Always, my heart longs for what it does not have. Its murmurings, like the trickle of a stream, are most often focused on the distant past or the far future-- each unobtainable for different reasons. It says, take me back. Open the shutters. Let in the light of memory, roll back the curtain of time. It longs, and it yearns, and most of all it remembers.
I remember of that evening, with strange specificity, hearing my own heartbeat, wet and ponderous. The heart’s one-two shuffle is so often compared to a bird- fluttering with livelihood like a hummingbird, or else with graceful pain, like a wounded dove. But to me it’s always been more like a tree. Sometimes still and quiet, leaves gently rustled by the breeze. Other times buffeted by a storm, thrashing to and fro. Most significantly, my heart never, never had the freedom of a bird. Not just my heart but all of me (mind, body, spirit) was subject to time and chance, season and weather. And of course all the places and people in which I laid roots.
Places like the night markets, and people like Aubin and Leonidas.
I had never had boys fighting over me, and it was not something I ever wished for, so I was grateful when one of them left with such grace and no hard feelings. (Still, I admit it gave me a brief, savage glee to see the widely varying expressions cross across Leonidas’ face, one after another, like dancing flames. I immediately felt terribly guilty for this… but later, alone, I reckoned it was not so terrible to enjoy being wanted, and anguish could feel good in its own way.)
I tried not to roll my eyes at Leonidas’ expression as the other boy left. It reminded me of the fat grey pigeons I had seen in the court, bobbing their green and purple necks at each other in some unfathomable display of pride. “I followed you,” he said. “I wanted to check you were still real.” In the moment the sentiment was lost to the cracking of his voice. I smiled then, broader than I had smiled at Aubin, and it took every ounce of self control to keep from gigging. I truly didn’t mean to insult him, or make him self conscious, but there was just something so pure about the jump of his voice from one octave to another.
“I’m real,” I said gently. “It was all real. Do you think we’ll ever be… normal again?” I almost asked if we’d ever be the same again, but I knew the answer to that.
No. No we would not. But anyway it would be unnatural to go back, and not forward. I flowed forever onward to time’s pace. Leonidas, I eventually learned, set a pace of his own-- but it was always forward, never back. We would never be the same.
So we began to walk, although he had shaken his head “no.” It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to just stand there, feeling all hot and cold and jittery-- so jittery! Like there were ants on the inside of my skin. I preferred to be a ghost. The walking made it better, but his eyes did not. He had a very serious gaze, very deep for someone so young. The more it pried at me the tighter I drew myself inward, an oyster safe behind the fortress of its shell.
I was used to eyes, and very good at ignoring them. But still I found myself glancing at him shyly, quick as the darting hands of a thief. I wish it didn’t feel like we had so much history. I wish it didn’t feel like we were already bound, somehow.
I didn’t even know him! But I did. Or I wanted to. Everything was sticking together and coming apart; I wanted to sit with him beneath the cottonwood trees. I wanted to be alone.
I did not move away when he pressed his muzzle to my spine, even if it was too much, too soon. (I must admit, it felt good to feel real.) I just turned my head so my horn was directed at his chest, and I looked at him with oceanic eyes that promised: “if you hurt me, I will kill you.”
Princess was not a nickname I enjoyed, and it was not a title that had ever interested me. It wasn’t until I was much older that I could pick apart why. It all came back to princesses in stories, they ruined it for me-- they were too often the victims, or the prize. There were exceptions, true, particularly in my mother’s stories, but I had never found them inspiring. I suppose they only illustrated to me all the more clearly how pervasive was the damsel in distress.
I obviously had no intention of bending to the stereotype. I also didn’t want to break the mold. I just wanted to be, yet I always found myself defined by one thing or another.
I sighed. “My mom used to be sovereign.” It felt odd to call her mom; at that point in my youth I quite strictly referred to my parents as Eik and Isra, no more or less. “That was a long time ago though.” (In reality it had only been a year or so, but at that age it was a lifetime.)
Finally, I turned my attention to the necklace. It had been pulsing quite insistently at my neck, digging into my skin to catch my attention. I opened my magic- the best comparison I have is opening a heavy door, or a crooked, rusty gate- and let the necklace’s story fill me.
It was a proud thing, I could tell immediately, and this made me smile. It told me of how chains are formed, link by link, with love and skill and the utmost attention to detail. (I would for long after think of necklaces as chains, shackles, and refuse to wear them… but of course this was not the intended moral of the story...)And how the pendant was shaped so very meticulously, its rose-colored stone chosen with care and gently shaped to fit the silver tangle of metal. The final product, the whole something even greater than its parts, loved being on display in the markets. It loved the feel of crushed velvet below, and the way the glimmering firelight danced on its curves. It loved the attention of passersby, the marvel it inspired.
And when it spoke of being taken, it began to shake.
I took a step back from him. “Leonidas, where did you get this? Did you steal it?” I was not very principled, to be honest. I followed the rules that aligned with my personal values, and I disregarded the rest. But one thing I did believe in was that hard work should pay off. Theft was not acceptable unless you stole from another thief, or- and here’s where we enter a grey area- someone who had too much for their own good. And I knew from the necklace’s story that its creator was neither of these, not by a long shot.
I slipped the necklace over my head, angry and embarrassed by the thought of wearing it, although I still clutched it to my chest for that seemed to give it some comfort. I searched the golden eyes of my savage boy for some answer, but I found none. "You... you do know you can't just take things, right??" My voice had softened; I could not really hold against him rules that he did not understand. If anything the fault was as good as mine-- he was only here because of me.
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