warning: nsfw (non-explicit/insinuated)
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xxxi. the king and the joyful
wonder
// a wandering wonder. a shooting star, sparkling with all the brilliance of a moment. beauty lies in the now, in the temporary—moments that do not last forever, but which continue to echo well beyond their end.
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Silence perched upon the queen's seat. A mocking smile was pulling at its wide mouth, and it sneered at Orelus from across the table. The queen took her time—took it sweetly, delicately, in that graceful, careful way of hers.
She must see the world in shades of rose, but perhaps that was merely the fault of her silver tongue.
The silence gnashed its crooked teeth, and a low, long hiss escaped its snarling lips, but it set its thin hands down upon the table and then tapped at the wood with one of its claws. Its pus-colored eyes were narrowing, and it glanced pointedly at the door before looking back to him.
She thought too highly of gods and men. Violence was common ground, and only the rarest of men ever rose beyond it. What were words without action? What peace was won without blood and flesh? The gods, themselves, stooped often to murder, and why would they not? Men were insects to the divine: worms and dogs mulling about in the mud and the sand, barking and screeching and howling at everything and nothing, but at least they had cause to kill. Cause, even, to die, though perhaps even Orelus failed to recognize a reason great enough for death.
Why seek out what had always been perched just at his neck, waiting and watching and wishing for the faintest crack in his resolve?
The queen prayed to Edite. She thought an assassin capable of discussion. She was a fool, and if she did not learn from her error, her rosy eyes would get her killed.
Life was harsh. Life was cruel.
The silence snickered, and then it placed both of its hands flat upon the table and leered at him.
Her eyes had been so wide, so devoid of color and light. Terrified, but the assassin had been bound and beaten; he couldn't have killed her, even if he'd tried.
She walked on feather feet; she had a voice of silver, and her smile was as soft as down, but must her vision be rosy? Must she think so kindly of the world? It would not treat her so graciously. It would ruin her; Qodes would see to that. The queen of the gods respected nothing, not even the bounds of her kins' domains.
She would learn her lesson; cruelty did not come without its price.
Perhaps it was hypocritical of him, then, to allow the queen to fall prey to such viciousness, but if she thought to halt the coming of a war with words alone, then she should put her theories to practice. The assassin wasn't going to harm her. He couldn't have; Orelus wouldn't have allowed it.
The silence clucked its tongue and then whistled.
Orelus would bring them peace from the gods, but men were another breed entirely.
The door opened, and the silence jumped down from the queen's chair and slunk off to wait in the shadows. Orelus's gaze rose from his plate, and his eyes found the queen. She crossed the room with careful, light strides, like a dream, or a cat, but there was a now novel bounce to her heel. An odd, firm sort of brightness, spilling from her raised head and proud chest. Where had all that trembling gone? All that wide-eyed, pale fear—the sort that pressed like nettles at his own skull and left a sour taste in his mouth. Where had it disappeared to?
A warm sort of curiosity was spilling into Orelus's chest, and as he watched the queen settle into her seat, a frown began to pull at his lips. The silence tilted its head and made bare its front teeth at her, but the queen paid it little mind.
"Good evening, my king." Her voice was a light, pleasant thing, but even sweeter now—a little lullaby, dancing in his ears. No smile played at her soft lips, but her eyes were neither wide nor pale; she looked as she had in the garden: calm and serene—a woman stolen from the seams of a tapestry.
A hum was rising to Orelus's lips, and his eyes began to narrow. Would a silver tongue grant its own owner serenity? Peace did not belong to Edite, yet it certainly needn't be god-given. Perhaps the queen had earned it on her own merit.
The thought pulled at the king's mouth, and acknowledgment, light and respectful, had his lips curling into the shape of something that was nearly a smile. Tranquility. If only it were contagious. She had managed so well to find her own, and perhaps if she were not so charming—distractingly so—he might have been envious, but jealousy would afford him nothing. Yes, he'd much rather enjoy a kiss—have a taste of peace, even if it wasn't yet his own.
