He sees her between wake and sleep.
He wakes in a cold sweat as she shatters all of his dreams. Night after night. How does she know, even in death as she did in waking, how to hit him where it hurts, how to make him bleed?
He sighs, his forelock beaded in sweat and salt. He rolls to his hooves, shedding the silken embroidered blankets to the cold marble tile. He has never been surrounded by such comfort, such easy, unearned luxury.
I don't belong here.
He says it to himself every day, over and over again. He longs for the hardness of the earth and the openness of the endless desert sky overhead. He yearns for the possibility of a scorpion sharing his bed and for the freezing temperature of the desert night to burn his skin. Every day he spends behind these magnificent, shining walls is another he doubts himself.
And yet.
He persists because it is what he has promised to do. He remembers his promise with every rising sun, with every ray that streaks across the grey dawn. I promise. He promises himself, he promises Avdotya, he promises Makeda. He promises Solterra. He hopes it is enough.
He walks restlessly this night, eager to work off the cold sweat lingering upon his skin like winter frost. Aimless. Lost. Both. He walks the palace halls. He's vaguely aware of the guard that tails him valiantly and determinedly. He ignores the young man. He's just doing his job, he thinks idly to himself, as you did all those years ago, without question.
And where has that gotten you now?
He recalls the contradictory feeling that swelled within his breast as Orestes spoke his name that day. Jahin, son of Davke. Pride. Shame.
How can it be both?
He has stopped asking that question, but thinks about it every now and again. He is no one, and yet he is the second son of Solterra after Orestes.
Orestes.
He paces the palace halls. He does not know these winding pathways yet, just as he does not know Solterra's new king. Jahin's shadow stretches down the marble floors, illuminated by flickering, glowing torchlight. He exits the castle walls and finds himself in the belly of the desert.
Home.
Dawn has come and gone. He finds himself waiting...waiting...waiting for Avodtya. But of course, she does not crest the dunes. Will she ever speak to him again? He finds it more bearable to ignore the hope he feels lingering like persistent, glowing embers in the wake of a cold spell. Crush it, smother it. If she wishes to speak with him she will find a way. For now, he is alone.
Or is he?
His brows furrow--he squints against the morning sun. Orestes? The golden flame of the Solterra king's skin and shimmering tattoos amidst the sand and glittering light of the morning sun is unmistakable. Despite the figurative canyon yawning between them, Jahin immediately pursues Orestes. The new king is flanked by a guard; leggy at that. Young, obviously. His frown deepens, but he refrains from ruminating on the matter. Another time, perhaps, when king and regent have gotten to know each other better.
Jahin is not shy in his appearance and makes his presence known, striding to the king's side. Two women. They are both beautiful, in a way that not even a poet can begin to describe easily. One has the hair and winged feather of a glittering bonfire and dying star; the other the hair the color of spilled wine and a voice like honey. He recognizes neither but catching the last remnants of the conversation is enough.
Night Court.
"He will not be alone," he replies evenly as he approaches, his voice resolute; his resolve absolute. Jahin does not offer his name, he does not offer salutation. There is only a promise to Solterra that lingers in the air, for better or worse.
He wakes in a cold sweat as she shatters all of his dreams. Night after night. How does she know, even in death as she did in waking, how to hit him where it hurts, how to make him bleed?
He sighs, his forelock beaded in sweat and salt. He rolls to his hooves, shedding the silken embroidered blankets to the cold marble tile. He has never been surrounded by such comfort, such easy, unearned luxury.
I don't belong here.
He says it to himself every day, over and over again. He longs for the hardness of the earth and the openness of the endless desert sky overhead. He yearns for the possibility of a scorpion sharing his bed and for the freezing temperature of the desert night to burn his skin. Every day he spends behind these magnificent, shining walls is another he doubts himself.
And yet.
He persists because it is what he has promised to do. He remembers his promise with every rising sun, with every ray that streaks across the grey dawn. I promise. He promises himself, he promises Avdotya, he promises Makeda. He promises Solterra. He hopes it is enough.
He walks restlessly this night, eager to work off the cold sweat lingering upon his skin like winter frost. Aimless. Lost. Both. He walks the palace halls. He's vaguely aware of the guard that tails him valiantly and determinedly. He ignores the young man. He's just doing his job, he thinks idly to himself, as you did all those years ago, without question.
And where has that gotten you now?
He recalls the contradictory feeling that swelled within his breast as Orestes spoke his name that day. Jahin, son of Davke. Pride. Shame.
How can it be both?
He has stopped asking that question, but thinks about it every now and again. He is no one, and yet he is the second son of Solterra after Orestes.
Orestes.
He paces the palace halls. He does not know these winding pathways yet, just as he does not know Solterra's new king. Jahin's shadow stretches down the marble floors, illuminated by flickering, glowing torchlight. He exits the castle walls and finds himself in the belly of the desert.
Home.
Dawn has come and gone. He finds himself waiting...waiting...waiting for Avodtya. But of course, she does not crest the dunes. Will she ever speak to him again? He finds it more bearable to ignore the hope he feels lingering like persistent, glowing embers in the wake of a cold spell. Crush it, smother it. If she wishes to speak with him she will find a way. For now, he is alone.
Or is he?
His brows furrow--he squints against the morning sun. Orestes? The golden flame of the Solterra king's skin and shimmering tattoos amidst the sand and glittering light of the morning sun is unmistakable. Despite the figurative canyon yawning between them, Jahin immediately pursues Orestes. The new king is flanked by a guard; leggy at that. Young, obviously. His frown deepens, but he refrains from ruminating on the matter. Another time, perhaps, when king and regent have gotten to know each other better.
Jahin is not shy in his appearance and makes his presence known, striding to the king's side. Two women. They are both beautiful, in a way that not even a poet can begin to describe easily. One has the hair and winged feather of a glittering bonfire and dying star; the other the hair the color of spilled wine and a voice like honey. He recognizes neither but catching the last remnants of the conversation is enough.
Night Court.
"He will not be alone," he replies evenly as he approaches, his voice resolute; his resolve absolute. Jahin does not offer his name, he does not offer salutation. There is only a promise to Solterra that lingers in the air, for better or worse.
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