YOU ARE A GOLDEN THING
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
Tonight it is very difficult to conceal the fact he has been wild his whole life. In a civilised world full of dignity, books, and tea he has adapted well. But this does not mean there is not a primordial part of him boxed away, dormant but not extinct. There are too many noises. There are too many people. All his time in the sea has not prepared him for such extravagance, such celebration. His had been a people who had hunted and sung and danced, but their dance was the sinuous movement of dolphins end-over-end, of whales leaping from the surface, of a school of fish that move as a single entity—
This, yes this is a collection of individualistic bodies, sweating despite the cold. There is music and cider and figures wearing masks. Orestes has never seen anything like it; it unsettles him deeply.
There is also an aspect, however, that intrigues him. An aspect that calls to his wild urges and his wild soul to celebrate the simple, brilliant fact he is alive. There is an aching hunger within him, an emptiness that is full of forgotten memories and dreams. He stares at the celebration but feels other, feels too far away. Orestes, gild in gold, is at once something that stands apart and an individual the festivities revolve around. Whispers follow him through the crowd, as he takes a cider and edges the circling dancers.
That’s him, they say.
That’s the Day Court Sovereign.
I heard his name is Orestes.
I hear he’s a foreigner.
He forgets them. He forgets what they say. Very few have the courage to approach him, and besides, there is only one person in the Court he searches for.
Orestes is surprised at how difficult it is to find her, at first; and then he is not surprised at all. Just as the frantic nature of the celebration unnerves his wild edges, it must unsettle her disciplinarian ones. When he does see her, he feels a fool for not having noticed her all along; she is at the perfect strategic vantage, capable of seeing everything that occurs within the courtyard at once.
Why does his heart beat so wildly at the mere sight of her? Why does he feel sudden underprepared? His mouth is dry, and all the things he had thought to say—political matters, her court, his court—do not find their way to his lips. Orestes goes to make his way toward her, but is sidelined by several dancing bodies—a heavily decorated woman throws a wreath of pine, decorated in brilliant reds, around his neck. He shakes his head but does not dislodge the new decoration.
Eventually—despite the obstacles of many moving bodies, smelling of cinnamon, spices, cider—he finds his way to her, through the crowd. And already he is doing that very thing that will one day get him in trouble, that will one day condemn him—he is speaking from his heart, and says, “They are beautiful.” Orestes approaches from the side. He stands still for a moment, staring across her Court, and for the first time truly looks. The beauty of it nearly takes him. The beauty of it nearly breaks his heart. When Orestes glances at her again (or for the first time, truly, with no distraction) his expression still carries the love he feels for the vivacious life around them.
Marisol nearly takes his breath away. Orestes would never have thought to see her so festive, with an intricately braided tail—and thinks again how illy prepared he is. He smells so much of the sand, the sun—and perhaps, forever, the sea—and his mane hangs long and wild about his face. Orestes is windswept and nearly feral, and his beating heart does nothing but make him glow brilliant gold, as if with blush. It takes him a moment to realise that the beauty she exudes is not from the decorations; it is from her happiness.
Perhaps it is that, which emboldens him. “But be careful, Queen Marisol.” His eyes are as alight as the sea in the sun. “Your Court has sabotaged you… you are sitting beneath mistletoe.”
Why is his voice so breathless when he says it? He tries to disguise the fact with a lighthearted laugh, but the sound comes a little too late, is a little too soft.
"SO EDEN SANK TO GRIEF
SO DAWN GOES DOWN TO DAY
NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY"
SO DAWN GOES DOWN TO DAY
NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY"
