all words of comfort can not take away my doubt / i've decided if it kills me i'll find out what you're about
This night has sharpened my malevolence like a whetstone to a dull blade.
The reason is damning and simple: for a single night, I had nearly managed to forget myself. The knowledge of my impending death had only fluttered occasionally into my head in serene lungfuls, instead of clamping around my throat like manacles that would never loosen. I could breathe. I could laugh. I could drink until my head stopped aching and toast to the moon and stars that I was born a prince among men with the luxury of being, at one point, beloved.
Yet already the drink is wearing off. Yet already the halls are clearing to marble emptiness. Yet already the dawn is coming gentle and sly, painting the line of my throat an ominous red as I stand by the ceiling-high windows and glance hollowly, corpse-like, out.
Our lands, viewed from this height, are magnificent. Glitzy shades of dawn lace the bare magnolia trees in silk and gossamer. The sleepy heads of the morning gardeners rise and fall between the hedges like dark herons. The grove of eucalyptus marking the ends of our estate are dewy and lush, leading one to assume that behind their leafy heads hide rolling blue forests instead of dunes and dunes of teryr-concealing sand.
It is an illusion that holds until you descend. And today—I will not descend.
I turn, my back enveloped in a red like blood, and stride wearily down an empty hall. As I go along, I kick at a trail of petals leading out to the statue hall that are all turning black at the edges. Squinting, I try to remember who it was I'd seen wearing them.
It is a testament to her status in the house that not once do I think of Ruth.
When my dark, stoic sister finds me amongst the statues, I don't rise to greet her. I know that Ruth is the last of us to take offence at such things and suddenly, even without her talking, I am overwhelmed by a swell of guilt. I will never be Miriam; I will never be as close, as gracious, to my siblings as she is. Had Ruth cried at our parents' funeral? Is this not a question I ought to know the answer to? Miriam had wept. I hadn't. And Corradh? And Hagar?
And Pilate?
I am sick of myself and I am sick of being sick. I don't stir when Ruth approaches. My back is leaned heavily against the angel wing of a De Clare and half of me wants for the wing to snap; the other half wants for it to shatter, and for the pieces to pierce me in the throat.
"Adonai." I release my breath slowly. That assassin of hers is not following at her heels like a hound and this only manages to intrigue me for a bare moment before I close my eyes again and offer a quiet hum in response. "Would you like me to take a look at you?"
I stir, then, and I cannot help it: I tilt my head back and I laugh. "Dear Ruth. Your manners are, as always, impeccable." There is an almost gleeful madness to my voice and when I loll my head around to find her hollow gaze staring back, my cheek presses fever-hot to the marble and my eyes can't quite focus.
"Well, I am here," I say, my tone faintly caustic. "Look at me, and tell me what you see."
Ruth is the only competent doctor I know of in all of Solterra. She is not offended by my lack of a greeting but more so, I gather, by the fact that she has never once been consulted about my condition. If I were not feeling so hideous, if my head would cease to thrum and my heart cease to stutter, I would confide to her that I am not the one in control of who sees to me.
I would confide to her that I am not the one in control of anything in this gods-damned house and even less—of myself.
I would confide to you, dear Ruth, that you come seeking for the truth from the wrong brother.
The reason is damning and simple: for a single night, I had nearly managed to forget myself. The knowledge of my impending death had only fluttered occasionally into my head in serene lungfuls, instead of clamping around my throat like manacles that would never loosen. I could breathe. I could laugh. I could drink until my head stopped aching and toast to the moon and stars that I was born a prince among men with the luxury of being, at one point, beloved.
Yet already the drink is wearing off. Yet already the halls are clearing to marble emptiness. Yet already the dawn is coming gentle and sly, painting the line of my throat an ominous red as I stand by the ceiling-high windows and glance hollowly, corpse-like, out.
Our lands, viewed from this height, are magnificent. Glitzy shades of dawn lace the bare magnolia trees in silk and gossamer. The sleepy heads of the morning gardeners rise and fall between the hedges like dark herons. The grove of eucalyptus marking the ends of our estate are dewy and lush, leading one to assume that behind their leafy heads hide rolling blue forests instead of dunes and dunes of teryr-concealing sand.
It is an illusion that holds until you descend. And today—I will not descend.
I turn, my back enveloped in a red like blood, and stride wearily down an empty hall. As I go along, I kick at a trail of petals leading out to the statue hall that are all turning black at the edges. Squinting, I try to remember who it was I'd seen wearing them.
It is a testament to her status in the house that not once do I think of Ruth.
When my dark, stoic sister finds me amongst the statues, I don't rise to greet her. I know that Ruth is the last of us to take offence at such things and suddenly, even without her talking, I am overwhelmed by a swell of guilt. I will never be Miriam; I will never be as close, as gracious, to my siblings as she is. Had Ruth cried at our parents' funeral? Is this not a question I ought to know the answer to? Miriam had wept. I hadn't. And Corradh? And Hagar?
And Pilate?
I am sick of myself and I am sick of being sick. I don't stir when Ruth approaches. My back is leaned heavily against the angel wing of a De Clare and half of me wants for the wing to snap; the other half wants for it to shatter, and for the pieces to pierce me in the throat.
"Adonai." I release my breath slowly. That assassin of hers is not following at her heels like a hound and this only manages to intrigue me for a bare moment before I close my eyes again and offer a quiet hum in response. "Would you like me to take a look at you?"
I stir, then, and I cannot help it: I tilt my head back and I laugh. "Dear Ruth. Your manners are, as always, impeccable." There is an almost gleeful madness to my voice and when I loll my head around to find her hollow gaze staring back, my cheek presses fever-hot to the marble and my eyes can't quite focus.
"Well, I am here," I say, my tone faintly caustic. "Look at me, and tell me what you see."
Ruth is the only competent doctor I know of in all of Solterra. She is not offended by my lack of a greeting but more so, I gather, by the fact that she has never once been consulted about my condition. If I were not feeling so hideous, if my head would cease to thrum and my heart cease to stutter, I would confide to her that I am not the one in control of who sees to me.
I would confide to her that I am not the one in control of anything in this gods-damned house and even less—of myself.
I would confide to you, dear Ruth, that you come seeking for the truth from the wrong brother.
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
