the power of youth is on my mind / sunsets, small town, i'm out of time / will you still love me when i shine / from words but not from beauty
When he takes me to see the ocean, I had thought gravely, as I'd lain awake in my bed hours after the party's close, I think that will be the end of it.
The end of pretending that this — whatever this was — would remain as a simple fancy. I knew then that I couldn't do it. Heated kisses, warmed beds, and then a quick, casual farewell, everything but regret staining black my smile. I had prayed to Solis that I wouldn't forget him. I should have known better than to call upon our gods.
Forgetting had never been a possibility. The well, the blue flowers, the eucalyptus as slender as saplings; the scene was immortalised in my mind like a painting. If I closed my eyes, I would see it. Stone well, blue daisies, eucalyptus. The offering of water in a bucket. And then — the song of a lyre. Battle leather and sword polish. A war room, a bed room. His shadow stretched long as it slipped out the door. What was it to me to add the sea to this motley collection?
It was over when I had learned his name.
“The sea is the thing that taught me love and hate and fear are not all so different.” I study the wrenching of his expressions, as changeable as the rolling clouds, with the astuteness of a scholar excising the object of his obsession for faults. If I find one, I tell myself desperately, then there is hope yet. Hope that I am not so utterly blindsided that so simple a task becomes impossible. But when I look, there is nothing. He can do nothing, say nothing, that I will hate. Should I greet this with relief? Where is no hate, there can be no —
My skin feels scraped raw by the tossing winds.
“Love and hate and fear,” I whisper, my voice like a Delphic chant. The coloured fumes exhaled by his dragon leap about us in a swirling, gleaming red. It makes me confess: “There was a time I would never have thought that I knew them, and that is why—” I turn away from him, my ankles sinking to meet the sand. “I was always too late to act.” Too late, or purposefully ignorant? I cannot tell; I do not wish to know.
My smile edges into bitterness and I add, almost unthinkingly, “When my mother and then my father passed, it wasn't their obituaries but my tearless apathy that fronted the papers the next day. That is what passes for scandal, in a court grown restless by a lack of war.” Marblesque, refined, unforgiving. That was what I had been. If he had met me then, my eyes as grey as sleet, would I have intrigued him still?
The tide is as warm, I think, as blood. I have never known enough of it to be certain (only in fine, near artful splatters), yet — Ruth would know. Whether she has seen the ocean herself is unknown to me, and as the gentle waves eddy around my knees, I resolve to ask her to accompany me to visit it one day. Perhaps she would like it, or at least find it agreeable, and — my mouth curls like wet parchment — far from the house, there will be less risk of hostile ears buzzing about us like hornets.
It is of this that I am brooding over, when I hear Vercingtorix settle besides me, sinking down into the foaming surf. My pulse jumps when I feel his nose against my neck; automatically I turn to meet it, to savour its warmth, yet too quickly he draws away. I frown before I am aware of it. My correction comes quick yet I needn't have bothered. His mouth opens to speak, and his gaze is warm yet faraway. “I do not think you ignorant... I think… it is as you say. Other. But it’s taken me almost a lifetime to understand that.”
This close, I see the curl of his dark lashes, the metallic sheen of his golden markings. He moves his head and the flakes of gold in his horns wink like stars in the night. I could study every inch of him until my death, and still not be satisfied. There is always something I have missed, something I am terrified I have forgotten. Has it only been a week since I'd traced the path of his scars as he'd lain beside me? I blink. This is agony.
I turn to watch the sea. “You mustn't think me wise. It only means that I have spent far too long thinking over what to say to impress you.” I grin, before it is twisted apart by a rough, wet cough. A reminder that however far I stray, I cannot leave behind my body. I stoop over, my face in my knees, and sigh. When I draw myself up again I wear a faint smile and a fainter dash of black hatred in my eyes, gone before it can mean anything. Love, hate, fear. How correctly he has captured it.
Meanderingly I tell him of the oasis, of my sobering conclusions. “Perhaps you could take me sometime. You could show me,” he says, and I nod. Was I waiting for it? For the promise of another visit? It is my turn to bring my nose to his neck, to exhale softly in his wind-tossed hair. “It is not too far from the house. I shall arrange the caravan, unless — ” I pause to glance sidelong at the dark form of his dragon, a mountain encircling us into seclusion. “ — Damascus doesn't mind, again. He is less nosy than a driver.” I smile slyly against his cheek. “He isn't watching, is he?”
