Sight Unseen

by AnonYMous

  The softness, then, must be a necessity, for a man whose body was at times so fragile that hard surfaces would amount to torture.

  “Checking on me?” His voice came from the door.

  She tensed—she had been so intent on the information on the screen she had not heard his approach. Then her shoulders slackened with relief: he was all right. Or at least in decent enough shape to be up and about.

  “Have you been well?” he asked. “What do you think of Mundi Luminare?”

  She should pivot around—the most basic rules of civility demanded it. But she couldn’t, now that the wave of relief had surged past.

  The morning after their wedding, when she’d admitted to the true purpose of her departure the night before, the confession had been possible because she’d known they had to be at the assembly within minutes—the public was always an effective barrier. And because she’d also known, from speaking to his chamberlain, that he would be separated from her during Bridge travel and most likely for some time afterwards too.

  But her reprieve was at its end. Now he was up and about and now she must face this extraordinary man without her erstwhile halo of nobility, without anything except the sum total of her all-too-ordinary self.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured. “And what little I’ve seen of the planet is very beautiful.”

  She hadn’t moved at all, her gaze still on the screen that supplied everything she needed to know about the house.

  He took a few steps and stopped again, his body coming into contact with the padded wall with a soft bump. “And my home?”

  “I like it.”

  Another few steps, another soft bump. He was probably leaning against the back of a sofa.

  “Should I keep up the small talk?” There was a smile in his voice. “Or would you prefer to speak of something else?”

  She forced her head to turn a few degrees. A slender volume of meditation instructions met her gaze from behind its display case. She’d had the same book, a title left behind by Pavonis: valuable, but not so rare that she’d have given it a prime spot on the wall.

  “I imagine we can pass hours talking about the history of your home,” she heard herself say.

  “It isn’t that ancient, only two hundred years old. And it isn’t linked to any great historical events—since it has always been a true retreat and not a secondary seat of power. But I can find enough to say about it to fill, say, three quarters of an hour. Would you like me to?”

  Now there was a challenge to his voice. And he was no longer advancing toward her; she was to meet him at least part of the way.

  “No, not really,” she said, at last turning around.

  And immediately lost her breath. She had allowed herself to forget how luminously beautiful he was, and how otherworldly that luminosity, as if he had acquired physical form only a fraction of a second ago, and still levitated half a centimeter from the floor.

  Little wonder he had been declared a godly incarnation. She was only surprised that it hadn’t happened years ago.

  “My chamberlain tells me there is some local wine decanted in the sunset room,” he said, leaning on the titanium cane she had given him. “Would you care for a taste?”

  He offered her his hand. She tucked it into the crook of her elbow and made herself a crutch for her frail god. He seemed to appreciate the gesture, leaning into her solidly as they made their way to the sunset room, which was a large veranda that ran along the entire exterior of the house.

  The lowering sun radiated warmth. In this part of Mundi Luminare, it was the beginning of summer. A breeze, fragrant with the clean breaths of trees, ruffled her hair. It would turn cooler with the onset of night, but for now, the early evening air was the temperature of a caress.

  A table had been laid out with wine and delicacies. The wine was strong—and would have been too sweet were it not for its potency. As such it was boldly delicious with the spiced nuts, pickled sea plums, and savory little pastries that served as accompaniment.

  The prince, as usual, took only a glass of water. “So what shall we speak of on our honeymoon?”

  They were seated on a luxurious swing, a large plate of nibbles between them—though of course, it was only for her. He leaned his head against the backrest and tilted his face toward her, his gaze ever attentive, ever perceptive.

  What he lacked in physical strength he more than made up for in perspicacity and sheer will power. And it felt odd to think that way, given how brief their marriage was doomed to be, but he also embodied patience, a deep faith that in time his efforts would bear fruit.

  “I find myself wondering how you pass time in the recovery tank,” she said. “It’s struck me lately how large a portion of your life you must spend in there.”

  He lifted the decanter, which fit neatly into a slot on the back of the swing, and refilled her glass. “What do you think?”

  A question designed to make her reveal more of herself. She brought the wine close and inhaled its heady aroma, with hints of pepper and nutmeg. “I, of course, hope for a state of constant meditative bliss for you.”

  A nice thing to say, echoing with good will and kindheartedness.

  She did not let slip that she needed for him to be a spiritual giant, he who had stripped her down to nothing but fear and uncertainty. She needed his fortitude to counter her weakness, his serenity to calm her turmoil.

  “I have experienced meditative bliss, but only outside the tank. Most of the time, when I need to be inside, I’m not well enough to sustain the effort required for meditation.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Her obliviousness, the obliviousness of the healthy, became apparent. She had viewed ill health as a mandatory holiday, regrettable because one must be laid up, but rather enviable at the same time as it was an opportunity to participate in all the passive entertainments that a busier schedule didn’t permit.

  Failing to take into consideration such things as pain and suffering.

  “When my physicians believe my life to be in danger,” he went on, “they typically choose to induce a coma, during which I am unconscious the entire time.”

