I'm the hero of this story
I don't need to be saved
I don't need to be saved
As Aghavni had said it would be, the palace is empty of everyone, and echoes only with ghosts and his own footfalls.
It is beautiful, with its delicate archways and elegant columns and the sunlight washing everything golden. August has always had an eye for lovely things, and it does not pain him to admit it of Solterra. Yet all he thinks of as he passes from shadow to sun to shadow again are all the savageries the halls have seen.
He had only been in the city for a few days, and has not strayed far from the Emissary since he found her at the docks. But today she departed early for some duty (he did not ask and she did not offer to say), and August told himself he would discover a secret about the palace. Something nobody had told him, something to tuck into his heart, something to change his mind about this vicious, ancient place.
So far he has found that despite the obvious lack of water in the desert, the palace is abundant with fountains and pools. Of course, he thinks, pausing in an ornate archway to consider yet another tiny reflecting pond as still as a mirror, the crown always wished to display its wealth, and wealth is whatever is rare. He has found that after a few wide staircases, there is a walkway with a view of the sea (he does not consider its glittering expanse for long). And August has found that he cannot hate it, not when it is so empty and so clearly unused to emptiness. Instead it makes him sad.
By the time he finds the garden he has no idea where in the palace he is. But it doesn’t matter, not when a little breath of wonder slips from him and he steps out into the green. It is open here, a wide circle of sky overhead and sunlight pouring in, and birds trill sweetly in songs he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t know many of the plants, either - palms and ferns succulents, huge flowers that bloom vital red and tiny white ones like lace. He follows the narrow flagstone path that curls to the center, where an olive tree spreads its arms and its gnarled, twisting roots. The tree has a presence, as the tree on the island (The Island, as his mind always denotes) had, but one entirely different - wise, regal. Maybe sad, too.
This thought makes him laugh, and shake his head at himself. How mawkish, to assign emotions to a tree. And yet he can’t stop drinking it in the way it drinks in the sunlight.
Maybe he has found his secret.
@Orestes photo inspiration for this post here