I grow quiet again when he tells me about the war, and its setting besides the sea. Sharply I am reminded of the weapons keep, of the line of polished axes, of his detachment when he had told me of his life's occupation. Of my empty I'm sorry, of his silence. “So that is why —” My voice dips so low it is barely audible. “It is the weapon's room all over again.” It is too late; we are already here. But I must tell him this anyway. I shift until I am front of him, silhouetted by the fading light. “I seem to have a talent in dragging forth from you your most painful memories. I — I know nothing of war. Forgive my ignorance. I am a prince in a court infamous for its warriors, yet you are the first soldier I have truly known.” Ironic, is it not?
We, the ignorant Solterran nobility. Little wonder we are so collectively despised.
I snort wryly when he flicks the fan of water at me. Water droplets gather and fall from my lashes. I think about how it would feel if I could tackle him into the surf, laughing. If I could run down the beach, ankles flashing. If I could take into the air, like an osprey. I think of all of this and more; I think about what I would give to have it back.
I think so deeply that I almost miss his soft question. “Adonai? Why do you not want to be saved?” My brain processes it too slowly. Silence, then, as pain climbs to sit upon my chest. My eyes go to his yet do not find them; I am unsure of his meaning, until I am.
I wonder what he will see when he looks at me.
Fury? (It is not an emotion I can summon so quickly.) Grief? (I have grieved. It has never been cathartic.) Emptiness? I clear my throat; blue sunset paints across his. The answer is simple. It is: “Because I cannot be saved. To be restored, to what I was.” And anything less is unacceptable. My face draws together, paleness and gauntness. “My sister has told me of this; I have read the studies myself. The damage that has been done is medically irreversible. Perhaps there exists a treatment to stop the deterioration, but — I would refuse it.” Salt sprays into my eyes as I push myself hastily up to standing, before ripping my cloak from my shoulders and tossing it to the sand. I am not angry.
I am not angry.
“Look at me, Vercingtorix. I cannot do — anything. I cannot run down this beach. I cannot wield high a sword. I cannot take into the sky. I cannot even look at my own reflection because it revolts me.” My voice is thin and high. I almost laugh. I am not angry. “If I cannot be restored to what I was, then I wish to die.”
(I am burning.)
The end of pretending that this — whatever this was — would remain as a simple fancy. I knew then that I couldn't do it. Heated kisses, warmed beds, and then a quick, casual farewell, everything but regret staining black my smile. I had prayed to Solis that I wouldn't forget him. I should have known better than to call upon our gods.
Forgetting had never been a possibility. The well, the blue flowers, the eucalyptus as slender as saplings; the scene was immortalised in my mind like a painting. If I closed my eyes, I would see it. Stone well, blue daisies, eucalyptus. The offering of water in a bucket. And then — the song of a lyre. Battle leather and sword polish. A war room, a bed room. His shadow stretched long as it slipped out the door. What was it to me to add the sea to this motley collection?
It was over when I had learned his name.
“The sea is the thing that taught me love and hate and fear are not all so different.” I study the wrenching of his expressions, as changeable as the rolling clouds, with the astuteness of a scholar excising the object of his obsession for faults. If I find one, I tell myself desperately, then there is hope yet. Hope that I am not so utterly blindsided that so simple a task becomes impossible. But when I look, there is nothing. He can do nothing, say nothing, that I will hate. Should I greet this with relief? Where is no hate, there can be no —
My skin feels scraped raw by the tossing winds.
“Love and hate and fear,” I whisper, my voice like a Delphic chant. The coloured fumes exhaled by his dragon leap about us in a swirling, gleaming red. It makes me confess: “There was a time I would never have thought that I knew them, and that is why—” I turn away from him, my ankles sinking to meet the sand. “I was always too late to act.” Too late, or purposefully ignorant? I cannot tell; I do not wish to know.
My smile edges into bitterness and I add, almost unthinkingly, “When my mother and then my father passed, it wasn't their obituaries but my tearless apathy that fronted the papers the next day. That is what passes for scandal, in a court grown restless by a lack of war.” Marblesque, refined, unforgiving. That was what I had been. If he had met me then, my eyes as grey as sleet, would I have intrigued him still?