Why would she ever worry for her life? He would never harm her, nor allow any harm to come to her. Men much stronger, much fiercer than that pitiless assassin had once come for his head, but they had perished with empty hands, and none who followed after them would ever fare better.
The queen met his stare, and he afforded her a nod. She was, indeed, beautiful, and her touch was as kind as her voice. If only she hadn't such foolish ideas—such a kind, optimistic heart. It would be the death of her if she did not learn better.
"How do you fare?" He watched her, stared at her lips—her expression, as placid as the surface of a pool. She was much too lovely; it was almost a crime, making her his wife, but justice did, at times, call for drastic measures.
Her hand stilled, and her gaze fled once more to him, but then she smiled, and for a moment, his lungs felt oddly and pleasantly warm. "Better, my lord." The grin was in her voice and on her tongue, and the calm of her tone rushed cool and kind over his ears.
"I see." He tapped the table, but the warmth in his chest did not budge. It was a pleasant thing, as delightful as a spring sun, and perhaps if he were only a man, it would have the strength to twist his thoughts and muddy his mind. "Good." The taste of her lips was on his tongue, but it was only a memory, and he needn't suffer it when the queen herself sat but a few steps away. He could afford to end supper a few minutes earlier, tonight. "The assassin spouts drivel; I am glad his lies did not touch you."
The queen inclined her head and admitted, softly, "His anger did startle me, but his accusations were baseless." She frowned, but the sour curl was small and short, and soon she was shaking her head and continuing, smoothly, "Why must I worry over a lie?"
Orelus shrugged his shoulders, but amusement was pulling at his lips, and with a thoughtful, slow hand, he stroked his beard. She held his gaze, and her smile rose again to her face. The sight of it was kind, kind and sweet, and if she were not a table away from him, perhaps he would have kissed her.
"And now that I am so clear of head," she added carefully. Her silver tongue was such a pleasant thing, but her calm—her serenity—was rich and heavenly. "I should like to request something of you, my lord, if you would allow me."
She had taken quite well to the garden, but despite Orelus's care, its beauty had, with time, begun to fade. He could afford to add fresh flowers—perhaps those lilies Hulveddon had once spoken so highly of. It would cost him such little time.
"Name the flower," he began slowly, "and if I can find it, I shall have it brought here."
The queen tilted her head, and confusion leaped for her eyes, but then she was smiling, and a little laugh escaped her lips. "Ah, well, I suppose that might have been my second request, my king," she replied sweetly.
Curiosity grabbed at Orelus's hand, and he paused, but the queen was finishing her plate, and another concern was pressing at the base of his skull. "What is your first, then?" He rose from his seat and stepped slowly over to her, and once he was at her side, he held out his hand and then continued, smoothly, "Come. Tell me as we walk."
Her hand was so much smaller than his own, and she rose to her feet most carefully, as though her legs were made of glass. Yet, once standing, she did not falter, and he guided her from the dining hall. He was in no hurry; indeed, they had all the night to reacquaint themselves, but, still, he took for himself a short, light little kiss—just enough to keep him until they reached the bed-chamber.
The queen leaned against him, and the warmth of her body bled like fire into his flesh. "The assassin, my lord." Her voice was soft and smooth, and she laid her hand upon his arm. "I should like to," she paused, and her eyes shifted to meet his, "afford him another visit, if you would allow."
A frown grabbed at Orelus's mouth, and his eyes narrowed. She would not change the assassin's mind; she could not, not even with the powers of her silver tongue. The assassin and his cohorts wanted Orelus dead, and no persuasion would dissuade them from their ultimate goal.
She was beating a dead horse. A pity; he could not spare her the trouble. It would be a waste of time and breath and thought, but she would try anyway. Her determination was nearly admirable, though exasperating.
She would learn on her own time, but perhaps he could soften the curve.
Hers was a futile effort, and yet, he inclined his head and said, after a long, begrudging pause, "I will take you to see him next week."
