YOU ARE A GOLDEN THING
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
The reality is too often different from the expectation, the want. There is a part of him, full of uncertainty, that expects the disappointment of the actualisation of their meeting. Orestes would be lying to himself if he thought, for even a moment, he had not been looking forward to their encounter. He would be a fool to say the only reason he was there was to attend the Terrastella’s winter festivities and make a political appearance.
Orestes, however, is not disappointed.
No.
The air fills his lungs crisp and sharp and he is reminded of all the life inside him, chiming with the bright expectation of a bell.
No, he is not disappointed.
Dancers pass his flank with iridescent ribbon streamers, and Marisol’s expression transitions from surprise to pleasure, soft and unapparent. Perhaps he even imagines it. Perhaps it is not there at all—
And children are laughing somewhere, with hot chocolate steaming in their grasps, the tinkle of chimes that dance and jangle in their long manes. She says—
You look nice and
his heart stops.
Orestes smiles and it is the pure, bright expression of a young boy taken pleasantly aback by a gift bestowed upon him. Then he feels a fool for not complimenting her first—but does he have to?
Does it not show in his eyes, in the way they do not simply look at her, but threaten to consume? Does it not show in the way he fights the urge to let them linger at that curve of the neck that, on another woman, might appear fragile—but on her is strong, and still somehow delicate? Does it not show in the way he takes careful note of her braided tail, and thinks, not for the first time, there is something poetic in how she smells of leather and dust and sea-salt—always a warrior?
Does it not show in the way he is nearly breathless, his face bright with something that is not the glow of his magic, saying softly, “Thank you.”
If he were not so captivated with the way she makes him feel, he might have noticed her slight hesitation and the way the tension leaves her in a sharp exhalation. Is she blushing? Is she as taken aback as he is? I suppose they think they’re looking out for me. Maybe they would feel better if they had a king, too.
He thinks of many things in that moment and settles on a smile that is a little harder, a little more mischievous. It is not the smile of the sun prince but of what he once had been—an amorphous creature, unconfined by any laws, in love with the feral hunt. He asks, “And would you feel better, if you had a king?” There is a moment in the silence that follows, and in that moment—
In that moment, he wants to add: but you do not need a king. But it would be doing her an injustice. He notices the way her voice is soft, and Orestes would not be surprised if it is a tone she has never heard in her voice before. The hard, mischievous edge is abruptly replaced by something softer, something gossamer, the whisper of a breath shared in candlelight—this is a shape he does not know so well, any longer, soft and smooth as still water.
Orestes came with a ruse of political propositions. He came to discuss trade, events, how to grow the relationship between their courts—
but when she stands he is so distracted by the elegant strength of her legs, the bright flash of one white heel, that those thoughts are undone. Any other day, he would have asked about her slender white hound, or the affairs of her court, or her books or blackberries or, or the cliffs of Terrastella, what it feels like to fly —
anything, anything.
His eyes are caught up in the tinsel and glare of the festival, the brilliant candlelight, the sound of the dancers. His eyes are caught up in the beautiful braid, the thick darkness of her hair, the way her eyes are the colour of pooled ink and there is something roiling within him, something he has never felt in such a capacity.
Have you ever seen the see in a storm?
The way it breaks against rocks, against itself? The way it is gunmetal and sleek, turbulent water? The dark pit of the unfathomable, untameable? Those are his eyes, looking at her, wondering at everything she is and all he does not know.
Always his heart has been an easy thing. Always it has come so naturally, with no weight; nearly flippantly. It had been easy for him to love his people, Solterra—but this is different, and he does not know why, or if it only that the song she sings is one he hopes to answer, to finish, the resolve.
What does it feel like? the mahogany mare had asked in the desert.
He had said, an unfinished poem and here, this moment,
is it the final line?
Come.
When Marisol says it, it feels as if he never died. It feels as if there is only tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and a thousand more after that.
She tugs at the leaves of the wreath, she pulls him close. He wishes, briefly, they were swimming and there was water between them instead of air. Then, he might not feel so drawn to the heat of her chest. Then, he might not be so distracted by the soft—so soft—feel of her skin.
Orestes voice is feather-light but somehow heavy, heavy, heavy. “How close?” He is close enough his lips are at the small of her ear, nearly touching, nearly touching… he inhales her, sea-salt and steel and something soft and warm, something like leather. He is close enough that he knows he wants more.
He wishes it were the cider in him that made him so bold.
But it is only him.
It is only Orestes, who says in a voice husky with want:
”I have another poem for you, Commander, Queen. Marisol.” He thinks of what it would feel like to undo the braid in her tail. Orestes recites, roughly: "It is by Rilke:
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
and I want my grasp of things to be
true before you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the wildest storm of all.”
The wildest storm of all… It takes everything with him to draw back just enough to see her eyes. It takes everything within him to not kiss her then and there.
“Could I ask you for a dance? Or... or...”
Orestes wants to show her the sea and everything that is dark and wild within it, but does she not know? There is a voice within him, a prince’s voice, the voice of all he has ever known, saying, you could show her more. He could show her, he could show her—
And Orestes's tongue is tied with all the things he would like to, and all the things he would like to learn.
“Or whatever you would like.” There is something brief, nearly innocent, in the flash of Orestes's teeth when he smiles. "Let me do something for you, Marisol."
Let me take the burden from your shoulders, he wants to say, but does not. Let me give you the gift, just for a night, of no burning duty.
Perhaps someone is looking.
Perhaps someone sees them, standing so close.
Solterra and Terrastella. Day and Dusk. The sun, and the soft comings of night.
"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"
