LATER THAT NIGHT, I HELD AN ATLAS IN MY LAP, RAN MY FINGERS ACROSS THE WHOLE WORLD AND WHISPERED, WHERE DOES IT HURT?
There are days when it is difficult for the Sovereign to balance the turbulent nature of his soul, and the duties of his station.
Today is one of them.
The anger has built, and built, and built for days. It has simmered for weeks, even, beneath the surface. It has never felt so imprisoned, even when he had lived in a cell. It is the imprisonment of his body to one form, one shape, when he had once been able to become anything. The lack of agency roils with him but there is nothing he can do; all that pent up frustration, rage, contempt has nowhere to go.
He is a lion pacing its cage, going about routine duties as if his entire life has not changed irrevocably. Occasionally, Solterra’s residents ask him where he is from. Orestes does not lie to them; he merely says, from across the sea.
To distract himself, he has gone to explore his territory. It is what Orestes does, to quiet his mind. This time, he follows the well-worn tracks—still transient, in the desert—to the oasis.
The foliage is always unexpected and strangely vibrant, but equally welcome. He can smell the lush nearly tropic air before he reaches it—but he is surprised to catch a scent on the wind that is unfamiliar to him. As he approaches the oasis itself, catching a gleam of the sapphire water through the trees, a voice rises to meet him.
Orestes almost smiles.
Almost.
But he does not. On any other day, he may have.
If only his anger wasn't sitting so heavily in his heart.
“Hello, Catillatio. I’m Orestes.” He closes the distance between the shade-line and the oasis, dipping his head briefly to take a drink of the water. The opposite side, where the other stallion occupies the oasis, is clouded and dirty. “Are you used to being attacked for passing through?” Orestes asks, conversationally.
IT ANSWERED
EVERYWHERE
EVERYWHERE
EVERYWHERE
