Elchanan caught by guile, cut down by lust
Elchanan is not easily impressed.
Not to say that the island isn’t beautiful—it is. The dark, glossy jungle pulsates with the noise of cats and birds, fruit hangs dense from the boughs of trees, white sand is turned over and turned over again by the endless crashing of clear waves, and the whole scene is basted in a warm yellow light, like butter, The sky is clear, a singing kind of blue. And it’s peaceful enough; there are even foals gallavanting around, spraying up bits of white salt and foam.
And still he is not impressed.
This magic, it’s—nothing. Compared to what he’s seen, compared to what he’s done. It roils, sure, it bubbles, sure, he can feel it under his feet and in the dirt like an oncoming earthquake, and it might be interesting, maybe, but it’s nothing compared to what it could be. Compared to what he is. So Elchanan traverses the shores with an eye that isn’t enthusiastic so much as it is weary, watchful, even, as he picks his way past the rocky parts of the shore and into the depths of the forest.
Under cover of the trees, the clime drops a few degrees; though comfortable, Elchanan shudders as he transitions, finally slinking from from sun into shade. Birds and insects chitter and sing from places deep in the earth, a bright sound that makes his ears twitch, and sunlight dapples the dirt in a pattern almost like cobwebs, warping and twisting as his dark hooves pass through. Dew shudders on the leaves. Elchanan’s dark, dusty eyes rove as he walks, hooves placed in a careful weaving pattern, and even as the sun dips below the horizon and the light turns from butter-yellow to deep-blue he notices the world changing from leaves to moss.
A grayish, greenish carpet of it, still fluttering from some kind of movement. Elchanan’s step slows. He pauses. What had passed? Could it be dangerous? He can’t hear anything, at least not anything more than the gentle kiss of wind passing through, of dirt shifting underfoot. A brief moment passes in which he is perfectly still, and his heart slows, and his brain is quiet. Life is but a pinpoint, a drop of rain threatening to burst on the nearest blade of grass.
He does not know fear, and he shoulders his way through the curtain.
Oh, God Almighty.
“Septimus.” Elchanan stops outside the ring of rocks that line the pool, outside the range of Septimus’ touch. He raises his head in something like indignance. Of course he still looks handsome, a Greek figure poised against the clearest diamond lake; of course Elchanan still wants him, like a candle, like a sprig of hot-white lightning.
But he has a handle on it. |
