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pathnottakenWhen dawn comes, it brings with it a morning of new opportunities: so Bagoas has learned well since a very young age. He rolls over in his bed - his bed, not a sugary monstrosity - and a bright, beaming grin spreads over his face. Nothing smells of caramel or rosewater (well, no more rosewater than he is perfectly used to), nothing sticks to him: he is of flesh and blood once more.
So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.
...or a dog.
...with a bone.
... ... ...
Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.
That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?
Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.
He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.
Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.
Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.
Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).
He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.
The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.
So he breathes deep, and stretches out onto his belly like a drowsy, sleepy puppy.
...or a dog.
...with a bone.
... ... ...
Eyes wide open, Bagoas, son of Artembares, son of Araxis, lies very, very still.
That is not something his body has ever done in his entire life. It bears investigation, though he can't help but wonder if this is another 'swap' thing - though he very vividly recalls not waking up in his own bed that time. On the other hand, what's to keep their captors from swapping people around in other ways than the purely metaphysical?
Five minutes later he's beaming at himself in the bathroom mirror, making ridiculous faces at what is very much his face, but not at all. He can see his father looking back, and his mother, in the sharp angle of his jaw, in his nose and the curve of his smile.
He is still himself. He is what he might have been, had his life continued on its first path, all those years ago: he is a man, with all that that entails.
Too bad this also means hardly any of his clothes fit - he mourns their loss, but makes do. His undergarments may be too short, but they are wide and spacious as per tradition, and with a few sweeps of colourful sari by way of too long arms around too long legs (perfectly long, muscular, dancer's legs) he has fashioned for himself a type of pant that hangs about the legs in a way that becomes of a modest enough man.
Then there's the question of kaftans, all of which he owns (not many of them in his wardrobe, but still) are frightfully tight across the shoulders and never so much as make it past his neck.
Another sari, then, wrapped around his torso and shoulders in the ways of the women of India. A pair of ear-hugging earrings, oiled hair and painted eyes, then he goes out into the cold October air (but when is it not cold, when one has grown up in the summers of Susa?).
He'll see the city, and his friends, from a new perspective. From a full five inches higher up: he is nearly as tall as his first King, or so he imagines.
The day is full of promises - even if he is not quite steady on his sandal'd feet. Not yet, but he shall be.
