IN HIS TENT ACHILLES GRIEVED WITH HIS WHOLE BEING AND THE GODS SAW HE WAS A MAN ALREADY DEAD, A VICTIM OF THE PART THAT LOVED, THE PART THAT WAS MORTAL. IN THE STORY OF PATROCLUS NO ONE SURVIVES, NOT EVEN ACHILLES, WHO WAS NEARLY A GOD. PATROCLUS RESEMBLED HIM. THEY WORE THE SAME ARMOUR.
The ocean loves the night, the moon. The sea dances for her.
There is no reason for him to be in Denocte. There is no reason for him to have come so far.
But he thinks of that: how the ocean loves the moon, how it dances for her.
Orestes walks quietly through the streets. There is enough commotion that he is, more often than not, unrecognised. There are burning bonfires and haggling merchants, even at the late hour. Somewhere distantly he smells the sea and sees the white masts of ships against the star-littered sky. His breath fogs in the air and he thinks of plain things, simple things, so as to not excite his magic.
Orestes thinks of prison; the way after months he knew the patterns of rust on the bars, the exact slant of light through the one window. He thinks of how he remembers those details sharply now, but the rest are so soft, so faded, even the colour of her brilliant mane—
These are not simple thoughts, he thinks. But so far from the sun, in Caligo’s very Court, his magic does not even make him glow. There is a hollowness in him; a forgotten memory; a reminder that every beautiful seashell on the shore is simply a dead thing.
He thinks these things because he has been watching her. He does not mean to—but to say she is not the reason he is in Denocte would be a lie. Orestes heard that she had been a dancer before Champion of Community; and she dances now, round and round a bonfire. She is laughing, but the smile does not quite reach her eyes. He knows if she saw him she would not recognise him. He knows she must carry so much hurt. Orestes thought she was dead. He had dropped the book of maps he had been studying when someone mentioned Denocte's Champion of Community in passing.Boudika.
She is as beautiful, as tragic, as he remembers.
There is a moment when Boudika's eyes glance over him where he rests in the back of the crowd; but they continue on as if he were hardly there, as if he were merely another member of her Court or a stranger from strange lands.
After that, he leaves.
It is not long before he is lost, in the twisting streets of burning lanterns and brilliant, gleaming moonstones. There is nearly a nightmarish quality to it; an ominous lack of light and laughter as he attempts to find his way out. He begins to wonder if she truly had seen him, and if so, why she had not reached out—
Orestes wonders if it is because she did not want him there. He wonders if, perhaps, he had become just another one of her tormenters. There are rumours that she had become a kelpie; he saw it for himself tonight, in the predatory angle of her jaw and the way when she laughed her teeth were as strong and sharp as a leopard seal’s.
He takes a turn and ends up in an alleyway with no end. He begins to turn around and hears the sound of hooves against cobblestone. There is a moment where, in all of his distraction, he realises he had not noticed the telltale signs of someone following him. Orestes turns, but the equine at the end of the alleyway is cast into shadow.
Orestes says nothing. He looks at them with hooded, expectant eyes. He hopes: she came, she came, she came.
But knows,
it is not her.
Perhaps that
breaks his heart
more than dying
did.
@Morrighan || “speaks"
"THOUGH THE LEGENDS
CANNOT BE TRUSTED
THEIR SOURCE IS
THE SURVIVOR, THE ONE
WHO HAS BEEN
ABANDONED.
WHAT WERE THE
GREEK SHIPS ON FIRE
COMPARED TO THIS
LOSS?"
CANNOT BE TRUSTED
THEIR SOURCE IS
THE SURVIVOR, THE ONE
WHO HAS BEEN
ABANDONED.
WHAT WERE THE
GREEK SHIPS ON FIRE
COMPARED TO THIS
LOSS?"
