Rodan's Embrace

The Kiss and the Lie

Ella

Mother urges me to peer out into the Pavilion. I realize that it's not so much a pavilion, but more like a coliseum. We stand upon a balcony that extends outward, far over the crowd (most of which has already gathered).

My chest heaves as I meet my own eyes in a large, gilt-framed mirror. I'm pale. So pale but so red beneath the powder. I stare up into the open sky, counting stars as I breathe... breathe... breathe. But the corset only allows so much air. The cosmos allow only a glimpse into its life. It, too, lies. It lies to mortals because there's a theory that what we see when we look up there—all of that is happening (happened?) in the past. And I think that's such an oxymoronic thing that—

The string quartet begins their songs. They'll play for an hour, and after that hour the full moon will be high in the sky, directly over the Pavilion. Beneath that moon, I'll declare my undying love, devotion, and obedience to a man I've never met.

Mother places a hand on her hip. From the corner of my eye, her dress—fluffier than mine, flows with the wind. "Dear, I don't know how you manage such poor posture in that corset. Stand like a lady," she says, swatting my behind with her fan. I turn to face her. Lines. Lines on her face the powder only serves to exaggerate. Eyes vague and aimless. I want to scream that she's losing her only daughter, that father is off to war, guiding armies. Shedding blood. I want to scream that she'll be alone in the homestead. Neighbours won't visit. My little sister is off at some academy learning philosophy. A chance I never had. Only recently have women been somewhat recognized as creatures with minds of their own. Oh, but I have read such things!

There's so much. So much we'll never know, but here I stand, on the precipice of the rest of my life, blindly entering a forever-union. A religious fervor has swept our country along with this war, entwined with an odd and displacing nationalism, but religion has yet to touch me. I have been dragged to preachers and priests—in fact, who stands before me now but a priest?

I straighten my shoulders and as I look at the stars I wonder where their god is.

Jonah

The carriage ride takes nearly six hours. Buildings hover above me. The Pavilion is in the distance. Candlelight emanates from it.

I've been brushed clean, shaven, bathed in a cottage in the middle of nowhere and given a fine waistcoat. I would never deign to wear something so ostentatious in public. Dark hose and shoes that are much too small.

The fabric is comfortable; I've not worn a true linen shirt before. I'm accustomed to the uniform of poverty; rags that can be stitched together to form something resembling clothing—to cover the parts polite society would rather not see. Impolite society, as well.

I stare out the carriage window. Recall rifling through the bins of bakeries and butcheries as a child to find food for my mother and my eight siblings. The city wasn't as populous then as it is now. There's a new vibrance to it; many new buildings have emerged and now buggies and horses stroll the streets, though when our buggy turns down the road to the Pavilion, the coach hesitates. The stretch of pavement is too narrow road. We've stopped.

The curtain to my carriage parts, and the mustachioed coach peers in.

"My apologies, sir. Mr. Burke, I fear you may have to walk the rest of the way," the man says. He removes his top hat and places it over his chest as though this is a cause for mourning. The color has drained from his face, and I wish to tell him that it is no trouble at all. That I've walked these streets a thousand times and will do so again.

Then I understand that the poor man is pretending that he knows me as Stravos. He treats me as he would Stravos. I do not know how lords behave. I only know how to behave as a simplistic street urchin. My behavior is that of Jonah.