to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
His own laugh punctuates the air with a puff of steam, bold enough that a few crows perched on a cable caw their disapproval at him, flapping their wings like a nurse-mother might flap her apron. Anyone game enough to not only laugh at his puns but meet them with their own had his instant approval, and when he regards her again it’s with a grin tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Intimidating, she calls the markets, and the golden boy almost laughs again. “I promise no one there hits as hard as you,” he says, arching a brow at her, thinking of the ache that still resonates in him like ripples on a pond.
August - despite honing his ability to read people over the years, it being his livelihood - does not know her well enough to note the sadness that touches her then, the faraway look in her eyes. If he had recognized it, he still would not have pressed; he is not a boy who willingly puts his fingers to another’s wound. The gods know he has enough of his own, scars he swears still bleed sometimes.
Instead, he looks away, toward the sea. He does not stir from that moment, with Boudika lost to her thoughts and he to his senses (the bite of cold, the mournful cry of gulls, the salt-and-brine of the stiff breeze, the dying smoke of last night’s bonfires), until she sepaks again.
“I do,” he says, and down to the markets they go.
Though he’s surrounded by familiar things, all the colors and smells and faces he loves, his smile dissipates like mist burned off in the morning as she speaks. Oh, how beset by tragedy is his country; August knows many stories run too closely to her own. His is not absent it’s tragedy, either (and his ear flicks at the mention of that sand-scoured country, Solterra), but hearing hers is no easier to swallow. Just as she mentions Caligo, they pass over the goddess’s moon-stones set in the cobblestone street, their goddess’s own constellation, and August takes unusual care not to step on one of their smooth and gleaming faces. “Most here would not say that’s silly at all. I am sorry to hear of your arrival, and your shipmates, gods keep them. But let me assure you, you made the right choice.” Here his smile returns as his gaze touches on her, back to being a little proud, a little wicked.
Now there are people around them, now the miniature dragons wind like jewel-covered ribbons between feet and among stalls, now the air is filled with voices and the clang of wares, the snap of rugs and flags, the scent of a hundred spices and foods. He absorbs it all, a balm to his unquiet mind, and leads her through it like a well-seasoned captain through a treacherous bay.
“I was born here,” he answers. “In this part of the city, near the noise of the markets and the sight of the sea. Denocte has always been my home - I’m not sure I’ll ever want another.” He does not mention - he hardly thinks - of how, in a way, the Scarab might be an achor, a trap around his leg. For August it is his family, his home, his duty, his savior - it is dangerous, to think of it otherwise, to dig beneath that dark soil.
And anyway, even without it, the Night Court is still his home. If there were anything else, any other place his heart sang for, it would be a ship, and the sea, and the sky unrolling like a map above.
@boudika | <3 (let me know if I should add more action)
