there is no turning back a reversed name; a reversed curse. i will follow you to the depths of the sea, to the cold caves and caverns where the sun does not shine and iridescence rules.
Perhaps there will come a day when the foreigner is not held captive to the intricacies of Novus and, specifically, Solterra. Orestes has long-since come to terms with the fact he inherited, by choice, by fate, by Solis’s will, a kingdom of carrion, pain, and scars. Orestes, too, has long-since accepted his sovereign-ship of Solterra as penance for the sins of another life. Men are not often given second chances, but Orestes had been, by foreign gods he had never known. Solis had stripped the Old Magic from his blood, the grey dapples from his coat, and transformed him into a golden King.
Yet, Orestes cannot help but wonder at how easily things could have been different. He wonders, too, if Ipomoea ever asks the dangerous what ifs of rulership. What if the flower king had inherited Solterra’s throne, rather than Delumine’s? Would so much needless suffering had occurred, if the orphan had found it in his disposition to survive on Solterra’s streets, to come up rough and tumble in the desert of his birth?
You and I both. The first Delumines, those who built this castle, had to struggle against the flora to carve out enough room for our Court. Orestes had almost forgotten the line of their conversation; but gladly turns away and breaks the tension when Ipomoea begins to lead them towards the citadel with a private type of smile.
“Certainly,” Orestes agrees, noncommittally. The vivacious foliage of Delumine is something he has never experienced before, at least not in earnest; it has never been a component of his daily life, and Orestes admires it, as one may admire any foreign beauty. As a visitor would. But for him—and Orestes is surprised to admit it, even to himself—the austere beauty of the desert is, by far, his preference.
Ariel pants alongside him; a brief and undignified expression, as his tongue lolls out between his large, pointed canine teeth. Yet, both Solterra’s Sovereign and his bonded admire Ipomoea’s tour. Orestes takes care not to catch a hoof on the ivy that stretches hungrily through the cobblestones; and as they venture further into Delumine’s citadel, Orestes begins to wonder if the entire building is actually constructed of foliage if it, itself, is not a flower waiting to bloom. A pair of scholars passes them by; and Orestes’s turns his head to follow their passage, and their conversation. He finds himself intrigued and, despite himself, he begins to become more entranced with the differences between their Courts.
“I admire Delumine’s focus on intellect,” Orestes admits. He has often found Solterra’s minuscule library troublesome, and has instead relied heavily on the resources of the friendlier noble families. The difficulty of Solterra would forever lay within not only that class devision, but the preeminence of the warriors, the emphasis not necessarily on violence but pride, conflict, and wealth. "Do your scholars swear away all other pursuits, similar to monks? Or is it simply their utmost passion?” Orestes is genuinely intrigued.
Of course, I’ve never met a people more adaptable than those of Solterra, nor more resourceful. Orestes glances at Ipomoea then; the admission is one Orestes finds surprising, but appreciates nonetheless. Nor does Delumine make prickly pear jam the way Solterra does.
Orestes smiles then, too. “No, I imagine it doesn’t.”
He pauses thoughtfully; Orestes eyes restlessly travel over their surroundings, the Court, the greenery. Ariel, from Orestes’s peripheral, lowers into a crouch and fixes his attention upon the squirrels; the lion pounces but, of course, the squirrels shimmy up the tree and out of his grasp. Ariel cranes his neck after them.
The image of the Sun Lion strikes Orestes, too, with the differences between them. Glowing faintly and nearly as large as the horses, Ariel does not seem to fit among the foliage, among the cobblestones. His colouring is too bold, his profile perhaps a little too fierce.
Conversationally, Orestes says, “In my experience, there is nothing that breeds a tough people like the land they inhabit. The more inhospitable, the harder the people become. Solterra was overcome with so much strife because the Court deviated from the ideals of their Land, and by consequence, their God.” Orestes offers a sad, subtle shrug. The lecture, from a foreigner, may lose value. But Orestes was certain of it. It was Solterra’s inherited wealth, her monarchy, that had weakened the nation to the point of civil war, tyranny, and natural disaster.
He turns to Ipomoea, however, and offers a nearly boyish smile. “But, I suppose that’s what I’ve set about fixing.” Orestes does not say the comment arrogantly, but—there is something there. “You must have quite a bit of experience in that. Emissary, Regent, and Sovereign, you’ve served your Court on a variety of levels.” And Delumine had largely prospered, at least according to rumour, to history, to the Court itself.
This is where the splinter lays. This is where Orestes does not know how to assess the man with wings on his ankles.
So much service, so much duty.
Orestes’s settles his eyes on him; he wonders if he finds their obligations crushing.
He wonders if Ipomoea every lays awake at night, and asks the perilous what if—
Orestes nearly asks it now, but decides against it.
“I should have thought to bring some,” the Sovereign says, almost absentmindedly. “Prickly pear jam, that is.” And perhaps there is a bit of irony in his voice, as well.
