YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR A GOD IN THESE HOLLOW HALLS, BITTER BLOOD BEHIND YOUR TEETH. HEAVEN HELP US, SAYS YOUR UNHOLY MOUTH, YOUR HANDS ON MY HANDS. I DON'T KNOW WHERE DARKNESS ENDS AND YOU BEGIN. PROPHETS SANG OF YOU, MOLDED IN YOUR FATHER'S IMAGE. I AM NOT SURE WHEN THEY STOPPED.
The air is heavy with smoke and rain.
He walks by a bonfire and children run screaming, painted in festive colours. A girl, burnished like white gold, has a face painted black and eyes that look gouged until she turns them upon him laughing, joyously, and he realises the paint is only done well. She nearly dances beneath his legs, but something in his expression dissuades her. She jitters away, still laughing, and he moves past the fire. Staring through the flames, he can see the city of Denocte stretch out on the other side—there are mystics and prophets, the distant smell of the sea, and there is a guttural music playing. Everything is gemstones and stone; everything is bright beneath the darkness; a night like silk embraces her city. The music weaves through, nearly magical, except for the fact it sings in him of unholiness. Vercingtorix does not know the words for it, but in another land it might have been described as folkish; there is a banjo, a trio of mandolins, and a number of hide-covered drums.
His people do not have music. They do not celebrate.
The haziness in the air reminds him of dreaming and the moonstones beneath his hooves, reflecting the fire as if they are fire, suggest nothing is as real as he thinks. There is no light, besides the bonfires and street lanterns. There is no light from the sky above Caligo’s Court; children play with sparklers and adults share hard, spiced cider. He smells apples, and cinnamon, and spices he has never known before in his life. There are games around Denocte; he hears of mazes; he hears of fortune tellers and a death celebration and everything seems wrong to him. Denocte is a city with a queen, and it is the first time in his life he has ever heard of something so atrocious, so backwards. Don’t they know, he wonders, as as he watches a woman with six legs dance. Don’t they know, that she must have the wild in her veins, and she cannot be trusted? How can they let her rule? He sees the men as they pass him, painted for the festivities or adorned as soldiers are. But there is a weakness to all of them; they have been emasculated, transformed into the effeminate. When they smile, he cannot smile back.
Don’t they know?
Vercingtorix takes to the darkness like it is his. Perhaps he has lingered so long in Dencote because it is where Locust’s ship docks. Perhaps it is because he has heard Boudika’s name and hopes to catch a glimpse of her, painted gold as if for war. And what would I do? The question hangs on him like unrequited love. And take that as you will. Perhaps it is because no other god in Novus would have him.
Through the bonfire’s brilliant blaze of smoke and ascending embers, something catches his attention.
It is a dancer.
She is a dancer.
He watches with leonine curiosity. Vercingtorix does not need to see her dance, to know she is a dancer. She is light-footed, deer-like, and the strangeness is enough to intrigue him. He does not find her beautiful—how could he, when he so reverently loves the smell of sweat and the strength of warriors?—but Vercingtorix cannot deny that she is captivating. His limp is barely noticeable as he leaves his position against the wall, as an observer, and enters the throng of the celebratory crowd. She is alone, but he comes ghost-like around the bonfire so as to press them nearly chest-to-chest, face-to-face, if it were not for the fact he is so much taller, so much larger, and so much less elegant.
“Is this your home, dancer?” he does not know why he asks it, besides there is an emptiness within him that needs something to fill it, and all too often that something comes upon him like a desperate, vindictive hunger.
Coming face to face with her, he realises he confronts something else entirely;
Are you leaving because of the girl? his mother had asked.
No. But here he is. In her city.
And he is full of a rage like hate; a sorrow like ire. The passion pools in his eyes; in his chest; and he looks at this stranger with an indescribable expression, if only it were an expression, and not a facade.
"Do you teach others to dance?" He asks, and he knows now, his expression is soft again. Soft around the eyes, the mouth. An almost smile. But not a real smile. The words come out flirtatious.
He can only smell smoke
and think of war.
Of dying.
Do you know bonfires are for funeral pyres?
HEAVEN HELP US, BUT NO ONE IS ANSWERING. YOU PROMISED ME AN EMPIRE ONCE, OR HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT TOO? BUILD ME ONE NOW, WITH YOUR HEART AS THE CITADEL, MINE AS THE CATHEDRAL. YOUR HANDS THE CITY WALLS, MINE THE CANNON. EVEN HEAVEN CANNOT HELP US NOW.
