers of his citadel and into the pristine night, where the stars shone like so many flecks of silver dust. A moonless night. When at last Orestes’ slept, it had been restlessly. He awakes, the next day, with that same restlessness. It is if the sand shifts within him now, too, and there is a bottomless thirst reflected in his very being. His mouth tastes like sand.
But he cannot chase his restlessness, so Orestes shifts through paperwork and history books, searching, searching, for an answer to his Court’s many problems. He is interrupted some time later by his courtier, Charles, knocking on his door. “Lord?” he questions. Orestes gestures him inside. “The sentries report a girl wandering the Mors. She is very lost."
It is not an uncommon occurrence. “ Would you like them to bring her in?”
He feels stiff, and restless. There is a wind howling cavernous within his ribs, encircling his heart. “No, Charles, I’ll go find her.”
— — — —
The young Sovereign crests yet another dune, somewhat winded from the ascent. The heat of the desert is not as oppressive as it had been some months ago; instead, a brisk and chilly wind whips across the face of the Mors. Despite his newness to the territory, Orestes has become quite adept at navigating. He has taken note of the Eastern cast of the sun—after all, it is not quite noon—and the distant presence of the Veneror Peak, hazy and bluish, marks the rough South. He had been told the girl was beneath the shadow of the sun, and so Orestes simply trekked eastward and away from the Court, stopping atop each dune to scan his surroundings.
When Orestes finds her, it is past the sediment castle and heading the opposite direction of Solterra back toward the rising sun. She is in the miniature canyon between two large dunes and he calls down from her from where perches above. “If you are trying to find the Court, I regret to inform you it is the other way. Perhaps I can escort you?”
Orestes is surprised to discover the quick beat of his heart, the rise of excitement in his blood. He has yet to grow accustomed to the diversity of Novus’ inhabitants, and he finds himself marvelling at her bicoloured wings. A pegasus! In his life, Orestes had thus far seen only a handful. “I am Orestes.” he says politely, and begins to descend the dune.
@Anemone
