to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
When the sun stopped, August felt almost relieved.
It only reinforced the idea that this was only a dream, the way he’d been treating it - like a step away from duty and into a story. It meant the faint guilt he harbored for so many days away from the Scarab (and surely the tables were hot, since the island, with so many things to gamble on) could be released, because who could blame any of them for falling for this Wonderland?
It took him a few hours to realize all the other life had vanished, except for the plants, and then he thinks of that awful tree and almost wishes they had, too. After his interlude with Bexley and the shift of birds-to-butterflies, he’d admittedly stopped noticing much for a while, drifting quietly through the jungle like no more than a slant of golden light among the leaves. August had been walking beside a river (he liked to have a guide, some sense of where he was and how to return) and its burbling and the sigh of wind through the canopy masked the sudden cease of insects. Only when it widened into a pool and fell to silence did he pause, and prick his ears, and notice the sweat sheening his back and shoulders.
The game, he’d thought, was changing.
But now it is days later and whatever shift seems frozen, too; it would be tedious, if not for the stories the horses were sharing, rumors of deaths and disappearances. Strange caves and hollow cliffsides, black rock that gleamed like water taking peculiar shapes. By now August had almost forgotten the Relic entirely; other things have caught his interest. Now he only stands with a crowd gathered on the beach that grows larger by the hour, listening, his moon-silver eyes sharp and open for anyone he recognizes.
When the sand begins to tremble and his stance widens and he grits his teeth, as horses shout and the waves suck back and back and the trees shiver like mad beasts under beating flies, August thinks At last. It is here, whatever it is.
His mind doesn’t quite process what happens next; the sand rolls and roils away like a desert-snake and the rest of the world quiets, and then someone spots the footprints.
Of course he follows. He is not the kind of man who bets the tables deep only to fold at the final hand, and he is exactly the kind of boy who grew up on pirate stories and fairytales mixed in with his more practical lessons. Not even Senna and the strange order of the Scarab could keep him from those small guilts and pleasures.
And it is difficult, and tedious, in that path through the jungle, with grabbing vines and tripping ledges and logs that seemed to know exactly where they’d be the most incapacitating. But there are many horses swept up in the story, now, and some have magic and some have weapons and most of them are inventive enough: soon there is a narrow swath being trampled and cut through the jungle.
By the time they reach the clearing he barely remembers that he’s thirsty, that he’s exhausted, that he’s covered in salt and soil. For there is the Relic.
It is nearly too bright to look at; a part of him wants to laugh at the gods’ lack of subtlety. But the rest of him is scanning the loose crowd that’s forming, restless along the treeline. He’s beginning to spot many faces that don’t surprise him - and a few that do.
August is not sure he wants the Relic. But he knows he is feeling…particular about who does wind up with it. Whatever it meant, whatever legends were true, it would come down to power, because things always did. And whoever will hold that power is sure to become relevant to him and the ones he loves.
With a slow inhale, he takes a step forward.
STAFF EDIT***
@august has rolled a 3! He has been awarded +200 signos.
