—adonai ieshan of solterra—
I am leaning against the wall of the medic room, breathing in its stale, closed air, when my name echoes down the hall.
I push myself upright just as an attendant bursts through the door. A light dusting of sand shakes loose from the ceiling. The attendant does not see me at first, her brows drawing together like knitting needles; I am standing behind a cabinet stacked high with boxes of bandages. Quickly, I ball up the piece of cloth I am holding and stuff it between two boxes.
“Your majesty?” Sweat slicks down the attendant's mane. The day is oppressively hot, not a wisp of white cloud to soften the sky, and she must have been sent running down from the king's box to find me.
I step out, a pearl of guilt brightening my smile. “I was looking for the weapons room, yet lost my way.” This is only half of a lie; I had been looking for the weapons room, until a fit of coughs had sent me ducking into this one.
“Oh!” She startles a step backwards, before recovering elegantly. “One of us could've showed you the way—it's a labyrinth down here.” She casts her eyes over the empty room. “But never-mind that, your majesty. I was sent to fetch you. It is time for your match.”
Now that I am in front of her, I see that she is holding something. The polished arch of a shortbow glints beneath a filter of weak sunlight, a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She holds out the bow and then the quiver to me; I take them both mechanically, my touch ghosting down the smooth wood.
“The head arbiter heard about your preference for the bow, and expressed that it would be improper for you to be sent in unarmed like a common gladiator.” It is, of course, a logical decision. To a degree I had predicted it—it would be a slight to my class to allow me to fight with nothing but hooves and teeth. Yet the bow? It's a weapon with a strange history.
Mistaking my silence for surprise, the attendant ducks her head and adds, “Your opponent is identically armed. It will be a fair fight. As you'd wished, no further exceptions have been made for you.” I study her face carefully, for the unsaid, for the implied—until her shy smile grows degrees more nervous, unsure if she has done something wrong.
“Thank you,” I say then, slipping the quiver over one shoulder before strumming the bow's string like a harp.
§
“Have they found someone to distribute the wreaths in my place?”
“Yes. I believe it'll be the Regent, or one of the arbiters.”
I nod. “Good. The Solonia has been going smoothly. I am relieved.”
“Everyone is excited, your majesty. There has not been such cheer in Solterra for so long.”
“Yes,” I laugh. “Well, we are not so difficult to please as we think we are.” Give her blood, and give her glory. A Solterran lives to die on the sand.
The attendant smiles. “You are looking very well today, your majesty.” Her eyes skim my figure: bare of armor, slick from the anointing of oils, my hair knotted up in braids. The door to the cage begins to grind up in a whine of gears and straining pulleys. The arena sand is a sea of gold before me: gold—
And then an aberration of black.
§
“Our next match: Day versus Dawn, king versus king.
Adonai, Sovereign of Solterra and Andras, Sovereign of Delumine!”
§
We step up to each other like strangers. (Or are we? Is Pilate a tenable enough connection? Is Pilate watching us watch each other?) I stare into the lens of his glasses, their silver rims sparking like a hypnotist's trick. He is the first to bow. “Your highness.” It is bizarre to hear it from him. I would have preferred my name.
So I don't say his back. “Welcome to Solterra, King of Delumine.” My smile is slippery in the sun; the blow of the Solonia horn commands us to retreat before I can give a reciprocal salute.
He is off in an instant. A shred of sand, a whoosh of wings taking flight. Below him I am still, my head angled up, my brow drawn low, my wings held close and taut as I wait for him to steady his aim. He is uncertain with the bow, and negligent—or simply uneasy—of the shortbow's range. That much I can tell immediately.
The arrow draws back, back, back—and then, a pale streak, it dives. He is not aiming at me, not with any intent. Annoyed, I leap to the left; the arrow sinks to its fletching in sand. I grit my teeth. There is no advantage to staying grounded. Andras has taken the fight to the sky, and I am tired of waiting to be shot at.
The crowd's roar reaches deafening heights when I snap my wings out and take flight.
An arrow is notched while I climb to his height, the quiver's leather strap digging into the bone of my shoulder. Up here, the sun is scorching, the wind generated by my wings the only reprieve. I cut to his right yet climb higher still. If I wish to land a hit, I will have to time my shot with a risky nosedive towards him. It is why they armed us with shortbows: to make us circle each other like vultures to a kill.
Except we are both vultures—or we are both the kill.
I draw back the bowstring and take aim at Andras's right wing. The quickest way to take down a teryr is to sever a pectoralis muscle. “Are you doing me a favor,” I sigh, “missing like that?”
My arrow flies out without a sound.
