W
hen the Terrastellan doctor enters the room, I look first to the top drawer of my writing desk to see if I had locked it last night — as always, I'd been meticulous — before exhaling slowly and pulling myself up to sitting. My hair is not arranged; it falls around my shoulders in tangled layers, their ends curling up like wet parchment. The gradual straightening of my boyhood curls through adolescence had often saddened me. The texture of my hair was the only physical feature I shared with Miriam, though hers had always been my superior in both volume and sheer amount. I would spend afternoons lazing on the balcony we shared, watching through the window-glass as her nursemaids combed oils through her hair and plaited it to rose-red magnificence.
“Excuse me, Prince Adonai? I am Elena, the healer from Terrastella, I am here to take care of you.” Through my bed curtains drifts a feminine voice, light as a summer faerie's. I observe the silhouette of her for a moment — compact and delicately made — before raking the hair from my eyes and drawing back the brocaded silk.
My surprise shows in the curve of my smile. I am used to wizened old doctors, more tree than nimble wood-nymph. They had been immune to my charms; no matter how I smiled at them, they would prescribe me the same bitter medicines, the same strict regimens, with composures bordering on monkishly ascetic. Yet with her, perhaps —
“Elena,” I say, my voice hoarse until I cough. I wonder how much about me she knows. “Terrastella is far from this kingdom of sand. I hope the journey did not wear you?” I smile mildly as I look over her eyes (summer blue), her skin (sun-kissed), the white marking anointing her forehead (heart-shaped). Her hair is as pale and gently waved as mine.
“I am sorry I cannot rise to greet you. It seems you caught me—” the shadow of a frown as I glance quickly towards the desk, “—in a bad spell.” And with little warning.
But of this I tell myself that I can't fault anyone. My days are so full of dull-eyed emptiness to most that they never believe me engaged enough to be capable of being disturbed. What business has the sick man to mind? Surely any company, unasked for or not, would be welcome.
(And if not company, then flowers. To brighten the room. Refresh the spirit, rejuvenate the body.)
I gesture towards a cushioned chair pushed against the wall. “Please, sit.”
oh sister my voice is weak
oh brother i long for sleep
oh brother i long for sleep
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
