S I M O
The Sovereign was dead.
The words had struck him like a hammer striking iron. He had scarcely believed the rumors at first, pouring throughout the desert like an unexpected rain. It seemed unlikely with the way that the painted beast could fight, but the more it said--the more it seemed to become true. The Solterran King had fallen...and he could only think to what he had said before; It would be as it always had been -- someone else would come to take the mantel away from the painted brute and things would change again. Always shifting, like the sands on the dunes.
The metalsmith had come to pay his respects to the fallen king, traveling in the night from his home near the oasis towards the wind-worn walls of the Solterra stronghold. He had been fortunate, the full moon had illuminated his way, and Oriens was just beginning to bring the sun’s light over the horizon. He had dressed finely for the occasion, an intricate work of strappings and adornments that he had made himself -- something he rarely dragged out or wore as it was mostly inappropriate for everyday use.
He could not explain the feeling that had coiled around his heart like a sand-viper, some mixture of relief and anxiety. Simo had avoided the warrior king at all costs, choosing to keep to his work rather than seek any audience with the sharp-eyed male. He supposed he worried that someone like Maxence would see right through him -- and the outcasting that would have followed. The stallion had been something of a slave driver, his ideals and mannerisms too strong for the likes of Simo. It was already bad enough that he had disappointed his father by failing to join the warrior ranks.
He stood in one of the sand-worn doorways, the innards of the capitol as bland as the outside -- and the eerie quiet made it ever more uncomfortable. He kept his wings tucked close behind his head, though the hairstyle he wore today would not allow them to remain unseen. He appeared for everything in the world as though he belonged, even though he had never felt like more of an outsider.
He was glad that Maxence was dead. Which felt wrong in all manner of ways.
Perhaps now there could be some relief, the tensions between his home and the outside world becoming wound so tightly that he could not breathe. First, the gypsies and then the librarians -- Maxence had wasted no time in taking what he wanted from both of them, or at least trying. Perhaps he was hoping that with an end to the warrior king, that some semblance of peace might come to them -- but it would depend on who was left to lead them and that was what he had come to find out.
It was not difficult to find the pile of wood nestled into the heart of the court, a pile of gleaming bones heralding at the peak. His lips turned down in displeasure, the images of death always seeming to creep up upon him when it was that which he detested most. Between him and the pyre stood Seraphina, the emissary to his home. He felt a ripple of guilt at the sight of her. How was she handling the effective snuffing of the light of the Sovereign? He could not help but ponder, wondering if he might offer a kind word or if he should stay where he stood. He barely knew her, opting to bide his time just yet. The grey and white stallion took his time looking at the pyre, the sky blue of his gaze holding steady upon it all -- more for the benefit of anyone who was looking rather than for himself. He would not let himself appear weak here, not when there were so many eyes in the shadows.
He moved quietly, stepping up to the pile of wood and bone just to the left of Seraphina. His freckled lips gently brushed the jagged edge of the pile, his neck fully stretched to afford him that. ”May Solis guide you to his side.” He murmured, taking longer to mutter out a prayer. He had always been particularly religious. ”May you bask in his light until the day your are destined to return to this world.” Reincarnation was one of his strongest beliefs.
He pulled away at last, and reached out slowly towards the silvery female. He could only offer his condolences, because it seemed the proper thing to do. ”My condolences to you.” He said softly. ”It is never an easy thing, death.”
