orestes
—« but you are gold in a world of glass »
T
ogether, they walk through Terrastella’s orchards.They have been walking for quite some time, without much conversation. Orestes pauses now and again to appraise, and then pick, an apple. Their shared whicker basket has become more full as they’ve progressed, and whatever awkward lulls might have happened due to their silence were compensated for when they stooped to plant a handful of seeds. The King cannot help glancing at her, every so often, from the corners of his eyes; there is something enchanting about these moments, stolen away in a ruse of normalcy, as if either of them has the time to pick apples. He wants to speak on this, but knows doing so breaks the intimate spell.
And, besides, Orestes's deeper thoughts are hardly acceptable. Orestes, who has dedicated himself utterly to Solterra, admits to himself that the orchards make his heart ache. Although he has grown accustomed—and even affectionate toward—all that is Solterra, from the heat to the violence to the politics, this is his more natural state. Orestes is surrounded by beauty. The rich odour of mulch and fruit perfumes the air, a smell of life. The orchard is humid to the point of being unbearable for a man so accustomed to the arid desert, but—
it is all so lovely.
Orestes steels glances, occasionally, at Marisol. He wonders in a way quite boyish exactly what she is thinking. Orestes wants to ask, but also fears being intrusive. They continue on like this until the midday light slinks into the quieter aura of her people’s time, dusk. First, however, the sun hangs heavy and pregnant upon the horizon, larger than life. The orchards dance with beautiful, golden light.
It is here, when many of the other patrons have already left, that Orestes begins to speak. He does so with the sun dappling the leaves, and their bodies, and his blue eyes light and full of curiosity.
“We have been busy with our kingdoms,” Orestes admits. They have not seen each other as feverishly or as often as they had during their initial courtship. Now, their visits with one another were much more measured, much more mature. Orestes adds, “I would like to spend more time getting to know one another. I know we’ve talked family in the past, but what about the future? I’d like to known more about your mother, about—“
and here Orestes smiles, a small and brilliant smile, slightly shy. Private. He does not smile that way for anyone else. “I want to know everything that makes you who you are, Marisol.” The light plays off the leaves all around them; the effect is not unlike a chandelier in that it reflects brilliantly off all it touches. They are in an equilibrium of dark and light, of sunshine and shadow, and it ignites within him a strange longing. Perhaps because it all seems so transient. Even she, mottled with the light of the orchard, seems as if she might disappear if he were to blink.
