Vercingtorix
—
O
ur aloneness is intoxicating in a way that surprises me; it is intoxicating in a way that I have not known for months, or even years. With the door shut behind me, I cannot take my eyes from him; I cannot help but let them rove, leisurely, every inch of his frame and then linger at his face. The shadows and flickering firelight accent his handsome cheekbones; they transform him into a man marblesque, where the shadows under his eyes have become intentional and the blood coughed into his fur cloak a mere suggestion of darkness. Adonai is incredibly striking, I think. The word falls readily to the tip of my tongue. He is gold, gold, gold and gold again. But all of that is made more remarkable by his softness; by his articulate tongue; by the ringlet of pale yellow hair that falls at his brow, and makes him coy, unreachable. In an unexpected way, the armoury accentuates him more than the marble statues had; his difference there, his inherent disbelonging, endears him to me more than if he were donned in armour and prepared for war.
I have tasted a lifetime of those men. I have sold my soul for them, again and again and again. I have nothing left for swords and battle maces, for those who love only the drumbeat of conflict, the elated adrenaline of camaraderie. They have left their marks on me, I think, and it is a stark relief when Adonai stands before a backdrop of violence and unmaking as a visitor. He does not need to show me how brave he can be, I think; he already fights a beast I could never overcome, with more tact than I could ever muster.
I like, then, that I surprise him with my request. It takes him aback. His eyes widen and I laugh cordially; it is my first real laugh of the night, high and bright and unfamiliar in my mouth. “Yes, the lyre.” I will always enjoy being what people least expect; and when he obliges me, something swells strangely in my breast. It is fragile, and already dying--a fledgling bird abandoned. Yet that feeling is hope.
The cloak slips to expose one angular shoulder, and then the other. His hair is disheveled where the fur had ruffled it. He holds the lyre against his chest and looks again to me, as if confirming this is what I want--that I am not joking. I only nod and then he begins to play.
In the dark, in the torches, the music sounds ethereal. He does not belong here, no, and by here I mean on this earth. I cannot help but draw nearer, the music a force of gravity. His voice is the undercurrent that holds the strings together, a keening hum that sets my heart to aching.
Music, in Oresziah, was reserved for funeral processions. It was reserved for tragedies. It makes me think of bonfires and burning bodies; of all the friends I had laid to rest. But this is different; moving, and alive, like a pulse under-thumb. Time stretches untouchably away from us; it could have been hours or minutes that I stand there transfixed, watching the gentle movements of his throat, his eyes, his face. His lids dance with the effort of his playing; the pulse beats at the soft juncture of his neck, and there, I think, I would like to touch. Perhaps he is drawing to a close; but when I think so, the song carries on. I cannot help but close the distance between us. I set my chin against his shoulder, just before the joint of his wing, and with unexpected gentleness stroke the soft down at the base of his wings with one brush of my nose.
It seems like you know many things about me, while I know near nothing of you.
That, too, becomes the song. The mourning lyre, which reminds me of ash, of funeral pyres.
It is the question--or acknowledgement, anyway--that I fear the most. I laugh with what I hope is false bravado; but even I recognise the sudden quake in the gesture. I should offer something of myself, some truth that is not unbearable. But when I go to speak, I have nothing to say. This is me, and I am not--
I do not belong here, either. I do not belong besides this prince who is unlike any I have ever known before, who plays the lyre for me between racks of gleaming swords. At last, into the quiet that grows when Adonai sets down the lyre: “What would you like to know?” I am breathless, and afraid, of what he may ask.
Was I wrong, to bring you here? The setting of the lyre sounds tremendous; the wood against the stone floor echoes in a way that Adonai’s voice does not; like a seal; like a promise. His wing reaches out; those feathers which I have admired brush ever-so-softly against the deep scar that marks my eye. I close them against the sensation, the softer-than-soft, the gentleness, the warmth. “No,” I whisper, to the dark behind my lids. There are many memories I could paint there, if I wanted; but in this instance, I do not. I press forward into the touch, eyes still closed; still vulnerable.
He was not wrong to bring me here.
It shows him everything I am; everything I have ever been. I am defined by halls like these. I am given life, voice, and fire by halls like these. I do not belong anywhere else. The lyre is within me. The lyre is singing, resonant, to my soul. I know this is unavoidable; I know, in part, he invited me here to discuss his brother, to discuss the cursed prince in the cursed tower. Where else would one venture down such avenues of thought, if not in an armoury?
But strangely, he does not make it feel like any armoury I have ever known before.
“No,” I repeat, a little more strongly. I open my eyes to see him radiating faint light. “It is the only place I’d like to be.” A smile flits briefly across my mouth. “And I am very impressed with what I see.” The implication is clear. My eyes have gone nowhere except for him; and we are there, together, alone. “It makes me appreciate you more,” I add, abruptly. It is atypically vulnerable. “I am accustomed to war rooms and generals and men who--” My voice sounds strange, even to myself. “And men who… are just like me.”
I worry he will take offense; but it is the largest compliment I can bestow. “Where,” I ask, so as to not dwell on my own uncertainty. “If I could… if I were to… take you somewhere, where would you like to go?” It occurs to me he must not often leave Solterra, or even his family estate. Inexplicably, I wish I could take him to the sea.
This, I would say. This is all that I am.
I know this quiet interlude cannot last. Already, the last struck string of the lyre has faded into infinity. It is only his breathing, and mine, and the way he ignites a hunger in me to both save and destroy.
i would take the spear and return the lyre,
hear you sing memories of two boys skipping stones
across the sea, of the sweet crunch of figs between our grinning teeth
of your faltering breath, kissing the shadows of my face
but i can only stare at your golden back
as you march off to war
