adonai.
She is beautiful, a star dipped all in rose, and as she curtsies to me and I bow to her the only thought I can hold in my head is grief for how far I have fallen.Flakes of gold line the bones of my cheek, and dabs of coal placed at the edges of my eyes throw smoke into them like wings. Yet I do not need to look into mirrors to know that the effect is akin to reddening the cheeks of a corpse. The base matter remains unchanged.
The base body remains decayed.
I never used to be so exacting with my looks. Instead, I was used to treating them with the customary aloofness of boyhood: I was healthy and not disfigured and this, to me, was more than enough. Among us, Pilate has always been the most obviously vain one—with his lavish robes and hourly-polished scales—seconded, I think, by Hagar.
My sister and Pilate's twin is a difficult case to quantify. Yet I could say the same for the rest of them, with the exception of Ruth (and only for this do I speak with any certainty; dear Ruth has always accepted her place, and though I'd rarely let her know it, I had admired her for it)—my sisters each have their own points of vanity that they relinquish to nothing and no one. Hagar's is her charmspeak, Delilah her general devilry, and Miriam—
Miriam's is similar to mine. Our sins of vanity were that of being the first-born. We accepted our duties like being knighted, wearing them around our heads like iron-weighted circlets. We were solemn; we were burdened; we were proud, noble martyrs.
Our vanity has always been that of the martyr. So I suppose—if thought of in that way, then Pilate has gifted me the ultimate martyrship.
I discard this thought before it can wrinkle my poison-drunk lips.
“The honor is mine. To entertain for your house and its guests is an unexpected pleasure,” the Lady says, and I smile. “Please, Mesnyi,” I say, glancing to her wryly when I discard with the honorifics, “allow me the honor or I will be wounded. And I am very good, you know, at acting wounded.”
It is easy to be gracious. It is easy to be charming and pleasant. These have always been my strengths, and even when I am crossing over into death I have resolved to say something charming before breathing my last. I have given much thought to what I will say. All I know of this phrase so far, though, is that somewhere at the beginning will be Pilate and somewhere at the end my forgiveness.
Beloved Brother. Do not cry, for I forgive you. What a lovely way to die. What a wonderful knife to throw.
“The tart?” I glance towards the barely-nibbled confection lying on its side in the little china plate, and am immediately embarrassed. “Ah. It is from a very famous local bakery though I'm afraid I haven't given off that impression. It is scrumptious.” If it isn't to me, it only is because I have lost the ability to taste most things months ago. This is not a fresh wound and so I am not wounded. Instead, I watch her pale, gold-flecked eyes carefully, before inclining my head towards the muted glow of the dining hall and beckoning for her to follow.
Because I am an Ieshan, and the noble first-born, the crowd parts for us like a knife through butter.
“Though I must recommend a drink, first. To hold a delicate glass to laugh politely behind is very fashionable tonight, I think.” I say this brightly, before turning towards her and managing a few strides backwards, the act near swaggeringly boyish. It has been a year since I have entertained a guest. I am finding that it is the surest reminder of my existence that I have felt this night, and I am becoming intoxicated on it.
My smile is almost effortless.
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
