AND YOU WAIT; YOU WAIT FOR THE ONE THING THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE, MAKE IT MORE THAN IT IS. SOMETHING WONDERFUL, EXCEPTIONAL, STONES AWAKENING, DEPTHS OPENING IN YOU. YOU THINK OF LANDS YOU'VE JOURNEYED THROUGH, OF PAINTINGS AND A DRESS ONCE WORN BY A WOMAN YOU NEVER FOUND AGAIN. AND SUDDENLY YOU KNOW: THAT WAS ENOUGH. YOU RISE AND THERE BEFORE YOU IN ALL IT'S LONGINGS AND HESITATIONS IS THE SHAPE OF WHAT YOU LIVED.
There is something painstakingly genuine about the exchange. He is full of sudden tenderness and, in addition, a sort of poignant thankfulness for the conversation. It is somewhat intermittent, with long silences that are made less awkward by the serene patience of the sea. There is no true silence between them, as the stretches between what they say are simply filled with the lull of the waves and wind, the careening gulls overhead, the way even the sand seems to whisper. Doesn’t the sand dollar belong to itself? she asks, and Orestes takes his time in answering.
The question makes him think of his old homeland and his new promise to a desert kingdom. It makes him remember the nights he stayed awake at the bottom of the sea, wondering at the simplicity of escaping the curse of their conquerers. Could they not simply disappear? Dive into the depths, never to return? Orestes had always known, intrinsically, their magic was tied to the island the Oreszians had settled. To leave it would mean to become something else than what they were; and that is the life he lives now, with forgotten magic and a sea that now only whispers sweet nothings to him.
At last, Orestes says, “No. I don’t think anything truly belongs to itself. But of course, that is only my belief.” He is quiet again, for a moment, but the conversation is not quite finished… He goes on to muse, “It comes from the sea, and so the sea will always be a part of it. Just as the sand-dollar will always be a part of the sea. Look at people… everyone you know, you give a little piece to. Your sister has a bit of your heart, I would imagine. Just as she has a bit of yours. And that piece you give away will always belong to her, and no one else.” Orestes reminisces, for a moment, all the bits of himself that belong to others. There is a bit of his heart that will forever belong to the sea. There is a bit of it that is lost somewhere on a black beach, and in a rusted prison next to a copper-headed girl. There is a piece of him in the surf, in the sands, in the past. There is a piece of him on the shore of Solterra; and another in the capitol.
He does not know it, but a piece of him walks fearlessly in the streets of Denocte, a girl who used to fear the sea that has grown shark’s teeth. A girl he used to love.
He does not know it, but a dark piece of him is searching Novus hungrily, scarred and limping and empty, hunting for a dream that is forgotten.
He thinks, for a moment, of how there might be a piece of him growing in Terrastella with a girl who suggests his read Don Quixote.
There is certainly a piece of him that belongs to his kingdom, a piece he has promised a god, a piece that a golden lion claimed. Sit. Sit and remember you are ash.
For a moment he wonders if any bits of himself truly belong to him; or if they are given to others, always, selflessly. He wonders if when he is old and grey if there will be anything left for him to give.
She introduces herself, and her sister, and Orestes finds it strange—and perhaps even a little sad—that the two are inseparable, even in introduction, even when only one is present. “You are very close to your sister.” It is not a question.
His mind clears when she affirms that she loves the sea, with the impatient assertiveness of a child. Of course. Orestes does not blame her. It makes him smile, and he finds her curiosity endearing as she progresses to question the desert he has come to call his home.
Orestes has thought to compare it to the sea before. But he cannot. And in some way, perhaps that is a part of belonging to something, as well; he recognises it for what it is. “No.” Orestes is thoughtful; quiet. “It has what could look like waves, at first glance… but they shift only when you touch them, and the wind changes them in ways that our eyes can’t see. It’s why it is so easy to become lost, unless you are following the stars or sun. It is vast, and much hotter. The sea will try to kill you, but it is romantic about it. The desert is austere and unapologetic; the desert tries to kill you up front. But it is beautiful because of it; it chooses people. Perhaps one day you can visit it.” It is almost an invitation.
And with it, Orestes at last realises it is rather strange to see such a young girl alone. He feels alarm, but does not show it. Instead, he decides to raise the question later. For now, he finds the genuineness of the conversation too pleasant, as he watches her turn the sand-dollar over and over.
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