heaven help us, says your unholy mouth, your hands on my hands
I don't know where the darkness ends and you begin.
It occurs to him, perhaps too late, that he would rather be alone. There is nothing to be done for it now. But her presence, to him, feels invasive; as if she is a shadow within his confessional, the barrier between himself and the priest. And who then, is the priest?
He looks to the sea.
There is no other place for confessions.
I think you must be the kind of man who finds women on cliff sides and tells them veiled warnings. He smiles a crooked, foxlike smile. “Except you are the one who found me.” There is a laugh; brief, light. “Perhaps you are the type of woman who looks for men like me. But, My Lady, I certainly don’t have the time of day to tell you what kind of life to lead. Only that there are dangers in surprising a man."
I’ve never needed protection. I’m quite capable on my own.
Anyone who needs to say it is lying to themselves, Vercingtorix thinks.
Anyone who needs to tell him what type of independence they possess has none at all.
In that moment, she reminds him slightly of himself. Except—a much younger version, unscarred, naive and inexperienced. No one, he thinks, is truly capable on their own. No one, he thinks, can live their lives without protection. Why else join Courts? While else erect governments, cities, churches? Protection. They were, at base, nothing except herd animals. They, of Novus, of all civilisations, were as primitive and frightened as forest deer; as clever as the apes; and yet forever reliant upon one another.
He only says: “I’m sure.”
Doe-eyed; golden; a heart on her brow.
She is a damsel if he has ever seen one. Where are your scars?
Even the women of Oresziah have scars.
Bands upon their haunches for each colt they’ve birthed. A knick in the ear to represent marriage. A sun sigil for the priestesses.
Where, Elena, are your scars?
They speak to holding on to what your goals are until they are rooted and ready to be unveiled.
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, because he does not understand.
Step forward a small voice says. You will be alone again, if you do.
Empty space below.
He closes his eyes against the enormous pressure of the cliffside. He closes his eyes against the storm, against the golden girl, against Novus. He breathes in, a meditative breath.
When he turns to look at her, it is with light in his eyes; an easygoing expression. He smiles. “Yes. The lion and the lamb.”
He knows which one she is.
And Torix has spent a very long time cultivating himself.
Then:
“Perhaps we should return to Terrastella.” It is an offer. “Before—well, I only meant that there are dangers here, by the sea, in a storm. Terrastella is known for her kelpies, if she not?”
Kelpies—the word, garish, in his mouth. Unsophisticated. They are such ugly creatures, in Novus. At least Vercingtorix’s villains had been beautiful, amorphous, like the sea itself. These things—they were bound to one shape already, there and gone, with weak magic.
@
prophets sang of you, molded in your father's image
i'm not sure when they stopped; heaven help us, but no one is answering.