The tide is as warm, I think, as blood. I have never known enough of it to be certain (only in fine, near artful splatters), yet — Ruth would know. Whether she has seen the ocean herself is unknown to me, and as the gentle waves eddy around my knees, I resolve to ask her to accompany me to visit it one day. Perhaps she would like it, or at least find it agreeable, and — my mouth curls like wet parchment — far from the house, there will be less risk of hostile ears buzzing about us like hornets.
It is of this that I am brooding over, when I hear Vercingtorix settle besides me, sinking down into the foaming surf. My pulse jumps when I feel his nose against my neck; automatically I turn to meet it, to savour its warmth, yet too quickly he draws away. I frown before I am aware of it. My correction comes quick yet I needn't have bothered. His mouth opens to speak, and his gaze is warm yet faraway. “I do not think you ignorant... I think… it is as you say. Other. But it’s taken me almost a lifetime to understand that.”
This close, I see the curl of his dark lashes, the metallic sheen of his golden markings. He moves his head and the flakes of gold in his horns wink like stars in the night. I could study every inch of him until my death, and still not be satisfied. There is always something I have missed, something I am terrified I have forgotten. Has it only been a week since I'd traced the path of his scars as he'd lain beside me? I blink. This is agony.
I turn to watch the sea. “You mustn't think me wise. It only means that I have spent far too long thinking over what to say to impress you.” I grin, before it is twisted apart by a rough, wet cough. A reminder that however far I stray, I cannot leave behind my body. I stoop over, my face in my knees, and sigh. When I draw myself up again I wear a faint smile and a fainter dash of black hatred in my eyes, gone before it can mean anything. Love, hate, fear. How correctly he has captured it.
Meanderingly I tell him of the oasis, of my sobering conclusions. “Perhaps you could take me sometime. You could show me,” he says, and I nod. Was I waiting for it? For the promise of another visit? It is my turn to bring my nose to his neck, to exhale softly in his wind-tossed hair. “It is not too far from the house. I shall arrange the caravan, unless — ” I pause to glance sidelong at the dark form of his dragon, a mountain encircling us into seclusion. “ — Damascus doesn't mind, again. He is less nosy than a driver.” I smile slyly against his cheek. “He isn't watching, is he?”
I grow quiet again when he tells me about the war, and its setting besides the sea. Sharply I am reminded of the weapons keep, of the line of polished axes, of his detachment when he had told me of his life's occupation. Of my empty I'm sorry, of his silence. “So that is why —” My voice dips so low it is barely audible. “It is the weapon's room all over again.” It is too late; we are already here. But I must tell him this anyway. I shift until I am front of him, silhouetted by the fading light. “I seem to have a talent in dragging forth from you your most painful memories. I — I know nothing of war. Forgive my ignorance. I am a prince in a court infamous for its warriors, yet you are the first soldier I have truly known.” Ironic, is it not?
We, the ignorant Solterran nobility. Little wonder we are so collectively despised.
I snort wryly when he flicks the fan of water at me. Water droplets gather and fall from my lashes. I think about how it would feel if I could tackle him into the surf, laughing. If I could run down the beach, ankles flashing. If I could take into the air, like an osprey. I think of all of this and more; I think about what I would give to have it back.
I think so deeply that I almost miss his soft question. “Adonai? Why do you not want to be saved?” My brain processes it too slowly. Silence, then, as pain climbs to sit upon my chest. My eyes go to his yet do not find them; I am unsure of his meaning, until I am.
I wonder what he will see when he looks at me.
Fury? (It is not an emotion I can summon so quickly.) Grief? (I have grieved. It has never been cathartic.) Emptiness? I clear my throat; blue sunset paints across his. The answer is simple. It is: “Because I cannot be saved. To be restored, to what I was.” And anything less is unacceptable. My face draws together, paleness and gauntness. “My sister has told me of this; I have read the studies myself. The damage that has been done is medically irreversible. Perhaps there exists a treatment to stop the deterioration, but — I would refuse it.” Salt sprays into my eyes as I push myself hastily up to standing, before ripping my cloak from my shoulders and tossing it to the sand. I am not angry.
I am not angry.
“Look at me, Vercingtorix. I cannot do — anything. I cannot run down this beach. I cannot wield high a sword. I cannot take into the sky. I cannot even look at my own reflection because it revolts me.” My voice is thin and high. I almost laugh. I am not angry. “If I cannot be restored to what I was, then I wish to die.”
(I am burning.)
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
