HOW SHALL I HOLD MY SOUL, SO THAT IT DOES NOT TOUCH YOURS?
It is the ocean in him. It is the ocean in him that allows him to see so much. It is the most valuable lesson he has ever learned, perhaps; the depth of feeling. It is the way that light can refract; reflect; dive; disappear. It is the way a whale’s heartbeat can be heard for two miles, or more—as if a part of one great, grandiose, living thing. The lines about his eyes wrinkle and glow as he smiles; the light pours as if from within him. “Yes.” Is his voice also unsteady? He clears the huskiness from his throat, so his voice repeats the name with resonant, crystal clarity. “Neruda.” Within the dancing light of his eyes, there is more to that statement: but he is not the only love poet I know. In that moment, her expression is just enough to offset the somber girl he knows from the letter; it is enough to make her the hopeful one he speaks with now, the one that loves poetry, the one who has slate eyes that remind him not of metal but of an overcast sky, grey but somehow full of light.
The thing he cherishes most, however, is the way that between his many books and in slanted rays of lazy sun, they are just a man and a woman, a boy and a girl. There is a refreshing novelty to it; unexpected and earnest, and her rapt attention earns his even more impassioned words. For her, his story is not a recitation; it is a gift, trembling with emotion and unconfessed sins. There is not enough time between when he finishes speaking and when Charles arrives for her to comment; but there is something slightly tumultuous beneath her expression, in her slight smile that raises to meet Charles as he addresses her.
The tea sits there, steaming. Orestes is no stranger to the eyes cast downward, the sudden stiffening of features and resolve—he almost asks, he wants to ask, if she is alright—but already they are moving forward and that brief, ephemeral moment remains in his mind as something he ought to have done but did not, and will regret later. It is so brief he does not even know if it is real; but regardless, it remains, an itch, an anger. I should have asked—
Yet he listens with rapt attention as she transforms into a woman of business. She becomes everything he would expect of a woman who first described herself as a vessel for work. Something about the transition draws his eyes to her wings—to the line of them, and the way the white undersides are nearly tinted gold in the soft light. He would like, very much, to see her fly.
Orestes refocuses, however, on her resolutions—and acknowledges the weight of them has the ability to sway the future of his Court. Orestes nods his assent, sipping briefly at tea he took the time to pour each of them—first his guest, and then himself. “I think these ideas would benefit both of our kingdoms immensely. And, perhaps—“ he says it shyly, with a slight smile. “Terrastella may even teach us a little of peace and humility. The only thing I can think to suggest is strengthening of our trade; I intend to invest in the Solterran blacksmiths of old, which were renowned for their steelwork. Perhaps we could arrange something specifically for your Halcyon; light-weight armour, or weapons. In return, we are low on fresh produce. Our growing season is very short, and often sporadic due to drought. I do not want to linger long on specifics—but would such an arrangement interest you? Of course, all that you said would be reciprocated in kind. Invitations to our festivals and celebrations. We will have some soon, I imagine, but we can settle such matters through letters. I can think of nothing that would strengthen our kingdoms more." And just like that, Orestes suggests further correspondence as if it it does not make his heart tremble like a fawn. “You do not overstep, Sovereign of the Dusk Court, Commander of Halycon. Marisol, I am eager for the peace between our kingdoms..” And perhaps the exchange of some literature. I could begin now. She bites her lip, briefly, so briefly he almost doesn’t notice—
Perhaps Orestes's heart does not tremble like a fawn.
Perhaps it roars, roars, roars, in an ineligible language, a language of flesh and blood and something dangerous, a little dark, but full of light on the edge of blossoming. A flower, turning, turning toward the sun.
“Yes.” He says, and it is the affirmation of a boy taken aback, a boy flustered but endearingly. A poet who has forgotten, for just a moment, the eloquence of his art. Orestes smiles broadly. “There is nothing that could ensure lasting peace between us then an exchange of literature… We couldn’t possibly come to a disagreement, or we might never get our favourite books back.”
Orestes cannot help himself when he says, “Share with me something you love; your favourite verse, or quote.” When the palominos stallion says it, he thinks of her expression when Charles had arrived; the transient moment where, briefly, there was something tense beneath her face. He thinks of how he does not want to see that expression plague her again. He thinks—I should have asked—but the words do not yet come to his tongue.
Instead he thinks of the way her eyes are like the sun behind the clouds; grey, grey, grey, but not hard, not metal, soft like rain on a still sea. Orestes is enraptured; he cannot look away; and his mind turns and turns and turns around the potential of their Courts, the benefits the alliance could gain for both his people and hers. He thinks of festivals, celebrations, and trade.
But there is also a part of him, a personal part, hot and glowing and sun-like, that cannot forget the way her lips shaped the word “love.” The way her eyes hardened as she spoke of her country. The line of her wing, and what it must look like in flight…
@Marisol | "speaks" | notes: text
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