Oleander

XV. Horizon (part two)

Women were created in the image of the goddesses, cherished and beautiful. In the unhardened days of boyhood, while feminine softness still touched round cheeks, allowances were often made for the love between boys. But between men?

"What does it matter that I love him?"

Andar would be seen as weak, flawed, shameful.

With the rumor of misshapen children, a further blow against Andar's masculinity would sow distrust and doubt among the people. A warrior-king who loved men, who could not sire an heir? In a world that weighed and measured that virility with a critical eye—even with nine wives and a bastard son—Andar's legacy would be remembered as one of impotence and perversion.

It would be a devastating strike.

And the ricochet would hurt Oristos.

"How can you love him?"

His reply was breath swept into the breeze.

"How can you not?"

For all its quiet, it echoed. Yalira placed a hand over his, pulled his chin to meet his eyes and the tragedy that lived within them.

"Then I am sorry, my friend," she whispered. It was a trite blessing, but she pressed her lips to his forehead. "For hurting you."

Brown and blue crinkled with a forced smile, an attempt towards cavalier acceptance that was both weakness and strength. Now, Yalira recognized the mask—bright and raw—she'd been too naïve to notice.

"I should not have punished you for it. Please forgive me." Oristos repaid the same courtesy, the same sign of love and friendship, bringing her hand to his mouth. Their trust was balanced against Andar, but Oristos could not hurt her, not intentionally.

And so Yalira gave him a reprieve from heavy sorrow. Shifting into their wry banter, she answered, "Unless it was you that left the goat's head in my rooms, there is nothing to forgive."

Oristos stilled in surprise.

"A goat's head?" His eyes re-appraised her, the careful symbols she'd applied, the ivory bandage around her hand. The people's cries of her gods-walk, her sacrifices and prayers would have reached the high city by now. "Ah, how could I ever compete with you, mighty teacup?"

"So fortunate, then, we are not competing."

Their banter was familiar and warm. She moved beside him to lay her head on his shoulder. The ivory crown, the rough edge of the carved flowers, bit into her temple.

Does he love you?

They were words that could not be voiced, could not be answered. It would be powerful to know the answer, dangerous, tempting.

"I am lucky, Yalira," he said against her hair. "If he were clever enough to listen to me, he'd do as I ask and send me away from him."

Oristos of Tyr, cleverest by far.

"But then I would miss you."

Brittle laughter followed. "Then we suffer together."

"But you cannot suffer with me today," Oristos teased, standing. Any sadness that he'd revealed returned to its secret prison. He offered a hand to pull Yalira up with him. "Andar has demanded your company and I, his ever loyal friend and confidant, will deliver you to him."

"You condemn us to suffer apart, then." Yalira mimicked the edged humor. She could gift him with the denial he used to ease his pain. "For what could Andar have planned for me beyond misery?"

Oristos rolled his eyes, but smiled before tucking her arm through his. Tethered to him, Yalira did not feel the dread that usually came with thoughts of Andar. Perhaps her nerves had calloused to the man, her heart had habituated and hardened.