Mini-Challenge: Occupation
Hmm, this week's challenge is eluding me so far, so I fell back on an oldie (while waiting for valuers to get here, blah :P) - occupation.
And after this I shall slow down on spamming you, because 'Seeking' calls (at last)!
Blue was the first word to spring to mind when Arathalian leaned out of the window, looking out at the Iscanon afternoon. The sky above the city was a plain of light; the only cloud was a close-wheeling eagle, curving out his slow and stately arc.
Iscanon's rooftops were dressed like the sky, but in a richer, darker grade of colour run almost to azure - the colour of royalty, and royalty's passing. Banners and standards stirred and rippled everywhere, in waves. Some had been spread by attendants. Others were more spontaneous colours of grief and farewell.
Arathalian watched them for a long time, the sun warming his face, the breeze pushing his hair in his eyes. But his thoughts were with another blue - the pale and piercing light of eyes not so brilliant as Yurahaina's, not so fierce as Amira's, but still so very much alike, and now gone.
If the moon had not turned him from the child-shape to the man-shape last night, he might have slipped through the window to lay his blue Quicksilver tunic on the rooftop with all the fluttering banners. Like so many things, however, the man-shape would not allow it.
And now there was a more pervasive shape to wear: the lord-shape.
"What you cannot change," he murmured, "accept."
It was hard. Especially when one thought how easy, how trivially easy it would have been to change this two weeks ago. Or when one thought about the last light of those blue eyes, as lonely and empty as the sky they had turned to.
But hard was not the same as impossible.
He had just looked up to find the eagle again when he heard movement in the chambers behind him. As he turned from the window, one of the queen's red-eyed attendants glid past him, her skirts and jay-wings whispering on the floor.
"Is Osychos here yet?" he asked her.
She turned her oval face towards him, trance-like, and then gave a small shake of her head. Her grief touched him. The ones who had wept loudest when the news had first been cried from the Tower were showing little or no emotion now.
Saving it for the funeral, thought Arathalian. Choosing a face to wear was as important as choosing clothes and wings - more so, even. And whatever he might think of it, he knew very well how necessary it was, too.
He was wearing a prince's clothes even now: pale blue like heron eggs, loose-flowing sleeves and loose-flowing trousers, a set of fluid, silky-feathered ironwings folded behind his shoulders with tips trailing across the floor. Not true ironwings these, such as he'd worn while diving and hurling javelins with the Quicksilvers, but flightless tokens - and yet far, far more powerful in their own way.
Deadly, too. They had been the death of queens and kings, princes and princesses, for millennia now.
Her death was like a sad ghost behind him, but he must not let her pull him back. She would just have to haunt in quiet privacy.
He looked out of the window a while longer, watching the wind-rippled blue, until he heard the little jay-maid's feet and wings come whispering back.
"General Osychos is here," her quiet voice advised.
"Send him in."
Osychos's entrance was no whisper. He strode into the royal chambers, as everywhere, with a firm and flowing stride - almost catlike, but not nearly as silent. Arathalian turned to greet him, nodding in the face of the beast fae's smile.
"I bring you my official greetings and recognition, my king," Osychos said, thick hair swooping as he bowed.
"Prince," said Arathalian.
Osychos laughed a crook-mouthed laugh. "Don't be coy."
"You'll understand when you're all grown up, Osychos." He smiled. "Prince or King, I wear the wings."
"And the Circle blesses us in that." The beast fae snorted. "Not a moment too soon, either."
"Show some respect," he snapped, more sharply than intended.
Osychos's eyes flicked right to his face, as baldly direct as all his kind, and Arathalian reminded himself again that there was no scope for ghosts to wander here. The living could be just as dangerous to deal with.
"I'm sorry, my prince," Osychos said, his tone not too far from a drawl. "I forgot the close ties of kinship."
"And the noose of rumour, apparently," replied Arathalian, shaking his head inwardly at the clumsy insult. A wise man was far more subtle in insulting a ruler. "Keep shouting those sentiments from the rooftops and they'll be calling you my accomplice soon."
