Solterra.
I exhale.
I remember colors, scents, sounds. My favorite places the least known-- sections of the Mors where the sand was white and fine as silk; ancient caves in the Elatus, adorned with indecipherable paintings on the wall. As Zayir speaks of the desert I nod, and I remember, and I feel a strange pang of loss even though I know it’s still there, and will always be there.
He speaks with an accent vaguely familiar but mostly unknown. In my day court tenure he had been trapped beneath the golden earth, and few spoke with the old Solterran tongue he did. When he says “in other words, the desert is still terribly dry,” I smile without humor. “That’s good to hear.” Some selfish instinct made me half expect that Solterra had fallen apart without me. But of course I was well and truly happy it hadn’t, and once more humbled by the impassivity of the desert. It was more reliable than the gods and quite a deal more likeable-- spiny plants and terrifying animals be damned.
If I ever prayed it would be to sand, and wind, and sky. And love, of course.
The younger stallion’s question- foreigner or native? could only be asked by someone who has only ever lived in one place. I don’t blame him for it, but it makes my scars itch.
How many years must I live here before I can finally say I am from here? Is it even possible for anyone to reach that number?
I hope my daughters will always call Novus home. I hope they will never question their sense of belonging, the way all foreigners, at some point, must. “Transplant,” I say simply, without a trace of bitterness. I am no longer a foreigner, but I will never be a native. “I live in Denocte now, but I was in Solterra for a while.” To be fair I had lost track of my time there. I’ve never felt solidly rooted in time-- seasons could fly by in the span of a few days, minutes could trickle past in weeks. My sense of scale was wonky.
The second question- are you a soldier?- takes me longer to answer, although it shouldn’t. I have always been a soldier in one form or another. “Yes,” I say after a heartbeat’s hesitation. I want to tell him I am much more than a soldier, but I don’t know if I can with confidence. Some days it feels so true, solid as the good earth beneath me; other days it feels like peacock feathers. “You?” I think I already know the answer, and it makes me grateful we live in times of peace, where two soldiers from different nations could stand by the sea in quiet company. Another place or time, each of us would be obligated to kill the other, or at least try.
I returned my gaze to the sea, which was easier to look at than the stallion I was now imagining myself fighting. How quickly would he react? How strong or weak were those wings? Between my teeth, would they--
oh it can be terrible, the patterns the mind reverts to if you let it. I shook my head. “You’re far from home.” I didn’t think it was a question until I asked it with a meaningful incline of the brow. What brought him so far?
E I K
the world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.
I exhale.
I remember colors, scents, sounds. My favorite places the least known-- sections of the Mors where the sand was white and fine as silk; ancient caves in the Elatus, adorned with indecipherable paintings on the wall. As Zayir speaks of the desert I nod, and I remember, and I feel a strange pang of loss even though I know it’s still there, and will always be there.
He speaks with an accent vaguely familiar but mostly unknown. In my day court tenure he had been trapped beneath the golden earth, and few spoke with the old Solterran tongue he did. When he says “in other words, the desert is still terribly dry,” I smile without humor. “That’s good to hear.” Some selfish instinct made me half expect that Solterra had fallen apart without me. But of course I was well and truly happy it hadn’t, and once more humbled by the impassivity of the desert. It was more reliable than the gods and quite a deal more likeable-- spiny plants and terrifying animals be damned.
If I ever prayed it would be to sand, and wind, and sky. And love, of course.
The younger stallion’s question- foreigner or native? could only be asked by someone who has only ever lived in one place. I don’t blame him for it, but it makes my scars itch.
How many years must I live here before I can finally say I am from here? Is it even possible for anyone to reach that number?
I hope my daughters will always call Novus home. I hope they will never question their sense of belonging, the way all foreigners, at some point, must. “Transplant,” I say simply, without a trace of bitterness. I am no longer a foreigner, but I will never be a native. “I live in Denocte now, but I was in Solterra for a while.” To be fair I had lost track of my time there. I’ve never felt solidly rooted in time-- seasons could fly by in the span of a few days, minutes could trickle past in weeks. My sense of scale was wonky.
The second question- are you a soldier?- takes me longer to answer, although it shouldn’t. I have always been a soldier in one form or another. “Yes,” I say after a heartbeat’s hesitation. I want to tell him I am much more than a soldier, but I don’t know if I can with confidence. Some days it feels so true, solid as the good earth beneath me; other days it feels like peacock feathers. “You?” I think I already know the answer, and it makes me grateful we live in times of peace, where two soldiers from different nations could stand by the sea in quiet company. Another place or time, each of us would be obligated to kill the other, or at least try.
I returned my gaze to the sea, which was easier to look at than the stallion I was now imagining myself fighting. How quickly would he react? How strong or weak were those wings? Between my teeth, would they--
oh it can be terrible, the patterns the mind reverts to if you let it. I shook my head. “You’re far from home.” I didn’t think it was a question until I asked it with a meaningful incline of the brow. What brought him so far?
the world, a double blossom, opens:
sadness of having come,
joy of being here.
@Zayir <3
Time makes fools of us all
