Monday, 25 July 2016

The Prince of Exiles, 34

Something in me rises. It catches in my throat, settles behind my eyes, and then evaporates, as it always does.


"And the reason?"

"You're present."

"What good is that? What can I do with that knowledge?"

"You know the day when you'll die. You'll know. And you will not die before. What you do with that knowledge, Prince of Exiles, is your choice." They compose their robes, look out into the golden dawn. "The Emperor, he too will be there. He chose to wait."

"I don't want to do that."

Xipil turns. The soft eyes, flecked with gold. They place a hand – long fingers, golden nailed – on my shoulder. "Don't, then."

"Why are you talking with me?"

"I've asked that of myself."

"I'm not sure you've helped me."

"I haven't. You're not forgiven." Xipil folds their arms, looks back out over the city. "Your friends are waiting."

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