The darkness is growing and so, too, is the revel.
It’s going to be one of those nights, he thinks, where hedonism toes the line with violence. Where eyes glossy with drink and dance begin to gleam with sundown thoughts. Where the thrill of the revel twines around hearts like choking vines and coaxes more, more, more. There is nowhere better at such nights than the starlit city of Denocte, court of darkness, court of dreams.
August does not blame them for it. Why not, on this night with a grave-cold chill to the air, with the candles lit for the dead, give themselves over to something more than living? For now their blood is quick and warm and their feet move along to a river of music; for now there is fucking and fighting and drinking, all the things that cry out to the world I live, I live, I live.
Oh, how he wants to join them. But his heartbeat is too slow, his blood cold beneath the moon-brushed gold of his coat. The line ahead of him to the spirit-seller shortens and August turns, just as the woman pushes forward from the crowd.
It’s the closeness of her voice that catches him, the low smoke of it. He turns back to watch her close the space between them and his lips are already curving even as his mind whispers trouble at the way she moves like a lioness, the way the firelight turns her bay hide to bronze, the way sweat froths her shoulders and chest. The gold she wears catches in the light like rivers of fire, like the sun melted down, like a wink and a promise. It is not the gold he was looking for -
But August decides he isn’t picky. And he likes the way she smells, beneath the bonfire-smoke and the incense and the night-blooming jasmine - like sweat, like the wild places of the mountains, like herself. Something not polished to a shine and scrubbed clean and pretending.
“Hello,” he replies, low, and the silver of his eyes meets the gold of hers. “You look like a girl from a story, who puts on fairy-shoes and can’t stop dancing.” Until she dies, he does not add. August says it like he’s impressed, and maybe a little longing.
Then the merchant is clearing his throat, and the golden stallion nods toward him, though his gaze does not stray from the bright burn of hers. “What’s your pleasure?” Of course he means a drink. But his expression says tell me anything.
It’s going to be one of those nights, he thinks, where hedonism toes the line with violence. Where eyes glossy with drink and dance begin to gleam with sundown thoughts. Where the thrill of the revel twines around hearts like choking vines and coaxes more, more, more. There is nowhere better at such nights than the starlit city of Denocte, court of darkness, court of dreams.
August does not blame them for it. Why not, on this night with a grave-cold chill to the air, with the candles lit for the dead, give themselves over to something more than living? For now their blood is quick and warm and their feet move along to a river of music; for now there is fucking and fighting and drinking, all the things that cry out to the world I live, I live, I live.
Oh, how he wants to join them. But his heartbeat is too slow, his blood cold beneath the moon-brushed gold of his coat. The line ahead of him to the spirit-seller shortens and August turns, just as the woman pushes forward from the crowd.
It’s the closeness of her voice that catches him, the low smoke of it. He turns back to watch her close the space between them and his lips are already curving even as his mind whispers trouble at the way she moves like a lioness, the way the firelight turns her bay hide to bronze, the way sweat froths her shoulders and chest. The gold she wears catches in the light like rivers of fire, like the sun melted down, like a wink and a promise. It is not the gold he was looking for -
But August decides he isn’t picky. And he likes the way she smells, beneath the bonfire-smoke and the incense and the night-blooming jasmine - like sweat, like the wild places of the mountains, like herself. Something not polished to a shine and scrubbed clean and pretending.
“Hello,” he replies, low, and the silver of his eyes meets the gold of hers. “You look like a girl from a story, who puts on fairy-shoes and can’t stop dancing.” Until she dies, he does not add. August says it like he’s impressed, and maybe a little longing.
Then the merchant is clearing his throat, and the golden stallion nods toward him, though his gaze does not stray from the bright burn of hers. “What’s your pleasure?” Of course he means a drink. But his expression says tell me anything.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
