Time Stamp
The carriage rumbled contentedly beneath him as he eased the horses from dirt to cobblestone in the mid-morning sun. From afar, Luther looked completely normal. He was tall, lean, and dark, perched on a carriage well-cared for if certainly a few years behind the latest styles and technology. His horses, two white and brown paints, trotted obediently where he led them at a calm, unhurried pace that was clapped into the air by the mismatched shoes he had fitted to their feet. Luther was in control, so it seemed from afar.
Internally, Alexis struggled. He had spent the last fifteen days trying to at least become mediocre at the skill Luther had been known for— driving carriage. Alexis had ridden horses before, at least, and he had sat with his family’s driver as a child and begged for the reigns. He was not a complete stranger in his body. He had wrapped the reigns tightly around his wrists to avoid disaster in the already many instances where he found himself losing control of his hands. A floppy, wide-brimmed hat covered much of his face now to obscure the inevitable moments where he forgot to control his face and left an expressionless glare on Luther’s canvas. He had pulled Luther’s long, messy hair up off his neck because he couldn’t stand the unkempt feel of it, and he had grown out his facial hair both for fascination and security. He had never been able to grow a beard half as dense as the evenly painted one on Luther’s face, and it created another protective barrier between the raen and Luther’s world. He had fully bathed for the first time in Luther’s body the day before he had left Vienda, and he was scared to do it again. He felt so wrong, so sick to look upon Luther’s naked body and pretend it was his own. It was a wrong he couldn’t explain— a wrong that made his stomach sink as it reminded him how much he didn’t belong. He was looking at the covered parts of Luther’s life, the parts saved for those loved and trusted, yet that love and trust meant nothing in his hands. He wondered if his corpse had been stripped and examined similarly, but, no, that didn’t matter now. Alexis shook it away. He was Luther Penn, and, today, Luther Penn had appearances to make.
Alexis assured the horses were going straight, then unraveled one hand from the reigns that dug into his dark flesh to reach into the itchy pocket of his pants for the letter. He confirmed the address, and was grateful to be in an area familiar enough to his past life for him to recognize the streets as he passed them. A few turns, though, and Alexis was back to the unknown, the backstage of the Stacks a galdor was never expected to see.
The houses here were little more than charcoal shacks. Each was the same shape, but in different states of repair; here, one had no door, there, one had collapsed, and there, only the roof shingles were out of place. There was no paint for their surfaces of mismatched, warped wood, and each was afforded what could be called a sagging porch of five bowed boards and one window. The streets were quiet now as the working class vacated them for the day, leaving only fragments of the night— broken bottles, cigarette butts, and a pair of broken heels wedges between the bricks. So focused on the road was Alexis that he nearly missed her.
It has to be her, didn’t it? He had not expected someone with a borderline
illiterate invitation to look so
sophisticated. She wore a sweet, olive dress that buttoned to her waist before being interrupted by a modest ribbon of the same fabric. Below that, the top layer of the dress split at the skirt to reveal four layers of spotless white underskirts that just brushed the ground with their gathered frills. Delicate lace lines the olive, from the bottom trim to the square neck to the short, ruffled sleeves. Clearly, the dress was new. Clearly, it was made for her, not a hand-me-down, and, clearly, by her smile, this was the nicest thing she had ever worn in her entire life. Alexis smiled at her. She was pretty.
Her house was by far the most well-taken care of, with the little grass her rent bought her trimmed and bright flowers waving through the window planter. By the looks of it, she had taken one little white flower and woven it into her short, dark curls. Alexis slowed his carriage to a halt, then climbed with a careful awareness of his own body onto the road. He secured his carriage, then, hands in pockets, crossed the road to her with purposeful strides. He took off his hat as he approached, holding it to his chest as he prepared for a test of everything he had learned and assumed about Luther and his body. He stopped a few feet short, and took her in from a better vantage point than a moving carriage.
She was
really pretty, he thought. She was tall, thin, and graceful, and her dark hair framed her narrow, structured face and delicate shoulders like clouds crawling over the rosy sunset and the silhouetted mountains in Hox. She had dark eyes and the drops of kisses on her cheeks as freckles, and she carried herself with a confidence of self that did not make him roll his eyes in embarrassment for her. For a moment, he forgot that he was Alexis Geradot, a man of a higher race, and he hoped that she thought
he was really pretty, too.
"Been a minute," he greeted her simply, with outward ease. He was working so intricately internally.
Smile, he reminded himself, and he smiled with his voice and his eyes, watching her for a reaction.
How am I doing? he begged silently.
Is this good enough for you?
Alexis realized, in that moment, that he wasn’t performing for his shrivels, but her needs.
She has requested Luther, and he didn’t want to disappoint her, to tell her that Luther was dead, avoiding the “I’m-sorry-for-your-loss” speech he had been taught in school but never put into practice.
"How are ya, Sednai?”