the great object of life is sensation -
to feel that we exist, even though in pain

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎


It is a day like any other.

August is early to rise, beating the dawn-light out onto the streets of Denocte. He slips outside the walls and breaks into a gallop, a slip of sunshine come early to the fields that sleep beneath their blanket of snow. Few others are up at this hour; he passes by deer moving softly as they browse in the woodland, and owls winging home after a night of hunting, and he sees the first light touch the turrets of the ice castle, setting them ablaze. the By the time he is done the sun is nearly up, the sky is blush pink, and there is a sheen of sweat upon his cool golden skin.

The rest of the city is rising, now, too, and the gulls are crying out over the marketplace as he winds up the cobblestones back to the Scarab. It will be a cold, bright midwinter day; already the air is nipping at his ears and his nose and August is not sorry to arrive back at the club and draw himself a bath.

The hours stretch into their comfortable routine, familiar as his running-stride. It is too early for the tables, but there are other matters of keeping house; the golden boy checks in with Charon, with Vik, with Minya. He even sees Manon (a rarer thing, as she can move like a shadow when she wants) when he takes lunch in the private kitchen. It is only Aghavni he doesn’t see, but this isn’t uncommon - their real work does not begin until after the sun is gone again. Not that time is an easy thing to measure, in the Scarab; in the deep heart of it, there are no windows, and the hour always seems to hover around midnight.

But it is far earlier than that when he goes back to his room to ready himself for the evening. Tonight he braids his hair back to show the elegant curve of his neck and brushes his coat until it gleams in the candlelight. He never used to be vain, not until his job in part depended upon his appearance - but now (though he would admit it to no one) it’s become another of his little rituals, a piece of order to his day. Routine, paradoxically, made him feel more ready for chaos. And chaos was always only a breath away at the Scarab.

The knock does not come as a surprise. Neither, when he does ease open the door, does the sight of Aghavni. She is beautiful, as always, and seems just a little harried, which is not unusual - but there is something else, some shadow in her eyes as he searches them.

What she says by way of greeting is a surprise, though the only way he shows it is by blinking.

But he recovers quickly (he always does, for he must) and at last straightens. “Well, in that case-” and the line of his mouth quirks into a grin, soft dimples pressed into golden cheeks. “I thought nobody would ask.” With a nod, he gestures for the unicorn to lead the way - as much an excuse to watch her as anything. If her non-greeting hadn’t been enough of a sign, the rare, tense set of her shoulders is - something, he knows, is troubling her. And theirs is not a life that makes them strangers to stress; whatever it is, it isn’t small.

For now he will play along. He’s still smiling as they wind through narrow corridors, through patrons and serving-girls, until they spill like embers into the cold night. Only then does he draw alongside her, near enough to share warmth, near enough that he almost reaches over to touch her shoulder. Almost.

“I can’t remember the last time you took an evening off for festivities,” he says mildly, but his voice belies the way each of his senses is trained on her, searching for a sign of what is wrong.

the great object of life is sensation -
to feel that we exist, even though in pain

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎

“Shocking, isn’t it?” At the mention of his popularity, August turns his expression into one of wounded pride, complete with a long-suffering sigh. “Nobody seems to think I can tolerate the cold.”

It’s not until she turns away that his silver-eyed gaze goes keen again, watching her free her hair from each gleaming golden pin. Wearing them she looked like a warrior, like a princess, elegant control with a sharp reminder of danger. Without them, with her hair pale as summer wheat in a cascade down her neck, she became a girl.

Well, she is a girl, he reminds himself, as she tucks the final slender, sharp pin away. She is all those things. But August, who prides himself on remembering everything, chides himself now for forgetting, and for the way his heart skips a beat as the last of her golden locks comes tumbling free.

Summer-boy he is, August has always seen the beauty in everything (and everyone). Of course Aghavni is no different.

Outside he breathes deeply, a bracing pull of winter air that dispels his earlier comment and shocks his brain and mind into wakefulness. It is not his favorite season, but it does make the nightly bonfires all the warmer, their smoke the richer, and the stars through that hazy blanket are bright and sharp as pin-pricks. Everything is clear and the moonlight gilds the city in pale silver. Where she is uneasy - not that he can tell - August feels alive.