  She hoped she didn’t appear too dismayed. “What about when you aren’t in a coma?”

  “Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I render dreamscapes. I’ve tried to take in news and lectures, but that doesn’t work very well because I fall asleep and don’t retain what I’ve learned.”

  So in the recovery tank he was truly only an ordinary patient, drifting through the long hours, straining not so much toward enlightenment as toward the moment he would at last be let out.

  “Do you not pray at all when you are in there?” she asked, and wondered whether he heard in her question the answer she wished to receive.

  “I prayed a great deal, in and out of the tank, when I was younger—when it looked as if Terra Illustrata would be a lost cause. Since then, not so much.”

  Not a very religious man, by his own admission. How then did he emanate such inner radiance? And make her feel such a desperate need for his approval, as if all her flaws would sublimate into incorruptible virtues, if only he would think well of her for a fleeting moment?

  His eyes were deep and clear, as beautiful as the soul within. Despite the scythe of mortality that hung over him by a slender thread, fear did not stain him, as it had stained her. More than ever, she wished to be like him. More than ever, she wished he wasn’t there to hold up a cruel mirror in which she saw herself all too clearly.

  He studied her as closely as she studied him. What did he see? What was there to see in her at all, without her aura of heroism, now forever tarnished?

  His gaze dipped to her lips for a second, before he looked again into her eyes. A quick movement, possibly not even a conscious one on his part, but she, who had vast experience in physical love, immediately recognized it as desire.

  Her aura of heroism might be forever tarnished, but she was still a young, pretty woman, her skin smooth, her breasts high and f
irm. That was what he was scrutinizing, not her character.

  She laughed a little on the inside, tossed back her wine, and removed the plate of hors d’oeuvres from the swing.

  “What did your physicians say about the effect of lovemaking on your health?” she said, undoing the fastening at her throat.

  Twenty buttons held her simple dress together, a good number, but they only required a tap to yield. She could tap four and still be considered presentable, seven and still be decent. She tapped nine. A deep, narrow V, opening past her navel, revealed the inner curves of her breasts.

  Much to her satisfaction, his breaths quickened. “They—the current consensus is that lovemaking, of the variety that took place on our wedding night, seems to pose no particular threat to my health. Though they did caution me not to indulge too frequently, or be too vigorous when I do.”

  She continued to tap on the buttons of her dress. The way she was seated—with her legs half tucked underneath her—the dress kept her modesty even when all the buttons had been undone.

  “What inconsiderate advice to give to a man on his honeymoon,” she murmured, then rose to her knees and straddled him.

  Now the dress fell apart. He inhaled sharply. She braced her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. He tasted as pure as morning air in the mountains and she couldn’t get enough of the kiss. Of him.

  She forgot that where he was concerned, she still couldn’t decide whether she was infinitely grateful or deeply resentful. She forgot that she had initiated lovemaking to gain a sense of mastery over the situation. She forgot that she needed him to be godly, or as close to it as possible.

  She did not forget that she would soon die. It made her acutely aware that she was still alive this moment, bathed in the warmth of a summer sunset, encircled in the arms of the man who would accompany her on the last journey of her life.

  “You are so very lovely,” he told her, his voice hoarse.

  She believed him. When he looked upon her like this, when he touched her lips with unsteady fingers, when she felt his heart beat wildly against hers, she believed that she was as beautiful as the sea and the sky.

  More than beautiful.

  Eternal.

  She pulled off his tunic. “All these years I have waited for you.”

  She hadn’t—she’d never thought of him as real and never yearned to meet him face to face. Yet as she spoke those words, it felt as if she’d never uttered anything truer.

  “Me too,” he replied, easing the dress from her shoulders, his fingers on her skin as light as the touch of moth wings. “And I didn’t know it until I’d met you at last.”

  The melding of their bodies was as familiar as sunrise, and as momentous as a convergence of galaxies.

  She kissed him again and again, her lips never leaving his. Their embrace felt as vast as the universe itself; the heat they generated, like the birth of stars.

  When the shocks of pleasure had come and gone, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “If I told you I love you, would you tell me that it was only the effect of too much pleasure on a susceptible soul?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I would.”

  “I love you,” he murmured.

  She did not say anything, but only buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  *

  Apparently, the prince hadn’t told her everything his physicians had said about what he could and couldn’t do on his own honeymoon. Lovemaking wasn’t prohibited, but it came with a price: half a day in the recovery tank.

  Granted, a day on Mundi Luminare was shorter than a standard day, only 19.7 hours. But given how little time they had left . . .

  “No more sex for you,” she told him, as he opened the door to the tank.

  “That saddens me enormously.” He smiled. And added, when she lifted a brow, “Though perhaps not for the reason you believe.”

  “What other reason could you have to be sad about not making love on your honeymoon?” she asked archly.

  He cupped her face. “Because when we make love, you are not angry with me.”

  She looked away. “I’m not that angry with you otherwise.”

  He stroked her hair. “Maybe not, but I feel your anger—and the absence of it.”

