50 Zi'da 717
The dawn wasn't even broken yet, but Oliver lied awake beneath the warm, pulsing form of Charlotte. He smelled her hair, still awash with the aromas of the party, and ran a smooth hand over the skin of her shoulder. There, lying beneath her after the success of his handiwork, made Oliver feel more like a man than he ever had. There was something about the triumph of political machinations that made Oliver feel like the accomplished politician he was growing to be. Still, though, there was something left unsaid for the night, and he could not close his eyes and rest until he completed it.
Shifting from beneath Charlotte was difficult, both because he did not want to wake her and because he loathed the thought of leaving her. Still, though, he knew he must, so he extricated himself from her comforting grasp. Scrawling a note in pristine script, he left a note beside her stating, "To the Temple. I will return for you.
P.S. I wrote this for you.
Her lips are distant shores/
past and present/
would that I could sail there and stay".
Nodding, he dressed quickly and left the room, closing the door so silently he might have floated through it. The stairs were solid, and did not make a noise under his bare feet. Even Jirelle and her staff had not yet woken to start the morning's breakfast, and the kitchen was silent and gloomy in the early dawn. Smiling, Oliver set about making his own coffee, not yet having even buttoned his shirt. The water he dipped was cold, colder because of the time of trial, and he set it in the kettle to heat over a fire that started quickly.
It was only a bit or two before the grounds and water entered the press, and another bit or two until the hot, brown liquid was in a ceramic mug adorned by a rose. Steam rose from the top of the cup, and Oliver watched its graceful ascent into absence, swirling and twirling like a ballerina until its disintegration into the cold air. The first sip sent a sensation of bitterness and nuttiness over his tongue, burning it and warming his entire mouth. He recoiled at how hot it truly was, but held his tongue. There was nobody around, but still he felt the hundreds of eyes of the gala-goers on him, as if he were on display for the entire Kingdom. A frown creased his face, and he stared at the brown liquid intensely.
I'm going, he told the empty quietness around him. He knew he had to... Fates, he wanted to. It was the only thing left to accomplish. He had to pay homage to the Seven, to thank them for the success of the previous night. Still, though, the cold and the grogginess made the prospect of traveling unsavory. Sitting there with his coffee in the cold, he had a hard decision to make.
Though it was not so hard that he made the wrong decision.
Both hands grasped the ceramic mug, warming them and warding them against the coolness of the dawn air. Dark black eyes flashed up, adjusting quickly to the deepening darkness to make out a form moving in it. Fear jolted through him, just a flash of it, but he remained where he was seated. It was likely Jirelle or Gustauv, presumably coming to light the fires for the morning breakfast. Sipping his coffee again, when he lowered the mug, his eyes were more adjusted, and they outlined a much smaller frame than Gustuav, and one too wiry for Jirelle. Immediately, Caius sprung to his mind, and Oliver called out softly into the night.
"Qa'akor?" His voice was strong and confident. The only ghosts that scared him were still alive, and sleeping upstairs.
Shifting from beneath Charlotte was difficult, both because he did not want to wake her and because he loathed the thought of leaving her. Still, though, he knew he must, so he extricated himself from her comforting grasp. Scrawling a note in pristine script, he left a note beside her stating, "To the Temple. I will return for you.
P.S. I wrote this for you.
Her lips are distant shores/
past and present/
would that I could sail there and stay".
Nodding, he dressed quickly and left the room, closing the door so silently he might have floated through it. The stairs were solid, and did not make a noise under his bare feet. Even Jirelle and her staff had not yet woken to start the morning's breakfast, and the kitchen was silent and gloomy in the early dawn. Smiling, Oliver set about making his own coffee, not yet having even buttoned his shirt. The water he dipped was cold, colder because of the time of trial, and he set it in the kettle to heat over a fire that started quickly.
It was only a bit or two before the grounds and water entered the press, and another bit or two until the hot, brown liquid was in a ceramic mug adorned by a rose. Steam rose from the top of the cup, and Oliver watched its graceful ascent into absence, swirling and twirling like a ballerina until its disintegration into the cold air. The first sip sent a sensation of bitterness and nuttiness over his tongue, burning it and warming his entire mouth. He recoiled at how hot it truly was, but held his tongue. There was nobody around, but still he felt the hundreds of eyes of the gala-goers on him, as if he were on display for the entire Kingdom. A frown creased his face, and he stared at the brown liquid intensely.
I'm going, he told the empty quietness around him. He knew he had to... Fates, he wanted to. It was the only thing left to accomplish. He had to pay homage to the Seven, to thank them for the success of the previous night. Still, though, the cold and the grogginess made the prospect of traveling unsavory. Sitting there with his coffee in the cold, he had a hard decision to make.
Though it was not so hard that he made the wrong decision.
Both hands grasped the ceramic mug, warming them and warding them against the coolness of the dawn air. Dark black eyes flashed up, adjusting quickly to the deepening darkness to make out a form moving in it. Fear jolted through him, just a flash of it, but he remained where he was seated. It was likely Jirelle or Gustauv, presumably coming to light the fires for the morning breakfast. Sipping his coffee again, when he lowered the mug, his eyes were more adjusted, and they outlined a much smaller frame than Gustuav, and one too wiry for Jirelle. Immediately, Caius sprung to his mind, and Oliver called out softly into the night.
"Qa'akor?" His voice was strong and confident. The only ghosts that scared him were still alive, and sleeping upstairs.