ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A LONELY WOLF, LONELIER THAN THE ANGELS; HE HAPPENED TO COME TO A VILLAGE. HE FELL IN LOVE WITH THE FIRST HOUSE HE SAW. ALREADY HE LOVED ITS WALLS, THE CARESSES OF ITS BRICKLAYERS. BUT THE WINDOWS STOPPED HIM.
Perhaps it is the scar on her face—from Raum's mighty slash, he heard—that makes Orestes want to tell her how each golden mark on his flesh had been seared there. Each delicate brush stroke, so fanciful, so beautiful, had been designed to cause him agony. They had placed the sun upon his brow with golden paint to bind his Soul, not to mark him as Solis’ promised child. They had weighed his legs with images of the sea so that he might never swim again. He nearly says, “My marks were not by choice, either.” But does not. It is nearly as much of a tragedy that they are so beautiful, so easily mistaken for tattoos rather than bindings; it is nearly a shame that he wears the Sun Kingdom’s sigil upon his brow, as if he had always been meant of it.
It is the reason Orestes believes fate exists. Because if it didn't, the two of them--Zolin's child-soldier and the Prince of a Thousand Tides--would never be walking shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at a terrible, beautiful city.
The vulture flies low in the alleyway. Between them there is only the sound of their hooves on the cobble-stones and the whisper, whisper of wings on air. He is fine with walking in silence, and does not press the conversation as they walk through his—and her—city.
Orestes feels Ariel waking up. The lion is rising from where he sleeps in the citadel and trotting into the courtyard, then down a street. There is no question in their bond, no statement. Orestes simply knows he is coming. There is, perhaps, a bit of judgmenet; and that is all. Orestes realises his bonded believes him foolish, for walking side-by-side with Solterra’s exiled queen. Is her presence not a threat to his legitimacy?
And perhaps it is Orestes faith in fate that keeps him from thinking too darkly on that question.
I simply wish to know what kind of man you are. Tell me, Orestes. What do you see, when you look at this place?
What she asks is impossible; it is full, full, full. Orestes glances out at the streets, bathed in the silver light of the night. There are lanterns lit incrementally along the street that cast dancing shadows. It is strange, he thinks, that they ought meet beneath the waning light of Denocte’s goddess. But perhaps all secretive, dark things do.
Orestes steps forward, and they are both in the light again. There is a blanket of silver-dust stars and a crescent moon; they wink and laugh from incredible distances. From the corner of his eye Orestes catches the brilliant glint of feline eyes, and Ariel pads beside him with all the silent elegance of a true cat. Still, he says nothing. The lion glances at Seraphina, however, with measured distrust.
He sees many things.
Finally, Orestes tells a story.
“I am from a land very far from here, Seraphina. It was nothing like Solterra; much colder, with a wicked sea and black cliffs and two people that warred until one of them was destroyed. I saw one of my people once, taken by our enemies, and broken like a wild beast. I have never been able to shake the memory from my mind; the way that they fought, and fought, and fought despite being encircled by spears and fishing nets.” Orestes is nearly musing; but not quite. There is a dark undercurrent to his voice. “But it was also one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It is rare that you see a life so vivaciously trying to survive; it is rare that there is something fearless, and pure, with the odds stacked so against it. Most things crumble beneath the weight; they accept their fate because there is no other choice.”
It is also something that haunts him. That much is clear from his tone. He remembers holding the rest of them at bay, pleading they retreat. There is nothing we can do Orestes had said, and always seemed to be saying. She is already gone. They had called him a coward for that. But he had saved their lives; for a day more; two days more; a week; a year. Never long enough.
The quiet stretches, and stretches, and stretches. His eyes take in the empty streets; streets that have seen civil strife, tyranny, genocide, war. Streets that have seen hunger, and concubines, and childish cruelty. He can almost taste the suffering; he can almost hear it, in the ghostly whisper of the wind through the alleyways and flickering flames. “When I look at Solterra, I see the spirit of a beast that refuses to accept defeat. I see people that strive to live vivaciously, with mettle and grit and tragedy.”
Orestes rolls his shoulders and sighs, deep, deep, deep. The exhalation is that of an old man, or the ragged sea. “I can’t tell you what kind of man I am, Seraphina. It is only something I try to show. I know I am not who Solterra would have chosen. Many of them resent me as a foreigner, and believe I do not respect their culture. But I stay awake at night and think of what Solterra could be; I stay awake at night and think of where she has been. When I look at these streets, I see a future.”
The once-prince looks at her then; perhaps for the first time, really looks at her. Orestes cannot imagine the trials she has suffered; he cannot imagine having had everything wrenched from you, having grown up as she grew up, a child soldier. He would never offer her pity, no, but looking at her breaks his heart in the same way the sound of the sea does.
Orestes asks, very quietly, “What do you see?” Ariel is there, reclining upon his haunches, his eyes following the conversation. They return to Seraphina again, and again, and again. But he does not say anything, not aloud.
Orestes, be careful.
But was he ever?
Or did he just let his heart
bleed, and bleed
and bleed?
IN THE ROOM SAT PEOPLE, APART FROM GOD NOBODY EVER FOUND THEM SO BEAUTIFUL AS THIS CHILDLIKE BEAST. SO AT NIGHT HE WENT INTO THE HOUSE, HE STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM, AND NEVER MOVED FROM THERE ANY MORE. HE STOOD ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT, WITH WIDE EYES, AND ON INTO THE MORNING WHEN HE WAS BEATEN TO DEATH.
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