“My effects, please.”
Though there is nobody else in cramped room, the stallion behind the desk doesn’t bat an eye, or look up from whatever he’s writing with a feather quill that August finds aggravatingly grandiose. Sunlight slants like bars between them, dancing with dust motes; he is eager for outside air, eager for solid ground beneath his feet, eager to have his saber back at his side and the H.M. Buttercup well behind him.
All that keeps him from it is bosun currently ignoring him. August thinks that he’d very much like to meet him some evening in a dark alleyway of Denocte. Or even a brightly lit one.
“Sir, my sword. I assure you, as soon as I have it you and I will be rid of one another forever.” His voice is schooled into careful neutrality, though he can feel the bees’-buzz of anger beginning.
At last the bay looked up, the grays scattered in his muzzle glinting in the light, his green eyes narrowed. “Sailor,” he said, and managed to make both syllables drip with disdain. “Although,” he said, turning to the row of bins behind him, “I suppose once I give you these you’re not even that, are you?” There was something triumphant in the crook of his smile when he straightened again, but August’s eyes fell to the sword he’d set on the desk.
He wants to say something scathing, something Minya or Manon would be proud of, but all he does is press his lips into a thin smile, take his father’s saber, and go.
Because no matter what he might have said, Hector the bosun is right. As soon as he steps onto the Solterran dock, August is nobody.
At least he is a nobody back on solid ground. For a moment the palomino only stands in the winter sunlight, watching the world cycle onward around him. So many voices, so many horses, so much activity - after weeks at sea, it’s almost overwhelming. And it’s not even home.
Maybe he should have waited until the ship returned to Denocte in another week. But August couldn’t bear the thought of another day on board - and he had to talk to Aghavni. Even if he hadn’t brought her a necklace with pearls he size of eggs. Even if she hadn’t told him anything of her plans before running off to Solterra over a month ago.
(Of course that had always been the plan for the princess. He’d known it from the day he’d met her. But to play diplomat to a foreign-born stranger and not even ask him to join her-)
Anyway. His conversation with Senna just after, his decision to try his luck as a sailor - she must know the timing wasn’t a coincidence. But she’d made it clear enough that she didn’t require his protection anymore. She hadn’t for a long time. And it wasn’t her fault that it left him…adrift, one could say.
The palomino sighs and lifts his gaze until he marks the palace, its domes and towers rising high and bright over the rest of the city. When he readjusts his saber in its sheath at its side, it feels only a little like a mockery of all the adventures he’d imagined before setting off. Then August begins the long walk to find his princess.
Only it turns out to not be such a long walk after all.
At first his eyes slip past what looks only like a young couple, tucked in a close embrace - a common enough sight at the docks, which saw their share of lengthy goodbyes. But no number of months at sea could erase the pattern of Aghavni’s markings from his mind, and at once his attention whips back, his heartbeat quickening, his silver eyes narrowed. It is not a mistake, not a figment of his troubled mind, but truly her, and -
It is possible that he is a lover of hers, the chestnut stallion with his mouth so close to her ear and his sword within easy reach at his side, and possible that they are only having a quarrel. But August notes the set of her ears and lines of her body, the way the wound cloak presses tightly enough to dimple the skin of her neck, how they stand in shadow, half-hidden from passersby. Already he’s setting course for them with the intensity of a fired arrow, and for the first time in months he’s certain of something - that if this bastard isn’t gone in the next ten seconds, he won’t be going anywhere ever again.
“Aghavni,” he calls out as he closes the space between them, drawing their eyes and others. “What a surprise! You didn’t have to come all the way down here to meet me. And who’s your friend?” His voice is casual, warm as liquid gold, but by now he’s near enough for them both to see the fury in his eyes, though his gaze is only for the other boy. It promises leave now or die. And he doesn’t need to draw the saber at his side for the message to resonate (and certainly the pressure of the blade against the stallion’s throat doesn’t hurt, though August has yet to make this detail out).
Outnumbered, threatened, under the growing scrutiny of the crowd, the chestnut flees. August wants to pursue, but settles for memorizing every detail he can before the boy disappears around a corner. When he turns back to Aghavni, his heartbeat is still elevated, and the roil of emotions - fear, anger, surprise, confusion - are still flooding his system like spilled mead.
Before he speaks he breathes; in and out, in and out, seeing red and tasting salt and spice and faded winter sunlight. Then he looks at her and says, “I’ll assume, had I not intervened, you were moments away from gutting him like a fish.” He does not add the way I taught you, but it is there in his expression anyway, just this side of accusatory.
It is not the reunion he'd been imagining.
But it's not much worse.