  His nearness, the warmth of his palm upon her scalp, the gentle, soothing motion of his touch—she wanted to luxuriate in the simplicity of the moment.

  But there was no such thing as an uncomplicated moment between them, was there?

  She pulled away. “When I was much younger, I read about a type of antipathy—the anger we feel toward those who, by their excellence, courage, and humanity, reveal how badly we fall short of those ideals. And I didn’t understand it until I watched you stand before the steps of parliament, staring down an overwhelming force.

  “It’s self-hatred, really. But as I hate myself I also recoil from the one who holds up a merciless mirror to all my shortcomings—and it’s much easier to be angry than to develop excellence, courage, and humanity.”

  This is who I am. This is the darkness within. You said you love me. Do you really? It is possible for anyone to love what I have become?

  “I understand,” he said, his gaze open and direct.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “You’re wrong. I feel quite comfortable with you. I’m sorry that the reverse isn’t true.”

  *

  It wasn’t until the recovery tank had sealed and tilted back to a horizontal position that Vitalis noticed the potted plants on the window sills. She recognized the color and shape of the summer eternity blossoms—she had given the seeds her husband had gifted her to Alchiba to be placed in special nutrient pods and now they were fully grown and in bloom.

  As Eleian had described, each plant boasted two brilliantly blue flowers. But human intervention had probably been required for the flower stems to be entwined in a passionate herbal embrace.

  She took her dinner across the large room—their bedroom, in fact—from the recovery tank, caught up in all the reasons she felt uncomfortable in the presence of a man who accepted her for who she was.

  After dinner, she walked around the retreat for an hour. The stars were out en masse, a spill of cosmic fire against an ink-black night. Down below, bioluminescent plants bordered the paths. When she touched them, her fingers came away with a slightly smoky fragrance.

  Back in her new marital home, she took the volume of meditation instructions out of the display case in the main sitting area. As she’d half suspected, it was none other than her own copy, which she had donated to an auction years ago. At the turning of the first page, her voice rang out, a little crackly, as if coming through a great deal of interference.

  “To the anonymous donor who bid so generously on this book, my deepest gratitude. This volume represents the courage and wisdom of Pavonis, who bravely gave his life for our people. It has been of great comfort and encouragement to me in the preparation for my Task. I hope it will be for you too.”

  Her voice carried a deep conviction. But Vitalis knew at least some of it was pretense. She remembered recording the message—remembered the number of attempts it took before she was satisfied that she still sounded like a true believer.

  And of course, she remembered wanting to get rid of the book because meditative sessions had turned into the worst hours of her day, when she had nothing else to distract her from her disillusion and resentment.

  She took the book with her to the prince’s bedroom, sat down against the side of the recovery tank, and tried to remember how to pay attention to her breaths.

  How to let go of all the unhappiness she didn’t want to carry for the rest of her life.

  However brief it was.

  Chapter 6

  [Footage of a tranquil sea lapping at a long, sandy beach. A small group stands near the edge of the water, around a man in a tactical suit, his head bowed as if in prayer. The sea par
ts, smoothly and almost soundlessly. Soft gasps erupt. The man raises his hand in farewell and marches forward on the path cleared by the parting seas. The others fall to their knees.]

  [Shot of Vitalis walking along the beach, hands in pockets.]

  Voice off-camera: This is the spot?

  Vitalis: Yes. This is where the sea will part for me to head to the Elders’ Temple—and where my remains will wash up in about a day’s time.

  Voice off-camera: But it’s ten thousand klicks to the Elders’ Temple. And you set out on foot. How is it possible for you to arrive so fast?

  Vitalis: Personally I find the parting of the sea a lot more mind-boggling. Entities who can manage to do that can probably find a way to get me there in half a day.

  Voice off-camera: I know you—and only you, of all the inhabitants of Pax Cara—are allowed to set foot in the sea. But do you ever do it?

  Vitalis: Sometimes.

  Voice off-camera: For fun?

  Vitalis: [Shakes her head] No, never. Sometimes I get in a mood, put my hands in the water, close my eyes and try to communicate telepathically with the Elders.

  Voice off-camera: Really?

  Vitalis: Really.

  Voice off-camera: Then what happens?

  Vitalis: [Smiles apologetically] Nothing. Nothing happens. There is no special connection between the Chosen One and the Elders. There has never been.

  *

  First thing in the morning, Vitalis ran ten klicks on a well-kept trail that took her to the top of a nearby peak. She must keep in prime physical condition and there was no better time for training than during the hours her husband spent in the recovery tank.

  Her pace was off her personal best—unexpected, as Mundi Luminare had both a slightly higher oxygen content and a slightly lower gravity than Pax Cara. But she didn’t dwell on the oddity; she needed to run faster to get back in time for the unsealing of the recovery tank.

  She reached the bunker in good time. But when she came out of the hygiene suite, smelling faintly of flowers, the recovery tank still lay where it was, only now surrounded by a team of physicians and the chamberlain, who hurried toward her.