But he does not forget her disquiet, and nods when she answers. “He’s always trusted you,” he says, but there is a crease between his brows as he continues. “But I’m sure he’s…busy…lately.” An understatement, given the situation in Solterra (and how torn August is, over that - he will never forget watching his mother slain, never forget the cruel desert sun slashing through the bars of a prison-wagon, never forget how the desert country was nearly his jail). If he were Senna…

Well. That was a dangerous game to play.

He is grateful for the distraction of the castle. It is so easy, in Denocte, to tire of wonders - the dragons, the graceful castle itself, the bonfires and markets and the breathing sea - but this reminds him that there is magic in the world, that he is lucky to witness it. Like her he only stands, breathing great plumes of silver, drinking in each turret and window. August doesn’t turn to his companion until she laughs, and when he does it’s with a laugh of his own, a sound of joy and wonder, a bell that hasn’t often been rung since he was a boy.

“I won’t pinch you, if you do the same for me.” Wonder has turned her back into a girl, too, and he feels for a moment like they are fairy-tale children, like tonight is a story just for them. And like Aghavni he doesn’t want to remember the tense set of her shoulders, the worry she couldn’t hide. August only wants to explore this quiet miracle.

“Come on,” he says, and bumps his shoulder against hers. “My lady’s castle awaits.” And with a grin and a flick of his tail against her side he steps away, heading for the wide archway to pass into a setting from a dream, all gilded by the full moon.

the great object of life is sensation -
to feel that we exist, even though in pain

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎

She had teased him - because you can’t, can you? - and he had nipped at her playfully, and let himself shiver for effect, and they had gone on.

But the truth is that August believes he can tolerate anything, if the end result is worth it. Exhaustion - simple; he runs and trains with sword and bow until his limbs tremble and his lungs are aflame every other day. Cold - fine; it is not so difficult, to take his mind away, to think not of the numbness of his limbs but the wonder of his court in snowy glory, and the way it made the scents and sounds all the sharper. Pain - well, pain is difficult, another mind-trick, but not so different from the cold.

He loves to better himself, to force himself up to his breaking point and beyond. This is how he knows that he is alive, that he is strong.

What he can’t tolerate is such cruelty enacted on others.

Perhaps they are strange and sorry thoughts to have on such a night as this, on their way to a castle better than any from a fairy-tale - but August thinks that if this is a story, then their land is under a curse. Too much tragedy, too much darkness, so much uncertainty building on the horizon like a punishing storm. When there comes the rustle of tiny clawed feet the golden boy does not note it, but for a twist of his ear, a quick cut of his eyes. A rat or a dragon, both harmless; he is thinking now of Senna, and anything that creeps the streets of Denocte in search of a meal after dark is a pale fear in comparison.

Neither of them speak until they reach the castle, but her father’s presence hangs between them like a ghost, deadening the air, making the night colder. It only dispels at the sight of the pale archway that glitters like diamonds beneath the full moon.

They are still only playing pretend (just like children, he thinks, and is glad that Senna is not there to see them) but as the unicorn steps forward into that strange magnificence August pauses behind her, his gaze tracing each cold and lovely surface. What strikes him most, what lays its hands around his heart and holds, is how much detail and care has gone in to something so temporary. That is perhaps the greatest wonder of all, though it tastes like sorrow on his tongue.

When his silver gaze drops it is to find Aghavni, touching her nose to that temporary and lonely perfection. The sight stills him like nothing else has yet; she belongs here, in this place holy and strange, and he is almost glad when she breaks the moment for surely he never would have.

August waits behind her, and the chilly cathedral they stand in makes him feel like he is holding his breath even as it spills from him in steady silver plumes. Here it is, he thinks, the reason for her uncommon tension, and even so it is not until she laughs, and speaks the king’s name, that August feels truly cold for the first time. He is not sure how he will thaw.