Osychos laughed, his dark eyes banked by his former, easy good spirits. "True enough. It's a good thing they can't string up a prince for assassination, yes? You're as good as guilty in half the court's eyes. You should hear them talk!"
"They may talk, but I doubt even a dozen of them care," he returned. The spectre of sorrow loomed and was banished. "By extension, nor do I."
"You're ten times as safe for being the last ruler they've got. No-one cares what really happened when they've got that to think on." The beast fae shook his heavy-haired head, amused, then glanced up at Arathalian's face with head and mouth quirked faintly to one side. "Purely out of curiosity, now ..."
It was difficult to deal with men like Osychos - men he had formerly served in a subordinate position, men who believed that the relationship need not necessarily change very much. Alienating him outright, as Lacrallame had done, was unwise. But so was letting him exercise these liberties.
"Well, of course, old friend." Arathalian smiled. "The truth is that she did actually commit suicide, in as desolate and despairing a frame of mind as I've ever seen in a living soul, absolutely desperate to rip herself to pieces with her own voice."
Osychos stared at him, expression shifted in an instant from familiarity to bemusement.
"Strange, that," said Arathalian pleasantly. "Was that all, Osychos? Only I have to receive Calyssis's formal congratulations today, as well."
The beast fae nodded, betraying in every inch that he did not know how to take this behaviour, and then gave a stiff, parting bow.
As Osychos smoothly strode out, Arathalian turned to ask his jay-winged maid whether Calyssis was already waiting. When he caught the last seconds of her unhidden gaze, however, he stopped. Naked loathing was just diving away into hiding, like some fish slipping beneath a tranquil, calm-sea stare.
"Don't ever show your hand," he warned her calmly.
"My lord?" she echoed.
He smiled. "Good girl. Go fetch me Calyssis, now."
The jay-winged maid bowed, blank as stone, and swept out. Arathalian returned to the window, leaning through again to bask in the sun and the blue.
And now, and only now, no longer set to flight by the presence of others, the fragile sorrow-ghost came stealing back indoors.
And after this I shall slow down on spamming you, because 'Seeking' calls (at last)!
Blue was the first word to spring to mind when Arathalian leaned out of the window, looking out at the Iscanon afternoon. The sky above the city was a plain of light; the only cloud was a close-wheeling eagle, curving out his slow and stately arc.
Iscanon's rooftops were dressed like the sky, but in a richer, darker grade of colour run almost to azure - the colour of royalty, and royalty's passing. Banners and standards stirred and rippled everywhere, in waves. Some had been spread by attendants. Others were more spontaneous colours of grief and farewell.
Arathalian watched them for a long time, the sun warming his face, the breeze pushing his hair in his eyes. But his thoughts were with another blue - the pale and piercing light of eyes not so brilliant as Yurahaina's, not so fierce as Amira's, but still so very much alike, and now gone.
If the moon had not turned him from the child-shape to the man-shape last night, he might have slipped through the window to lay his blue Quicksilver tunic on the rooftop with all the fluttering banners. Like so many things, however, the man-shape would not allow it.
And now there was a more pervasive shape to wear: the lord-shape.
"What you cannot change," he murmured, "accept."
It was hard. Especially when one thought how easy, how trivially easy it would have been to change this two weeks ago. Or when one thought about the last light of those blue eyes, as lonely and empty as the sky they had turned to.
But hard was not the same as impossible.
He had just looked up to find the eagle again when he heard movement in the chambers behind him. As he turned from the window, one of the queen's red-eyed attendants glid past him, her skirts and jay-wings whispering on the floor.
"Is Osychos here yet?" he asked her.
She turned her oval face towards him, trance-like, and then gave a small shake of her head. Her grief touched him. The ones who had wept loudest when the news had first been cried from the Tower were showing little or no emotion now.
Saving it for the funeral, thought Arathalian. Choosing a face to wear was as important as choosing clothes and wings - more so, even. And whatever he might think of it, he knew very well how necessary it was, too.