"Thank you, my king." The queen patted his arm, and then she rested her head against his shoulder. Her movements were delicate, and her touch gentle and warm, and he leaned down to steal another kiss.
She tasted of honey, of golds and blues, and yet he felt a stiffness in her lips—the boundaries of her noble breeding, bleeding into every corner of her soul. She was careful, and gentle and observant, and yet nobility had refined her nearly to a fault.
What did she look like, beneath all her masks and gowns and embellishments? How bright were her smiles, and how poignant her sorrows?
Perhaps it was not fair of him to inquire, but it was, indeed, better that she did not know of his worries. They were his to bear, and he needed no help in shouldering them—certainly none from a woman who believed an assassin could see reason.
They came upon the door to the bed-chamber, and the queen slipped free of his hold, but he was quick to follow after her. His hands found her face, and his lips captured her own. The heat of her flesh begged his hands to roam, and the desire in the pit of his stomach pushed him to seek for her own. She was warmer than any fire, and kinder than all his dreams.
Her calm bled through her touch, and he swallowed every drop of it. Their clothes were abandoned, and she fell back upon the bed, gasping. Moonlight gleamed in her pupils, and her eyes were wide and flush with color. Desire—it must have been—but she rarely acted of it of her own accord. She had to be encouraged, coaxed from her hiding place like a cat, but he was patient—he had time.
Perhaps she feared him, and certainly, he could not blame her if she did, but he would never cause her harm. She was much too precious; she was his, and he took care of his own. Qodes could not rip her from him, and Edite was much too weak to ever attempt to reclaim her stolen songbird.
He kissed her breast, and his hand found her thigh. The roar in his ears was his own heartbeat, and her voice curled just above it, sweet and soft. Again and again, he would have her, and of her taste, he would never tire. She pressed against him, and the heat in his veins was spilling out and mixing with her own.
Her eyes were screwed shut, but her mouth was open, and her breath came hot and fast. He found her lips, and the silver taste of her tongue filled the cavern of his mouth. She gave him nearly everything—everything she had been raised to give, but only half of what he could want.
He should not want; it should not matter, and it didn't. She was a tool. She was an object, stolen and precious, and all he needed of her he had, but there could be more. He could have more.
The heat in his belly began to cool, and he turned and fell back upon the bed, his lungs heaving and his breath warm, but his arms were around her, and though sweat clung to his flesh, he hastened to bring her close. Her eyes were opening, and her pupils found him. They were such bright, round things. What did she see, when she gazed upon him? Did her rosy vision extend even to him?
Some feared the king of Ceorid, but many respected him; he had done much, and lost even more—judged before he'd ever had a chance to do wrong. The gods had stacked all the world against him, but he'd risen above it regardless, and he would continue to do so, even if it was only to spite them.
The queen was beautiful, and she should not be his, but the edges of his heart softened beneath her stare, and slowly, he reached out to touch her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, and though she did not flinch, neither did she lean into his touch.
"What flowers would you like?" His voice was low—a murmur, rumbling in the back of his throat—and he followed the curve of her cheek with his thumb. He could have more. So much more.
Queen Serenna had loved all nature of flora. The gods had taken her much too soon, much too cruelly, as they took any mother, but her spirit thrived still in the garden. She would have loved his queen. She would have thought [Name] quite noble indeed, but her hand would have belonged instead to one of Serenna's sons.
The queen watched him, and her careful, bright eyes shone with a curious light. "Some lilies and blue irises would be lovely, my lord," she began quietly, delicately, "and, though I know it is not a flower," she paused, and when she continued, her voice was as soft as a whisper, "I would love for a willow tree."
A willow? For Edite, perhaps.
A sigh escaped his lips, but her gaze was so bright, so round and gentle, and slowly, he brought his face closer to hers. "Alright," he murmured, "It shall be done."
He shifted closer to kiss her, but she was moving, and his lips met her brow.
She pressed her head to his chest, and then she murmured, in a voice that sounded almost strained, "Thank you, my king."