But still his expression is stoic, until a half-grin creases his cheek, though it is formed of the same stuff as her laugh. “I didn’t think the Scarab would reach treason so soon,” he says idly to her back, to the stallion and mare that pursue one another like an ouroboros.

How easy it might be, to kill Raum within the dark and lush walls of the Scarab. August thinks of the sword in his rooms, the fine hilt encrusted with barnacles and sharp bits of coral, the way the blade curves like a question and gleams like an eager eye.

If that is what Senna wanted, then he would say so. August shuts down the thought with all the will of his mind, like closing a door - but the want of it lives on his his heart, in the dark.

“Does he know who you are?” This question, too, is languid, all the gold splendor of a lion lounging on the veldt. Only someone who knows him utterly would hear the worry in it.

the great object of life is sensation -
to feel that we exist, even though in pain

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎

Always a matter of time - and maybe that is true enough. Gods knew there were no rules but the House rules at the Scarab, and those had governed their whole lives.

But August was Denocte-born, and he could never pretend the gambling den was its own world. Not when he knew the docks and markets as well as his own reflection, not when he could greet by name more than half the horses he encountered on his runs (under what circumstances he knew them, well, that was more delicate). After all, they had been here when the tidal wave came, and the circling thunder-birds, and the Night goddess herself, all glimmer and dark shine, to name the unicorn queen.

Be still, he urges his traitorous heart, but August doesn’t know which half he’s talking to.

Maybe he should be glad, he thinks as they study one another. Angavni is dark against the bright display behind her, her hair soft and long as a shroud. She would be a fitting image, for a castle such as this - little lost princess, taught how to be sharp. It is better, he tells himself, to have Raum so near; if he is under their noses, all the better to learn what he is doing.

And yet.

Her eyes drop from his and he expels a breath he didn’t know he was holding, one that spills silver from his lips. He had not expected Senna to say - but to presume that meant Raum didn’t know seemed a rare folly. The new king had made his livelihood gathering information since they were weanling foals, and much of that he had done in Solterra.

“Of course,” he says, as she tells them the story that they already know, the baseline rules of the crooked game they play.

It is not that Raum would be pleased, to know that a girl with a claim to the Solterran throne was alive and well in Denocte. It is that he would see her as a threat.

And the Ghost had always had a talent for eliminating threats.

At the mention of the Weaver he suppresses his own frown, though he flicks an ear in brief discomfort. He likes the strange figure no more than the rest of them do, and trusts him less - but then, his home was a gambling den; he could hardly feign dismay at knowing a few spiders. “Do you reckon he’d do me?” he asks, as she leaps down. “I think I’m outgrowing blond.”

If her brush against his shoulder steadies her, it has the opposite effect on August. It shakes him from his curated calm like an undercutting wave, and though his body reacts by habit - pushing back against her, nipping playfully at her hip as he passes - he is almost surprised he did not shiver, or step away. She is cold from leaning against the ice window, and her touch is the touch of a ghost; it is eerie on the heels of his earlier thought, prophetic as a dream. He doesn’t care for it at all.

The boy sheathes the worry like a blade, and draws instead a crescent-moon grin. He knows she plays these games as often as he does (as often as they all do) - is she as weary of them?

“At least pick a warmer place for sharing them,” he grouses, as though the worst enemy tonight is the cold. Only then does he allow himself to shiver, and it is only half for show - but she is already looking away.

In truth he stores up the troubles she tells him like gold, keeping each until they become in some part his own. After all, it is his job to protect her.  

Her next words are careful though the tone remains light, careless as a snowflake kissing cold glass. Now his smile thaws into something more familiar to him, though unease is still a cold fist around his heart. Without a last glance at the eternal pursuit behind him, he falls into step after the unicorn. When he laughs it is the same sound it always is, warm and golden as peat whiskey, a boy without a care in the world.

“I say I’ll take that bet, and buy something nice for myself at the Market. Maybe a scarf, prettier than yours.”

As they fade down the corridor, for the moment more children than ghosts, a single drop of water melts like a tear down the cheek of the suspended mare.