He was wearing a prince's clothes even now: pale blue like heron eggs, loose-flowing sleeves and loose-flowing trousers, a set of fluid, silky-feathered ironwings folded behind his shoulders with tips trailing across the floor. Not true ironwings these, such as he'd worn while diving and hurling javelins with the Quicksilvers, but flightless tokens - and yet far, far more powerful in their own way.
Deadly, too. They had been the death of queens and kings, princes and princesses, for millennia now.
Her death was like a sad ghost behind him, but he must not let her pull him back. She would just have to haunt in quiet privacy.
He looked out of the window a while longer, watching the wind-rippled blue, until he heard the little jay-maid's feet and wings come whispering back.
"General Osychos is here," her quiet voice advised.
"Send him in."
Osychos's entrance was no whisper. He strode into the royal chambers, as everywhere, with a firm and flowing stride - almost catlike, but not nearly as silent. Arathalian turned to greet him, nodding in the face of the beast fae's smile.
"I bring you my official greetings and recognition, my king," Osychos said, thick hair swooping as he bowed.
"Prince," said Arathalian.
Osychos laughed a crook-mouthed laugh. "Don't be coy."
"You'll understand when you're all grown up, Osychos." He smiled. "Prince or King, I wear the wings."
"And the Circle blesses us in that." The beast fae snorted. "Not a moment too soon, either."
"Show some respect," he snapped, more sharply than intended.
Osychos's eyes flicked right to his face, as baldly direct as all his kind, and Arathalian reminded himself again that there was no scope for ghosts to wander here. The living could be just as dangerous to deal with.
"I'm sorry, my prince," Osychos said, his tone not too far from a drawl. "I forgot the close ties of kinship."
"And the noose of rumour, apparently," replied Arathalian, shaking his head inwardly at the clumsy insult. A wise man was far more subtle in insulting a ruler. "Keep shouting those sentiments from the rooftops and they'll be calling you my accomplice soon."
Osychos laughed, his dark eyes banked by his former, easy good spirits. "True enough. It's a good thing they can't string up a prince for assassination, yes? You're as good as guilty in half the court's eyes. You should hear them talk!"
"They may talk, but I doubt even a dozen of them care," he returned. The spectre of sorrow loomed and was banished. "By extension, nor do I."
"You're ten times as safe for being the last ruler they've got. No-one cares what really happened when they've got that to think on." The beast fae shook his heavy-haired head, amused, then glanced up at Arathalian's face with head and mouth quirked faintly to one side. "Purely out of curiosity, now ..."
It was difficult to deal with men like Osychos - men he had formerly served in a subordinate position, men who believed that the relationship need not necessarily change very much. Alienating him outright, as Lacrallame had done, was unwise. But so was letting him exercise these liberties.
"Well, of course, old friend." Arathalian smiled. "The truth is that she did actually commit suicide, in as desolate and despairing a frame of mind as I've ever seen in a living soul, absolutely desperate to rip herself to pieces with her own voice."
Osychos stared at him, expression shifted in an instant from familiarity to bemusement.
"Strange, that," said Arathalian pleasantly. "Was that all, Osychos? Only I have to receive Calyssis's formal congratulations today, as well."
The beast fae nodded, betraying in every inch that he did not know how to take this behaviour, and then gave a stiff, parting bow.
As Osychos smoothly strode out, Arathalian turned to ask his jay-winged maid whether Calyssis was already waiting. When he caught the last seconds of her unhidden gaze, however, he stopped. Naked loathing was just diving away into hiding, like some fish slipping beneath a tranquil, calm-sea stare.
"Don't ever show your hand," he warned her calmly.
"My lord?" she echoed.
He smiled. "Good girl. Go fetch me Calyssis, now."
The jay-winged maid bowed, blank as stone, and swept out. Arathalian returned to the window, leaning through again to bask in the sun and the blue.
And now, and only now, no longer set to flight by the presence of others, the fragile sorrow-ghost came stealing back indoors.