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.
@Orestes | "speaks" | notes: text
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