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

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎


August was not quite three sheets to the wind, but he was at least on two, and gaining.

It was harder than he’d thought, being back. Too much had changed, and none of the right things, and the palomino felt like an exile come home. Of course, other than the Court’s new Regent, nobody had said anything to him about his near yearlong absence, and August suspected that most of the criticism he felt came from within his own mind. But the guilt felt strangely good - he felt he deserved some punishment for leaving - and so he let himself wallow it in, and helped it along with copious amounts of ale and barley wine.

Everything was pleasantly fuzzy by the time he’d wandered from one end of the festival grounds to the other, and the flickering firelight only increased the sensation of everything being just a little off-kilter. He’d just had a brief but ardent (on his side, anyway) conversation with Talan the baker-boy (though in truth a boy no longer) and was ambling down the causeway when a stranger called out to him.

It took August a moment to realize the boy was talking to him, and then he smiled amiably and stepped closer, blinking at the pale colt and his Oliver. It took him a moment to decipher that the dark, sleek creature was an otter, and he might have admired him for a moment longer if his mind hadn’t just made sense of that the boy was asking him.

Treasure - the last time he’d been on a treasure hunt had been the god-cursed island, and the thought of the Relic could still conjure nightmares. But now he squinted down at the scrap of paper with the clue, never mind that he was too drunk to make out the letters. “Hmmmm,” he said, and grinned down at the boy. “I’d love to play. But you’d, ah, better tell me what it says.” The stallion’s eyes drifted closed, then immediately open again once the world tilted threateningly. Oof, he was worse off than he thought. “Name’s August. What d’you think, Oliver?”

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

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎


He listened with his eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, as the boy read the clue aloud. August was just sober enough to be grateful that the lines were short and simple (and rhyming); anything more involved and he might have walked away then. This felt, if not manageable, then at least attemptable.

Not until Pan corrected him did he open his eyes again, and joined the boy in laughing as he looked between the two. A few passers-by gave them a wide berth and a long look, but August couldn’t be bothered to care, not when he was seized with hilarity at the look on the otter’s face at the pun.

“Hmmmmmm,” he said when he found his breath again. “Verdant means green or grassy, and the wind’s always making waves in the prairie. And the skyscapes there are-” he sought for and couldn’t find the word unparalleled “just really something.” Considering a moment more, August wrinkled his nose. “Besides, I uh. Am not sure I’m up to walking all the way to the lake right now.”

At the boy’s question he grinned, though truthfully August didn’t know why he’d gotten his name, and could hardly ask. “It was a name before it was a month,” he said, only slurring a little. Curious, August leaned in as the boy pulled out a compass, a look of mild consternation crossing his face as the needle spun without settling. He might have fallen hypnotized had Pan not spoken again, at which he lifted his head with a jolt.

“Ah, yes. The lake is that way-” he gestured north, toward the mountains. “And so, as it happens, is the prairie. Only a lot closer. Let’s go, Pan-and-Oliver.” He laughed at the boy, then nudged his shoulder and began to walk.