A D O N A I
—
H
e saw, but he pretends like he hasn't, and for that alone I am grateful. I know I am becoming indebted. But it is not an unpleasant, nor even unseen, realisation. I am indebted to the servants who serve me without rest. I am indebted to my dead mother, who had made me to be a king, and to who I am now a sick, spiteful prince. I am indebted to my sisters, who I have neglected; to Corradh, who I have misled; to Pilate, who I have miscalculated.
(Gravely.)
I am indebted to so many I often wonder if there is any part of myself that belongs to me, any part of myself I will not have to carve up and serve like a head on a bloody gold platter.
Yet the time to collect will have to be soon. There is no cure to my brother's poisons, because he had been clever when I had not thought to be, and my coughs always come out bloody.
When he tells me his name, Vercingtorix, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the need to assure him that I used to be more than this.
That this, the pale, dark-eyed man in front of him, is not Adonai at all. If you had met me earlier, I think, would you have thought me charming then?
When I was not less than you, but more?
“Vercingtorix," I say mellowly, feeling my way around the syllables. It is a hard name, with hard sounds, but together it is harshly lyrical. A guttural battle cry, eulogised in hymn and immortalised in myth. “It suits you."
It is fascinating, the depth that a name adds. Suddenly the man standing in front of you is rendered in sharp technicolour, all angles and jawbone, when before he had been nearly translucent. The sun had shone through his bones; he could have been nothing but a pretty hallucination woven by your maddening mind.
As if to test this, I stretch out a wing to brush against his neck, where a pink scar draws ripples over smooth bronze skin.
“Oh, I only mean a date." “A date." “As a foreigner I know little of your court. I need an escort for the evening." I have not called him charming, as he has dubbed me, but he will surely see it in the way I look at him. In the way I can't quite stop.
I run my tongue over my teeth, huffing lightly. On Pilate the look is sinful. On me, it is still too pious. “You are doing very well for yourself already. With a prince as your evening escort." I grin, and it is as close to a yes as I will say. My pride will remain by me until I am really dying, and pride will be the first sin the devil sees.
Vercingtorix will know, anyway. He is keen. Keener then most.
“Well. There are still hours to go before night." I flick my eyes to the white spire splitting the horizon. “See that tower? They say that a cursed prince lives in it. Do you believe that?" I say 'that' like I am trying very hard to keep my voice from falling flat.
I succeed. Almost.
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
