HOW SHALL I HOLD MY SOUL, SO THAT IT DOES NOT TOUCH YOURS?
They both wear titles
that do not suit them.
King.
Queen.
Or ought they still be,
the Prince of a Thousand Tides, and the
steely eyed,
Halcyon
Commander?
Pleasantries aside, it is too easy to imagine her dressed for war. He decides in that moment he never wants to see her prepared for such an occasion, and to him the decision is as simple as that. That utilitarian body, seal bay and ivory-winged, has seen too much disaster already. The poignancy of her letter returns to him; the tragedy of her position; and all of it is sentiment enough to drown him in sorrow, if he were to let it. He thinks of this as he passes the scorching fires, and enters his quiet refuge of books, sunlight, sea.
Orestes was always better at feeling other peoples’ suffering.
He is much more relaxed when they reach his study, and they have passed the tragedy of Solterra. The decadence, forgotten. The warmth, overbearing. The pride, unattended. You would like Don Quixote. At once the comment tells him she is a reader, and Orestes smiles. “Perhaps I will have to visit your court to read it then, Marisol.” It is the first time he has said her name without a title, and it at once as warm as the sun and as profound as the sea. He says it as he says many things: softly, almost huskily. He says in the same way that he prays; as if it is simply him and her.
Orestes notices her staring, but does not pursue it. It only provokes a small, boyish smile. It is an expression that refuses to leave his face as she begins speaking, and Orestes leans forward as she speaks. He has never been able to feign indifference, or professional apathy; no, he is utterly and strikingly absorbed in her conversation.
There is little of me that has not been eaten up by my work, but Orestes already disagrees. Does she not recognise how powerful she is, how striking? Does she not know her eyes cut him to the bone? But he hears it in her story: the undercurrent of service. It is something he deeply respects. Orestes respects it as she speaks of her mother; he respects it as she speaks of a former Commander. But what is more, Orestes respects her forward honesty. He would be a liar if he did not find it deeply moving, and profoundly attractive. Finally, she says, I like to read.
He smiles broadly, because he already knew. What he does not expect is her admission of poetry and he wonders at it; a battle-hardened warrior, who reads love poetry. The story of her turning breaks his heart; in that the one who did it did not first teach her to love the sea and Orestes wonders, for a moment, if he had been born with wings he would not resent the water as well. A buried part of him would like to teach her otherwise; would like to show her the savage beauty of it. And you? she asks.
Orestes laughs, a little shyly. He cannot prevent the blush that colours his cheeks as he recites:
“Tonight I can write the saddest lines,
Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars
Are blue and shiver in the distance.’
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance
My soul is not satisfied that it lost her.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
My voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long."
Orestes cannot help it. He shares it; because he believes they already are friends. His heart has opened to her words like a flower since he received her achingly beautiful, honestly searching letter. He says, “Perhaps one day I can show you a sea that you could love. It is not so hard to be a water horse. It is much harder to be one on land. As for me… I also love poetry.” Orestes smiles again. He can feel the warmth of the sun against his skin, and he can almost smell her. She is not harsh like the desert; but smells of clean sweat, a bit of brine, something lush and earthy. She smells like life.
If she had been staring, Orestes is doing so unabashedly now. It is the proud lines of her face; the contrast of her grey eyes against her dark bay skin. It is her wings, which are so strange to him, but no less lovely. Orestes continues:
“I do not know what the sea has told you, but she is my mother. I came from a land very far from here, with black cliffs and a people that hated me. I was prophesied to save them, but I could not.” He cannot hide the way the statement is coloured with so many things; bitterness, regret, sorrow, perhaps even rage. There is a tremble, slight and nearly imperceptible, before he continues. “I attempted to offer those who warred against us peace; but they refused the treaty and trapped me, enslaving the last of our resistance. I was sentenced to die and somehow… somehow… I woke up on the Solterran coast, and was taken in by two travellers who taught me the customs and the history. The magic of my old land is gone, but I took it as a sign I am meant to do here what I could not do elsewhere. Solis has given me new powers, and a new people.”
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
“I have become an avid reader. My soul has always loved poetry, although I did not know what it was until recently. I love the sun but will always miss the sea. As you can tell, I am far from Spartan, but I believe very much in duty. I love beautiful things, and people, and being for others the thing that makes them better. I hate the cruel; I hate injustice; and I hate confining wild things.”
Orestes does not say I live for other people but it is there, in the way he looks at her, if nothing else.
At that moment, opportunely, he hears Charles clambering up the stairs. The young appaloosa delivers an assortment of different teas, hot water, cream, and assorted breads and scones. He shyly addresses Marisol as “Sovereign,” ducking his head before he retreats. Orestes stares fondly after him for a moment, before redirecting his attention to the ruler across from him.
“Marisol—if we may drop the titles—I would prefer to talk all day about the intricacies of us as people, but for now perhaps we ought to turn our attention to business. What kind of alliance is it you seek? Simply mutually assured peace? What is it your Court needs?” The questions could have been abrasive, from one who did not speak so softly; if they were spoken without so much gentle, genuine intrigue. “Although, forgive me for admitting, I would much rather continue discussing love poetry.”
He cannot help himself.
He means to—he tries too—
But the words come out soft and sweet and earnest,
And because of that, the words are instead spoken with a tinge of something that cannot be described as professionalism or courtly manners. No, there is a breathlessness within the comment that is too elegant for polite table talk; instead, it belongs behind closed bedroom doors and within the embrace of soft, warm sheets.
@Marisol | "speaks" | notes: text
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