“What makes you think it isn’t?” he says, and the bright, bold edge to his voice - the gleam of light off a drawn blade - is absent, his words a murmur soft as the edge of that billowing cloud of ash.
But his eyes are no longer on whatever curls toward them, there at the horizon. August is watching Minya, regarding each bright and jutting curve of bone the way he has a hundred times before. In the dullness of the day her skin still gleams like satin. They are a pretty picture together, and strange - the way it has always been with those who wear the beetle - and he is glad not to be alone.
“First the gods return,” he continues, musing half to himself as his silver-moon eyes flick back to the sea, “and then the disasters begin. Now the courts are once more in upheaval, and the gods are conveniently absent. There was the blood-moon, and now…” When he grins it feels only like a baring of teeth, and the expression doesn’t last.
It is hard to say where the hours go, when the sky is all the same color with the sun blotted out like nothing so much as a sooty lantern. All is darkness and uncanny silence, with the tide calm and the sea-birds fled, and though August longs to know what his companion is thinking he does not ask.
When the sky clears again, it feels like dawn.
It isn’t - it’s somewhere in hazy, bleak-winter afternoon - but August tips his head toward the sun like a young plant, hungry for the light. But as the darkness recedes it’s clear that whatever is happening isn’t finished. And the golden boy finds himself glad.
All the horses still scattered on the beach press up toward the shore, and when August follows - with a sharp look at Minya - his heart is an urgent thing in his chest. He feels the way he does before a spar, or a betting hand with everything on the table - that is to say, eager and cunning and ready to win. There is no hesitation in him when he places a hoof upon that strange black rock; the smell of the sea is all around him, and he thinks of his father’s ship and his father’s stories, all the wonders out at sea.
When he steps fully out onto that strange bridge, with an archway curling over and all the waves licking white-tongued against the black rock, he buries the part of himself that says the Scarab, the Scarab. The pain (the guilt) of it does not leave him, nor does he expect it to as he pauses to see if Minya will join him - but August has long lived with wounds, and they all become scars eventually.
Whatever waits for them beyond the horizon line, he will go to meet it. To see what lies beyond the bay -
it’s all he’s truly wanted. Of all the secrets he has kept, it is the only one buried so deeply even he forgets it’s there.
@Minya
But his eyes are no longer on whatever curls toward them, there at the horizon. August is watching Minya, regarding each bright and jutting curve of bone the way he has a hundred times before. In the dullness of the day her skin still gleams like satin. They are a pretty picture together, and strange - the way it has always been with those who wear the beetle - and he is glad not to be alone.
“First the gods return,” he continues, musing half to himself as his silver-moon eyes flick back to the sea, “and then the disasters begin. Now the courts are once more in upheaval, and the gods are conveniently absent. There was the blood-moon, and now…” When he grins it feels only like a baring of teeth, and the expression doesn’t last.
It is hard to say where the hours go, when the sky is all the same color with the sun blotted out like nothing so much as a sooty lantern. All is darkness and uncanny silence, with the tide calm and the sea-birds fled, and though August longs to know what his companion is thinking he does not ask.
When the sky clears again, it feels like dawn.
It isn’t - it’s somewhere in hazy, bleak-winter afternoon - but August tips his head toward the sun like a young plant, hungry for the light. But as the darkness recedes it’s clear that whatever is happening isn’t finished. And the golden boy finds himself glad.
All the horses still scattered on the beach press up toward the shore, and when August follows - with a sharp look at Minya - his heart is an urgent thing in his chest. He feels the way he does before a spar, or a betting hand with everything on the table - that is to say, eager and cunning and ready to win. There is no hesitation in him when he places a hoof upon that strange black rock; the smell of the sea is all around him, and he thinks of his father’s ship and his father’s stories, all the wonders out at sea.
When he steps fully out onto that strange bridge, with an archway curling over and all the waves licking white-tongued against the black rock, he buries the part of himself that says the Scarab, the Scarab. The pain (the guilt) of it does not leave him, nor does he expect it to as he pauses to see if Minya will join him - but August has long lived with wounds, and they all become scars eventually.
Whatever waits for them beyond the horizon line, he will go to meet it. To see what lies beyond the bay -
it’s all he’s truly wanted. Of all the secrets he has kept, it is the only one buried so deeply even he forgets it’s there.
@
August - -
this above all: to thine own self be true
STAFF EDIT***
@august has rolled a 2! He has been awarded +40 signos.
