YOU ARE A GOLDEN THING
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
IN A HEAVY, HEAVY WORLD
Orestes’s entire life has been one endless sprint down a dark corridor toward something good, something lighted, something golden—
And always it stretches further, further, further away. So close he can see it, at times. Close enough to touch, to taunt him into belief that for once it is his, and he may hold happiness in his grasp, in his heart.
Then, he opens his eyes again; then, he realises it is gone.
No one gestures of y—
Another unfinished poem. The joy he feels for a moment is impenetrable; it is a star exploding behind his closed lids. The soft feeling of security, of acceptance, of an end to the echo that is his own loneliness. He feels fiercely mortal and is gladdened by it; the electric heat between them, the endless heartbeats—
Then she pulls away.
He is reeling.
The feeling that builds within him is as if he’s stepped off a ledge; his stomach is in his throat; his heart is beating between his ears, loud, so loud. Can she hear it?
It is the look she gives him, that reminds him he is not meant for such soft, gossamer privileges. His stomach drops again; Orestes's blood feels cool, cool, cool, and the passion of a moment prior is replaced by sudden, terrible resolve. He knows this look.
Dazed. Stunned. Fearful.
He withdraws—and he hates himself for it, but there are pebbles trembling at his feet; his tattoos are glowing, glowing, glowing more brightly than the heart of a fire, than a welded sword. He feels hot. He feels burning, and his voice is hoarse, “Marisol.”
It is the look she gives him, fleeting, the look of a woman already half-gone that reminds him he is not meant for anything except for the ache, ache, ache of duty.
And is this not your punishment?
To think you could escape it?
He remembers Solterra’s burning lion.
Sit. Sit, and remember you are ash.
Her voice is full of pain—the same pain in his heart, or a different kind? He wants to ask but cannot bear it. He had pushed too far, had stepped to close; had been something, he was not meant to be. (Happy? A man, a mortal? A dancer instead of a Prince?)
I think your people will begin missing you soon.
Perhaps that would have been enough. Perhaps that would have been bearable.
But it is not when she winds the green ribbon about his throat and kisses him, soft and as brief as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
Somewhere, distantly, he can hear the party. The high jubilation of the celebration in the voices of her Court, where he does not belong. His magic is weak so far from his desert home; and the light that radiated from him in happiness turns cool and silver in his sorrow. He pauses, a thousand things on his mouth—a poem, any poem—but no thought manages to survive long enough to be said.
Orestes watches her go.
He watches her go as he
has watched everything leave him;
with the same inevitability of sand through clenched fingers, of water through cracks, of something whole escaping something broken.
If he were another man he might have been full of anger; of confusion; disbelief. If he were another man, the rejection would have been a shard in his chest. If he were another man, he would shout an apology to chase her as she turned fro him. If he were another man, he would pursue her, would quote more poetry, would... be something other than he was. (And how he wishes he could.)
But Orestes only ventures to the table where she set their drinks; he throws both of them back and, with her no longer in sight, turns to walk down the same corridor they had just journeyed through.
Perhaps it is because he has loved so many wild things in his life that he is able to let her go. Perhaps it is because he knows, in the same way he has always known his fate, the he is only meant to hold the heart’s of others. Anger wells within him, sharp and unforgiving; but it is anger at himself, anger at his own stupidity.
He had thought—
He had thought, for just a moment—
He had thought he could do something for himself. The words resonate within him as he is buffeted by the dancing crowd, as he pushes his way through the mass of celebrating bodies toward the exit, and further, further, until he is trotting through the dark streets of Terrastella and out, out, out into the prairie beyond, searching for the stars to lead him home.
But the night is cloudy and cold. Orestes’ breath comes quickly and for a moment he does not know which way to go. There is so much—there is so much—
Why would you think, for even a moment, that you deserved those moments?
Orestes thinks of the feeling as they danced; two entities of a whole, complimenting, emphasising, becoming.
But now, Orestes is alone. And his mind is painted with the expression on Marisol's face, and a dozen others, when he fell short of what they had needed. The green ribbon feels warm and condemning about his throat; but it is with one more breath that he resolves himself to be, again, a Prince. As old, and full, and sad as the sea.
He begins to trot toward Solterra.
@
"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"
