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Summary
Guillermo helps Nandor dress and bathe and brushes his hair free of knots, and through it all his touch is almost reverent; when he looks upon Nandor, it is as if he’s seeing him for who he once was – a ruler of a great kingdom – and it stirs something in Nandor’s chest, something long since dead, nestled in the hollow space behind his unbeating heart.
It is a pleasant thing. A surprising thing.
Nandor is not used to being surprised.
Series
- Part 1 of What We Post(ed) on Anon
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They were a horde once. Tens of thousands of men strong, their sheer numbers enough to grant them victory, but the desert cares little about swords or spears or how many there are to wield them; she devours nomad and sultan alike.
———I often hear you speak to your mother on the telephone machine, Nandor doesn’t say, gazing at Guillermo’s reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall opposite the coffin. Her grief will be great when she realizes what you have become. Are you prepared to shoulder it? Would you remember? Or would you choose to forget, like I fear I might have?
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Perfection. Pure perfection.
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