Though there is nobody else in cramped room, the stallion behind the desk doesn’t bat an eye, or look up from whatever he’s writing with a feather quill that August finds aggravatingly grandiose. Sunlight slants like bars between them, dancing with dust motes; he is eager for outside air, eager for solid ground beneath his feet, eager to have his saber back at his side and the H.M. Buttercup well behind him.
All that keeps him from it is bosun currently ignoring him. August thinks that he’d very much like to meet him some evening in a dark alleyway of Denocte. Or even a brightly lit one.
“Sir, my sword. I assure you, as soon as I have it you and I will be rid of one another forever.” His voice is schooled into careful neutrality, though he can feel the bees’-buzz of anger beginning.
At last the bay looked up, the grays scattered in his muzzle glinting in the light, his green eyes narrowed. “Sailor,” he said, and managed to make both syllables drip with disdain. “Although,” he said, turning to the row of bins behind him, “I suppose once I give you these you’re not even that, are you?” There was something triumphant in the crook of his smile when he straightened again, but August’s eyes fell to the sword he’d set on the desk.
He wants to say something scathing, something Minya or Manon would be proud of, but all he does is press his lips into a thin smile, take his father’s saber, and go.
Because no matter what he might have said, Hector the bosun is right. As soon as he steps onto the Solterran dock, August is nobody.
At least he is a nobody back on solid ground. For a moment the palomino only stands in the winter sunlight, watching the world cycle onward around him. So many voices, so many horses, so much activity - after weeks at sea, it’s almost overwhelming. And it’s not even home.
Maybe he should have waited until the ship returned to Denocte in another week. But August couldn’t bear the thought of another day on board - and he had to talk to Aghavni. Even if he hadn’t brought her a necklace with pearls he size of eggs. Even if she hadn’t told him anything of her plans before running off to Solterra over a month ago.
(Of course that had always been the plan for the princess. He’d known it from the day he’d met her. But to play diplomat to a foreign-born stranger and not even ask him to join her-)
Anyway. His conversation with Senna just after, his decision to try his luck as a sailor - she must know the timing wasn’t a coincidence. But she’d made it clear enough that she didn’t require his protection anymore. She hadn’t for a long time. And it wasn’t her fault that it left him…adrift, one could say.
The palomino sighs and lifts his gaze until he marks the palace, its domes and towers rising high and bright over the rest of the city. When he readjusts his saber in its sheath at its side, it feels only a little like a mockery of all the adventures he’d imagined before setting off. Then August begins the long walk to find his princess.
Only it turns out to not be such a long walk after all.
At first his eyes slip past what looks only like a young couple, tucked in a close embrace - a common enough sight at the docks, which saw their share of lengthy goodbyes. But no number of months at sea could erase the pattern of Aghavni’s markings from his mind, and at once his attention whips back, his heartbeat quickening, his silver eyes narrowed. It is not a mistake, not a figment of his troubled mind, but truly her, and -
It is possible that he is a lover of hers, the chestnut stallion with his mouth so close to her ear and his sword within easy reach at his side, and possible that they are only having a quarrel. But August notes the set of her ears and lines of her body, the way the wound cloak presses tightly enough to dimple the skin of her neck, how they stand in shadow, half-hidden from passersby. Already he’s setting course for them with the intensity of a fired arrow, and for the first time in months he’s certain of something - that if this bastard isn’t gone in the next ten seconds, he won’t be going anywhere ever again.
“Aghavni,” he calls out as he closes the space between them, drawing their eyes and others. “What a surprise! You didn’t have to come all the way down here to meet me. And who’s your friend?” His voice is casual, warm as liquid gold, but by now he’s near enough for them both to see the fury in his eyes, though his gaze is only for the other boy. It promises leave now or die. And he doesn’t need to draw the saber at his side for the message to resonate (and certainly the pressure of the blade against the stallion’s throat doesn’t hurt, though August has yet to make this detail out).
Outnumbered, threatened, under the growing scrutiny of the crowd, the chestnut flees. August wants to pursue, but settles for memorizing every detail he can before the boy disappears around a corner. When he turns back to Aghavni, his heartbeat is still elevated, and the roil of emotions - fear, anger, surprise, confusion - are still flooding his system like spilled mead.
Before he speaks he breathes; in and out, in and out, seeing red and tasting salt and spice and faded winter sunlight. Then he looks at her and says, “I’ll assume, had I not intervened, you were moments away from gutting him like a fish.” He does not add the way I taught you, but it is there in his expression anyway, just this side of accusatory.
It is not the reunion he'd been imagining.
But it's not much worse.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
