He was supposed to be an angel but they took him from that light and turned him into something hungry, something that forgets what his hands are for when they aren’t shaking.
T
onight, I am monstrous. I cannot help but feel like a lion in a flock of lambs; everywhere I glance reveals a partygoer made soft by overabundance. They adorn themselves in rich silks and furs; their jewelry winks boldly at ears and throats and brows, so that every patron appears bejeweled or crystalline.
I understand, as a soldier, the true ephemerality of such luxuries. I cannot help but imagine beneath the bright glamour quite a different image: the broken glass, the fallen chandelier, luxurious furs shredded, gold looted, diamonds covered in blood.
It is not in my nature to arrive at the Ieshan’s estate and find my way immediately to Adonai; I suppose it is a matter of pride, that has me lingering at the bar and observing with a sharp eye all those who come and go.I suppose it is more in my nature to plan (this is where my mind goes, when it is unoccupied; this is where my mind goes, when it is left to wander) exactly how I would siege the Ieshan’s palace. I catalogue the strategies I would use; the method of the assault, and the stages of the battle. When that is no longer enough, I begin to judge the individual patrons at my leisure.
What I see overwhelmingly disgusts me; on Oresziah, no one is rich. Even the wealthiest of politicians were first military men; the women do not wear mink coats or gleaming snakeskin. There was little or no jewelry in my homeland; what existed was always simplistic, and seeing firsthand the overabundance of these Solterra nobles unsettles me.
My musings are interrupted by a sudden, sweet voice. Hello traveller.
I recognise her instantaneously and cannot help the wolfish smile that takes over my face.
Have you been alone long?
“Too long,” I admit. “Please, join me.” She does not need the invitation. She has already sat beside me; she begins to skim the menu, and I glance at her from my peripheral. She orders a drink, and Adonai’s brother delivers it not long after. The bar, at this time, is busy; he is not there for long, before he is serving another guest. We are left in silence. I sip fine bourbon from my crystal glass and meet her eyes above the rim. “Well, Lucinda. You are far from the sea. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Perhaps my earlier imaginings of war are not so distant from my current circumstance. I should find it strange a water horse is the only creature I find familiar (and perhaps even relatable) at the event.
