I was not born for these marbled halls with their tapestries catching the desert breeze. I was not born for these carefully maintained gardens, or the fountains that laugh like breaking crystal. I think it is the teeth, too large in my mouth, that set me apart. I think it is the leopard’s rosettes that dapple my flanks and give me, forevermore, a craving for blood.
I feel half-wild, tonight. And as the hours tick by—filled with me painting faces with a lack of whimsy and an artistic flare more like blood splatter than intention—I begin to feel even more out of place. Eventually, I cannot stand the noblewomen who bring their children, grinning, to my station; eventually, I cannot stand the playful lovers who dare one another to some fanciful drawing. There is a woman, too, who demands I paint my own rosettes upon her cheeks. If she had been more beautiful, I might not have turned her away—but my taste, even if my disposition does not match, has always been exquisite.
No.
I wander off, bored. I enter Adonai’s hall of statues. I might have done just that—wandered, if not for the way Ruth’s hurried movement catches my eye, like the movement of a deer between the trees.
I am deft in cutting her off. It is my purpose, perhaps, as the youngest brother—always up to mischief; always prodding; always trying to understand.
“Whatcha doin’?” I asked, with a child’s feigned intrigue. I drawl the words so thickly my noble accent is almost lost—but it remains in the impish glint of my eyes. “You look like you’re up to somethin’, Ruthy.”
My voice is candy-apple sweet.
"Speech." || @
we are born like this, into these carefully made wars
where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