I push myself upright just as an attendant bursts through the door. A light dusting of sand shakes loose from the ceiling. The attendant does not see me at first, her brows drawing together like knitting needles; I am standing behind a cabinet stacked high with boxes of bandages. Quickly, I ball up the piece of cloth I am holding and stuff it between two boxes.
“Your majesty?” Sweat slicks down the attendant's mane. The day is oppressively hot, not a wisp of white cloud to soften the sky, and she must have been sent running down from the king's box to find me.
I step out, a pearl of guilt brightening my smile. “I was looking for the weapons room, yet lost my way.” This is only half of a lie; I had been looking for the weapons room, until a fit of coughs had sent me ducking into this one.
“Oh!” She startles a step backwards, before recovering elegantly. “One of us could've showed you the way—it's a labyrinth down here.” She casts her eyes over the empty room. “But never-mind that, your majesty. I was sent to fetch you. It is time for your match.”
Now that I am in front of her, I see that she is holding something. The polished arch of a shortbow glints beneath a filter of weak sunlight, a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She holds out the bow and then the quiver to me; I take them both mechanically, my touch ghosting down the smooth wood.
“The head arbiter heard about your preference for the bow, and expressed that it would be improper for you to be sent in unarmed like a common gladiator.” It is, of course, a logical decision. To a degree I had predicted it—it would be a slight to my class to allow me to fight with nothing but hooves and teeth. Yet the bow? It's a weapon with a strange history.
Mistaking my silence for surprise, the attendant ducks her head and adds, “Your opponent is identically armed. It will be a fair fight. As you'd wished, no further exceptions have been made for you.” I study her face carefully, for the unsaid, for the implied—until her shy smile grows degrees more nervous, unsure if she has done something wrong.
“Thank you,” I say then, slipping the quiver over one shoulder before strumming the bow's string like a harp.
“Have they found someone to distribute the wreaths in my place?”
“Yes. I believe it'll be the Regent, or one of the arbiters.”
I nod. “Good. The Solonia has been going smoothly. I am relieved.”
“Everyone is excited, your majesty. There has not been such cheer in Solterra for so long.”
“Yes,” I laugh. “Well, we are not so difficult to please as we think we are.” Give her blood, and give her glory. A Solterran lives to die on the sand.
The attendant smiles. “You are looking very well today, your majesty.” Her eyes skim my figure: bare of armor, slick from the anointing of oils, my hair knotted up in braids. The door to the cage begins to grind up in a whine of gears and straining pulleys. The arena sand is a sea of gold before me: gold—
And then an aberration of black.
“Our next match: Day versus Dawn, king versus king.
Adonai, Sovereign of Solterra and Andras, Sovereign of Delumine!”
§
We step up to each other like strangers. (Or are we? Is Pilate a tenable enough connection? Is Pilate watching us watch each other?) I stare into the lens of his glasses, their silver rims sparking like a hypnotist's trick. He is the first to bow. “Your highness.” It is bizarre to hear it from him. I would have preferred my name.
So I don't say his back. “Welcome to Solterra, King of Delumine.” My smile is slippery in the sun; the blow of the Solonia horn commands us to retreat before I can give a reciprocal salute.
He is off in an instant. A shred of sand, a whoosh of wings taking flight. Below him I am still, my head angled up, my brow drawn low, my wings held close and taut as I wait for him to steady his aim. He is uncertain with the bow, and negligent—or simply uneasy—of the shortbow's range. That much I can tell immediately.
The arrow draws back, back, back—and then, a pale streak, it dives. He is not aiming at me, not with any intent. Annoyed, I leap to the left; the arrow sinks to its fletching in sand. I grit my teeth. There is no advantage to staying grounded. Andras has taken the fight to the sky, and I am tired of waiting to be shot at.
The crowd's roar reaches deafening heights when I snap my wings out and take flight.
An arrow is notched while I climb to his height, the quiver's leather strap digging into the bone of my shoulder. Up here, the sun is scorching, the wind generated by my wings the only reprieve. I cut to his right yet climb higher still. If I wish to land a hit, I will have to time my shot with a risky nosedive towards him. It is why they armed us with shortbows: to make us circle each other like vultures to a kill.
Except we are both vultures—or we are both the kill.
I draw back the bowstring and take aim at Andras's right wing. The quickest way to take down a teryr is to sever a pectoralis muscle. “Are you doing me a favor,” I sigh, “missing like that?”
My arrow flies out without a sound.
smell like smoke, nuit de l'homme / it's been a while since we last spoke
the fact that THIS is the most heated adonai's ever gotten i'm
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
