YOU ARE A GOLDEN THING
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
Orestes cannot remember the last time he felt young; he was born old, always with the weight of something unbearable upon him. The word rings in his mind. Chosen, chosen, chosen. His entire life he had been chosen to bear the hurts of others, and most days Orestes did not mind—it was a privilege. But in the darkness of Terrastella, in the soft blue light of the setting sun and the embrace of night, he feels not only young but hopeful. It is a warmth in his chest, an exploding star. It is flowers blooming in spring, and the flight of a bird, and the strange electricity that exists between them. It is there, everywhere his flesh touches hers; it is there in the way none of it feels like flesh, but the resonate call of life, life, life, something animated and pure, rushing as swift and sweet as a mountain brook.
The castle is unlike anything he has ever seen; the customs are strange to him, and he marvels at the conifer, adorned with strange and flashy tinsels. The festive brightness of the poinsettias delights him as it might a child; and when she sets down the porcelain he starts, so enraptured with the scene.
Everything is torch-light soft. The hard edges he has grown accustomed to in Solterra are less sharp; Quiet, and cold, in a good way. Like the freedom of running, but much, much more. It is beautiful. It makes you feel… very small. I think that is a good thing.
Orestes smiles. It is a sad, but knowing, type of smile. “I would like to fly very much, I think. That is what the sea used to feel like to me…” He trails off, because now is not the time for such reminiscing. Although honest, Orestes is surprised at how easily the admission slips from his tongue; he is surprised that is so easy to bare such a vulnerable, intimate piece of himself.
He wonders if she realises what a large piece of him, it is.
Of course, Orestes.
When Marisol says it, Orestes knows that she does.
The food and drinks are forgotten; the brilliance of the conifer, no longer of concern; it is only her.
Orestes looks at her; and he does so with a feeling in his heart as if he is plunging, again, into the deep of the sea. The part of him that suffers, the part of him that bears the weight of Solterra and his past both, is small and silent. There is just a thing like a soul sighing; there is just a finality of yes, yes, yes as she moves to press against one white curl, then his neck, shoulder, the small of his spine—
he can feel her heartbeat as if it is his own.
He cannot tell her how much the vulnerability she offers means. Orestes does not have words; he holds it against him with all the tenderness one would a bird. Her breath makes chills down his spine. Orestes curls his head and neck around her own, a near embrace, and steps forward to make her step back. “Like this.” And his voice is dark; his voice is the whisper of sheets against sheets; the sound of a page turning against itself. Yet, there is a part of him still hesitant, still halting; the idea that too much, too soon, you are a sovereign and so is she, the sun, the sun, you have no right to feel this way—
And then Orestes presses two steps forward, and draws one step back. He entices her to a dance, with glittering, sea-deep eyes.
A heartbeat between them, birdlike. He wonders if she can feel the way he just-so-slightly shakes. He leads her with the press of his body; the strong curve of his neck, the pressure of a leg here, or there. Orestes marvels at how she responds, how the dance is sinuous, nearly like battle—but softer, gentler. Orestes wonders if this is close to what it feels like to fly. For a moment Orestes moves forward, his shoulder against hers, and leads her into a flourishing spin. There are small, intimate touches—curious, polite, the touch of his muzzle along the arching curve of her neck, his cheek against hers—brief, so brief—or a brush of his lips, just so, along her shoulder.
Orestes does not know how long they dance; long enough that he does not feel like a Sovereign, only a man, drunk on the idea of possibility. He does not know how long the magic light from the conifer twinkles upon them; or how long the poinsettias watch. He only knows that for a moment, poignant and eternal, the weight of the world is not upon his shoulders.
Only this one thing, right here; only this beautiful girl.
And at last he pulls away; at last he pulls away.
But not too far; just far enough to look her in the eyes. Just far enough to say, “Marisol,” breathless, and
and think of how his heart is in exquisite pain,
a sort of aching, longingly;
like looking at a sunset,
or running along the border
of the sea and land.
“Mari.”
Not Commander. Not Queen. Please, let me show you
how to be just a person, just alive.
And then, full of daring,
thinking of what it feels
like to fly,
he kisses her.
@
"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"
