there are swords kept in the cracks of a stone by the shore, in delpha. they’re steel of hilted yellows and blues, red on the surface, silver in soul—merciful. the vaskians on their huts say that there were hands too, on those swords, that they were held by fingers caked in blood and glory before the setting sun. it’s a myth everyone tells: delpha rose to the ground under something forbidden, under that of what shouldn’t have happened. delpha came to be in the expense of the hands that held those swords. (it’s a myth everyone ends with the sun has set for them.)

what no one tells you, not through the vaskians’ mouths, the kyros’ teeth, the merchants’ talks—was that these hands were hands of kings. the ones who lived to see the coming of delpha with their eyes in caricature keeps it hush like a fishwife’s secret. they don’t speak of the heartsick kings who made the walls of delpha in a mold shaped on the lines of their palms. it’s a tale buried and forgotten—

—but it’s hard to place six feet underneath once you hear their ghosts just before the sun gets swallowed by the distant sea.

there are swords kept in the cracks of a stone by a shore, in delpha. they have spirits who talk when it’s a minute near day’s dusk. they tell what the fishwives greedily keep to the comforts of their chest—cavity-ridden with secrets of kingdoms as they are—do not dare share. it’s a myth no one knows. how two countries’ kings forged a heart shared in their hold by the cross of their swords.

the vaskians will pluck your lips with an axe, if you tell. the kyros will have you by delpha’s bars, if you tell. the merchants will deny you what you need, if you tell. because the dead are dead and secrets are secrets.

(but if you listen hard enough, a ghost of a king will whisper in your ear: “he needs me,” tender like the love he offers. “i don’t care if you tell the world.”)

there are swords kept in the cracks of a stone by a shore, in delpha. if you’ve heard the voices of these kings there, just before sunset, then give your heart in the hold of their blades. they’re heartsick with heartache, but they’ll treat your love tenderly.

so tell delpha. walk their streets with the knowledge of history erased. tell the vaskians, the kyros, the merchants. tell the world who’ve nothing to say to a conqueror—cough up your heart and let someone need you, too.

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07,
... akielos y vere.

yes this is basically capri prose