When he closes his eyes, it is not so hard to imagine what this place had once been and could still become. It is so close—the sound of the fountain chiming with water and life, the bustle of a crowd about the vendor stalls with haggling. Perhaps it is only an off day. He hopes so. Perhaps it is the city adjusting to his reign after the cruelty of Raum’s. Orestes hopes for that, too, but he is immensely gladdened that he is no longer alone in facing the sight.
There is something about the stranger that seems vaguely other, as if the desert does not accept him. Orestes knows that othernness, however; because many say he still wears it, like a coat of misbelonging. It does not matter; he is glad for the company. This stranger—Orestes does not recognise him from his court, although he still does not know all the faces—wears the dark, rosy bay of the forest at daybreak, with the dawn light streaming against the dark boughs of trees. There are flowers woven in his hair, and the sight of it twitches the edges of Orestes’s mouth in a smile.
Who are you?
Orestes does not answer immediately. Instead, he gestures at the bread and jam with his chin. “Please, help yourself.”
For some reason, the setting—somewhat decrepit, sunstained but browbeaten—reminds him of Boudika when she asked him, once, How do you maintain your dignity? Weak, bluish light had strained in through the overhead, barred window of their cells. It smelled of rotted sea air, all seaweed and fish and the rust of iron bars.
It was when he had been imprisoned. It was when his hair had hung lank and wet against his brow, and his skin smelt of burning where they painted gold on his flesh. He had not known how to answer her then, and still: the answer escapes him, as he glances at the quiet street. It is not so hard for Orestes to imagine it full of life; he does not know if it is so empty because of him, or Raum, and that question aches within him with all the resonance of a struck chord.
“My name is Orestes, the new Sovereign.” he says, softly, politely. His eyes settle, now, upon the stranger. “And the pleasure is mine. I am sorry if you are of my Court—I do not recognise you. What is your name?” Orestes reaches, then, for the bread and jam. It is sweet, but tart, and he enjoys it immensely.
A raven flies overhead, and down the road a horse crosses the street. Their hooves echo against the sandstone, and he thinks again,
How do you maintain your dignity?
It is not so easy, he thinks, when one emerges from beneath the reign of a tyrant and expects another. Orestes does not show it, but anticipation fills him. As the seconds pass, he is more and more certain the man with winged hooves and eyes like rose petals is not of his land but somewhere else.
