orestes
—« but you are gold in a world of glass »
O
restes, for an endless minute, believes he has pushed her too far, too fast. He is reminded of leaving the Terrastellan festival, rejected and taken aback. To see that expression in her eyes again would crush him.The Sovereign does not know exactly when he became so sensitive to rejection. But the concern is there, tumultuous and humming in his ears, a taunt string prepared to snap. He does not pressure her with his heavy eyes; no, Orestes retracts the offered apple and offers the warmth, and comfort, of his body instead. His own admission tastes strange on his tongue; his eyes seek her response, hoping what Orestes shares is not too much.There is a moment—brief, haphazard, where he sees a response teeter on her tongue—before she slides beneath the crook of his neck, in the warm alcove beneath his cheek and throat where his pulse is quiet, and steady.
I abandoned someone.
At the admission, Orestes tucks her even closer. Inexplicably, his mind is drawn back to their first few meetings. If he has learned anything of Marisol, it is that she is duty-bound. To betray that duty? Orestes cannot imagine the torment that has placed on her soul. He thinks, however, of the poet Rilke who writes:
Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect, and greet each other.
Orestes has never felt as if she’s needed his protecting—but this admission is as fragile as a fledgling bird’s first flight. The story is told against his skin in a quiet, quiet voice. It is almost drowned out by the light around them, by the orchard, by the wind in the leaves. Isn’t that the crux of living? So personal a tragedy could be appraised secondly to the wind, the birds, the trees?
I had a child.
There is a flare of anger in him so sharp he nearly grits his teeth. It is only her soft voice that steadies him; and no, the anger is not for Marisol. It is for whoever committed such an affront against her. He listens intently, looking just above her head. She smells of the sea, and rosemary, the orchards around them. Just above the nape of her neck he watches a robin flit between the branches of an apple tree, heavy with produce. He tries to focus on that rather than the gravity of her words. Orestes has always been exposed to tragedy, but there had always been a semblance of distance between himself and the tragedy; even in his life before Novus, the tragedy was known, the tragedy was apparent, and so he lived with it as if it were his shadow.
This is different. This is sharp. This is a knife between his ribs, and he is certain he is Solterran now, because he sees nearly red with all that he would do—
I can’t.
Orestes sighs. His anger leaves with the sound of her cracked sob. He presses closer, and closer still, until he has twisted around her as if a shelter himself. “Marisol,” he says her name so, so softly. And then, as gently as he can, he tips her nose up with his own so as to regard her quietly, and evenly, in the eyes. “Marisol, love. You cannot blame yourself for that. You were a decent person—you found her a place above your means and station, somewhere to raise and care for her in ways you couldn’t at the time, emotionally or physically.”
Orestes, with a gentle brush of his telekinesis, wipes the tears from her eyes. It is his turn, now, to say in a voice so soft it is lost, almost, to the trees: “Marisol—the thing about this, and us, and what I hope to prove here… is that we are stronger together, you and I. I cannot imagine the burden this has placed on your soul for so long—but... well, what you can’t do alone… perhaps we can do together? If you feel it is an unfinished chapter in your life and something you need to find closure on, I would help you look for her. I would be there for you, to remind you there is a difference between survival and abandonment.” There is an uncertain waiver in Orestes’s voice—but it is not because of her. It is because he so desperately wants to say the right thing, be the right man and there is never a guarantee of that. “Or, if it is better for you, perhaps I will just remind you that you did your best. And we cannot condemn ourselves for our decisions when we were young, or else—well, we would spend our entire lives trapped in that regret.”
Yet there is a flint edge when Orestes says, “Is he—the other cadet…” then his voice cuts out, briefly. He steels himself. “Do you know if he is still in Terrastella?”
In all his lives, there is one thing he has learned and he has learned well: how to cause pain. It was his enemies, not his comrades, who taught him that. Orestes disguises it well, but there is a seething anger just beneath the surface. He cannot imagine the type of man who would commit such an atrocity. He draws Marisol tighter to himself, and then tighter still, until he feels as if he could not discern where his body begins and her's ends.
