by Jayden Woods
To prepare for King Byron’s return, Eleanor planned for a great feast and called for all the top Synergists to showcase their best inventions since Byron’s departure.
Eleanor worried that Prime Synergist Deragon would not return from Dearen in time for King Byron’s arrival. However, there was little she could do about that. Even after Eleanor had explained to Deragon that they must cancel their plans in Dearen and return to Yamair immediately, the Prime Synergist bowed his head and said he wanted to stay just a little while longer. That had been many weeks ago, and Eleanor had not heard from him since. Eleanor sent a message that if Deragon did not return in another week’s time, she would hold an election for a new Prime Synergist. Yet she continued to hear nothing.
Despite all her worrying, Eleanor tried to enjoy what time she had left with Rebeka. She delayed making a decision about their relationship for as long as she could. She ate the safra she had brought with her from Dearen whenever her anxiety reached its peak, and then she sought comfort in the Scholar’s warm, sturdy arms. She even began to look upon Deragon’s absence as a good thing. After all, he was the only person who knew about her intimacy with Rebeka. Perhaps his absence would be for the best.
The cold breath of winter spread over the landscape, making machines creak with frost and slowing the flow of the rivers. People stored their harvests in cellars and prepared jams or salted meats to last them until spring. Eleanor knew that food was scarcer this year than last year, and she could only pray that Byron would not see this as a reflection of her own worthiness as metronome.
One morning, she sat on Rebeka’s bed while the Scholar brushed her long yellow hair. They usually restrained their lovemaking to Rebeka’s chamber, although once they had been wild and spontaneous enough to sleep on the king’s own bed. Eleanor sat half-dressed, most of her laces and straps hanging open, enjoying the occasional brush of Rebeka’s skin against her own.
“Eleanor,” said Rebeka softly. “Do you think your inner drum has steadied since our union together, or deviated?”
Eleanor stiffened. She tried to avoid thinking about this question, but now that Rebeka voiced it, she had no choice but to ponder its profundity. “I know that it has ... changed,” said Eleanor at last. “Even so, I wonder if this is such a terrible thing as I first imagined. After all, the rhythm of the earth itself is subject to earthquakes, storms, floods, and so forth. I wonder if I did not account in the past for the value of fluctuation in our own human hearts? I wonder if the balance should not always be a steady rhythm, but an even exchange of slow beats and fast beats, a careful juxtaposition of sounds to create harmony? If this is the case, Rebeka, then indeed my inner rhythm has deviated of late. But perhaps it is not such a bad thing.”
Rebeka embraced her tight, pressing her lips to Eleanor’s ear, whispering, “You are wiser and more incredible than my wildest dreams, King-wife.”
Eleanor giggled from the tickle of Rebeka’s breath, then tore herself away. “I want to show you something.”
She ran from the room to retrieve something, but she was not gone for long. She returned holding a large canvas, still moist with paint.
“What is that?”
“A new creation.” Eleanor could not help but feel a little nervous as she turned and set the canvas for Rebeka to gaze upon. “Something new and different from anything I have ever invented before.”
Rebeka stared at it a long while without speaking. Her eyes roved the rippling paint, the coarse fabric, the gradient colors. “Is it … a bird?”
“I am not sure, to be honest.” Eleanor leaned back and tried to stare upon the painting with the same objective eyes as the Scholar. She saw a beast made of metal and fabric, fire and steam, soaring the sky like one of the Earth Mechanic’s own creations. “I am not sure if it could or should become real. I am not sure what purpose it would serve, if any. I only know that I dream of it, and I desire it, and for once, I appreciate it for no other reason than that.”
“Then you have truly lost your mind!” laughed Rebeka, and grabbed her from behind.
Eleanor turned to kiss her, and together they tumbled back into the bed.
“It has been many weeks now,” breathed Eleanor as she sprawled upon the bed sheets. Rebeka got on top of her and trailed kisses down the King-wife’s neck. “Many weeks and still no sign of Byron. I wonder sometimes if my encounter with that Merchant man was no more than a bad dream. Perhaps Byron will never return. I wonder if it will just remain you and I, working together, in perfect harmony.”
She moaned with joy as Rebeka’s mouth closed round her breast.
A bell clanged in the distance. After a moment, a second bell echoed it.
Suddenly, the entire landscape erupted with the booms of drums and bells. They joined together in a rhythm, forming a single, unmistakeable rhythm.
“No,” gasped Eleanor. “No, please.”
“King Byron returns,” said Rebeka.