Vercingtorix
—
I
f only he were to confess his envy. If only I were to be made aware, so that I might say, no, Adonai, it is I who envies you. My bravado is nothing in comparison to the chaste, Grecian softness with which he carries himself. I envy his softness; the fur cloak he wears about his supple, thin shoulders, and the regality he possesses even in sickness. I feel at once as if I am looking at a white dove with a broken wing, and a lion stripped of his regalia, made slighter by circumstance or environment. It does not change what the lion is, however; only the context of his living. But I am not poetic enough to confess these thoughts aloud; I can only curb the earnest intensity of my gaze with clever commentary, and pretend I am not at once overwhelmed by my desire to want him and simultaneously put him out of his misery.
“I can be a little impatient myself,” I admit, with a laugh that is meant to be non committal.
Somehow, it comes out breathless. I think it is because of the lyre, and how it endears him to me more than any words could. Is this concern I am sensing, Vercingtorix?
I shrug, genuinely noncommittal now.
I know if I speak I will betray just how much I enjoy hearing my full name on his mouth, lilted up by his strange Solterra accent.
And while I am not surprised when he invites me to their armory, I am not pleased. I have recognised his eyes having lingered upon the scars at my face and shoulder. My soldiering--my heritage--is evident in all that I am and will ever be, written there with as much detail as continents (and their respective details) upon an atlas. I could tell him the tale of each scar, if he asked. How the most garish--the one crossing my eye--had not been from a battle at all, or any noble venture. Only my father’s temper. And the mark at my shoulder? It had been near death, prevented only by Bondike at the last moment--
The name sours me. The scars sour me. The idea of an armory sours me to the point that I nearly ask, instead:
Play me the lyre, Adonai. It is such a beautiful night. Do not ruin it with war.
Do not force me to show who I really am.
I want to beg him, I want to plead our act continue in the garden of statues. But we are already moving; and I cannot deny him the luxury of his boasts. “I am sure,” I say, without pause, without a perceivable hint I am displeased. “It is all to my liking.”
How soft, I wonder, are those feathers Adonai? Or the fur of your cloak? What cologne do you wear, if I were to slip just ever so close? I might have been left wondering, had the prince not moved so suddenly to escort me; his feathers brush my shoulder just so, and the soft-sweet-rich smell of his skin wafts with them. I smile. So you’ve seen him.
His sudden change in demeanour takes me aback. He is striking, is he not?
I am listening for it, I suppose; and perhaps that is why the rawness is so evident to me, the insecurity that poisons Adonai from within. Brothers competing with brothers; comparing, always, one to the other. I do not smile.
I regret having commented on the fact; instead, I wish I had only asked him to play the lyre.
Please, I think.
Is it too late, to simply play the lyre?
I choose my words carefully.
“No,” and perhaps my tone is less guarded than it should be. Perhaps there is a flash of anger, there, at the way I have witnessed Adonai grow smaller at mere mention of the brother. “He is striking insofar as a serpent is.” There is a dryness to my tone, a lack of appreciation, and I am almost relieved when Adonai begins to lead me toward the armoury. It is much quieter past the guests; and while I had not felt precisely watched before, the armoury is silent and rich with familiar scents.
Grease.
Leather.
Steel.
Wood.
(Missing, of course, the sweat and blood and odour of men in war).
It is silent. I know I should speak. There is a quiet voice within me that demands, Tell him what you see.
And what do I see? I am quiet in the face of his remark; my eyes are cool, interested, but unemotional. I am looking at a fallen prince; I am looking at golden feathers, and a lyre, and a man possessing more courage in the face of suffering than most soldier’s I had ever met. Than myself, when bedridden and broken. I had wanted to die; and the memory seems so fleeting, so bird-like and far away, I scarcely remember the desolation I had felt. It hadn’t seemed like myself.
He does not belong to this backdrop of weaponry, of war maces and swords and bows. He does not belong here; and I do.
I ask, and hate the way my voice sounds like a boys: “Adonai?” Quiet. Quiet. I close the door behind us, and the armoury is dim, lit with a single lantern only. The fire glances off of polished steel; it glances off of me in much the same way. I feel like glass. I feel like breaking, and I do not know why. “Will you play for me?”
The things I brought back with me
seem strange and out of place.
In their own land they moved like animals
but here they hold their breath in shame.
