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.
@Aghavni | oh did you want a novel back <3
