how willing you must be to kill angels
I was among those who returned with Queen Isra. I’m from her home country—the one she liberated.
His words, delivered so carelessly, belong to a land I have no stake in. I recognize the name “Isra,” but little else; and cannot help but wonder (and not ask) what liberating entails. “I see. That sounds like quite the adventure,” I remark, with a lack of expression. There is nothing on my face but polite interest; but that does not mean I am not cataloguing the information.
He does not ask about me; and I do not offer more.
The conversation seems to be reaching its natural death until Martell’s interest returns, abruptly, at my joking mention of the regiment. And are you still a military man, Vercingtorix? I’ve seen little of this lands armies.
I am careful in my reply. I do not look directly at him; but instead regard him from the corner of my eye, glancing toward the still-dark desert behind him. “I could be nothing else.” I turn to regard him fully. “These lands are full of magic.” I might not have elaborated further, if not for the distaste that colors his tone. “My understanding is magic is very common in Novus; but what is uncommon are those who are truly gifted.”
The sea breeze is licking at my mane; it dishevels it, into my eyes. “There are those, however, in every Court that possess power beyond what is ordinary--there are some, even, who are powerful enough to be an army in and of themselves. It was not like that where I am from.”
I do not know what I am waiting to see, in his response; only that I hope he understands the undercurrent to my words. There is no way to wage war among these people without magic yourself. The actuality of it is one that disgusts me; magic has always had primordial, if not almost evil, connotations in my heart. It is no different now.
“Perhaps I will see you again, Martell. And you will be able to tell me more of the country your Queen liberated, and how.” My curiosity is polite; but I cannot help but wonder at his scarless skin, and that sudden sharpening in regards of military and magic.
It is a sharpening I recognize. It belongs to men at war. It belongs to hounds on the hunt, when they catch the scent of their prey.
“But for now, I’ll leave you to your sunrise.” I nod politely and turn from him, to continue my walk down the shoreline, remembering quite a different war.
