Normally when Aghavni looked at him, he found himself caught for a moment by her eyes. Never more than half a heartbeat, but no matter the years they’d spent together it’s like even his memory can’t believe their color, their intensity.
But this time he doesn’t notice them at all.
When she looks up, August only sees what he had failed to before - the blood streaking her face and throat, not like warpaint but like the aftermath of violence, too random to be art. For a moment he is transported, back to the first time he saw Solterra, through flaking iron bars that he’d pressed his cheek against when the caravan jolted to a stop and the first cries began. And two days before that (always this moment) when he’d watched a soldier slit his mother’s throat. That same vital red, the same beats of swelling, drowning panic - how had he missed seeing the knife? - and he isn’t thinking at all, his thoughts are birds scattering at a gunshot, except for I’ve failed, I’ve lost her.
It’s only when she says his name that he realizes the blood isn’t hers. He is there when she stumbles, dropping his shoulder to support her own, and the warm press of her skin against his is the first touch he’s felt in months. It is enough to more firmly ground him; as soon as she’s steady one of them steps away, and from this distance he assesses her for wounds. August can only stare as her mouth leaves a bright smear of red across her shoulder. He feels a little like staggering, himself; he half wonders if he might jolt awake still at sea.
But like her eyes, the real Aghavni has always been too striking, too alive, to ever be confused with the imitation of memory.
He underestimated me. So it seemed, and thank all the gods for it. He wants to take back his statement, and his tone; he wants to kiss her forehead, her neck where the scarf had pressed, her fluttering pulse. He lets none of these things show. Neither does he know whether it’s relief that’s prompted them, or homesickness, or - something else. “Good,” he says, “I hope the bastard bleeds out.” He feels guilty for not pursuing him, for not knowing how serious it could have been. August lifts his chin to apologize - and finds Aghavni’s emerald eyes flashing with fury.
Anger is better, easier, than fear. He doesn’t move as she lays the blade of her fan along his cheek, the blood on it still warmer than the winter air; his nostrils flare at the sharp copper scent of it. If he were a hound he could hunt that scent - hell, if this were Denocte he could still find the boy. But August knows that in Solterra he is out of his depth.
He doesn’t spare a glance for the onlookers who are only growing in number; he is staring into her eyes, greener than anything he’s seen since leaving. And the little sun burned there, a fact he has always let himself forget. It serves as a good reminder now: she has been marked for this place since before they met.
“Why not both,” he says, and tries for a smile that comes out crooked. “Maybe I’m your eternal reward.” He thinks of how he must look - disheveled, sunburnt, hair stiff with salt - and smell, and the smile curls higher. “Or punishment.” August decides he’s had enough of standing at the sharp point of her fan; he tilts his head away, stepping in to embrace her. For a long moment he stands with his eyes shut tight, the ground steady beneath his feet, feeling them both breathe.
“You smell like home,” he murmurs into her ear, and feels his cheeks heat with a blush even as he fights the urge to bury his face in the curve of her neck, the tumble of her mane. He is still disoriented, he thinks; that’s why his heart feels like it’s constricting at the faint trace of the Scarab’s spice-and-sweet. August blinks and begins to pull away, and now his own neck and shoulder sport bright spots of blood.
His eyes catch on the tiny smashed galleon, so shattered he doesn’t recognize it as a ship. He takes a deep breath before searching out her gaze again. “Well, princess. You didn’t have to stage such a dramatic assassination attempt to convince me not to leave again. You could have just asked.”
If she had (why hadn’t she?) he doesn’t know what he would have said. His feelings for Solterra are mixed but all unpleasant; resentment for what it’s taken from him, pity, distaste for their wars and ways.
But now August is sure, with the kind of certainty he hasn’t felt in months, that he will not be seeing Denocte anytime soon.
But this time he doesn’t notice them at all.
When she looks up, August only sees what he had failed to before - the blood streaking her face and throat, not like warpaint but like the aftermath of violence, too random to be art. For a moment he is transported, back to the first time he saw Solterra, through flaking iron bars that he’d pressed his cheek against when the caravan jolted to a stop and the first cries began. And two days before that (always this moment) when he’d watched a soldier slit his mother’s throat. That same vital red, the same beats of swelling, drowning panic - how had he missed seeing the knife? - and he isn’t thinking at all, his thoughts are birds scattering at a gunshot, except for I’ve failed, I’ve lost her.
It’s only when she says his name that he realizes the blood isn’t hers. He is there when she stumbles, dropping his shoulder to support her own, and the warm press of her skin against his is the first touch he’s felt in months. It is enough to more firmly ground him; as soon as she’s steady one of them steps away, and from this distance he assesses her for wounds. August can only stare as her mouth leaves a bright smear of red across her shoulder. He feels a little like staggering, himself; he half wonders if he might jolt awake still at sea.
But like her eyes, the real Aghavni has always been too striking, too alive, to ever be confused with the imitation of memory.
He underestimated me. So it seemed, and thank all the gods for it. He wants to take back his statement, and his tone; he wants to kiss her forehead, her neck where the scarf had pressed, her fluttering pulse. He lets none of these things show. Neither does he know whether it’s relief that’s prompted them, or homesickness, or - something else. “Good,” he says, “I hope the bastard bleeds out.” He feels guilty for not pursuing him, for not knowing how serious it could have been. August lifts his chin to apologize - and finds Aghavni’s emerald eyes flashing with fury.
Anger is better, easier, than fear. He doesn’t move as she lays the blade of her fan along his cheek, the blood on it still warmer than the winter air; his nostrils flare at the sharp copper scent of it. If he were a hound he could hunt that scent - hell, if this were Denocte he could still find the boy. But August knows that in Solterra he is out of his depth.
He doesn’t spare a glance for the onlookers who are only growing in number; he is staring into her eyes, greener than anything he’s seen since leaving. And the little sun burned there, a fact he has always let himself forget. It serves as a good reminder now: she has been marked for this place since before they met.
“Why not both,” he says, and tries for a smile that comes out crooked. “Maybe I’m your eternal reward.” He thinks of how he must look - disheveled, sunburnt, hair stiff with salt - and smell, and the smile curls higher. “Or punishment.” August decides he’s had enough of standing at the sharp point of her fan; he tilts his head away, stepping in to embrace her. For a long moment he stands with his eyes shut tight, the ground steady beneath his feet, feeling them both breathe.
“You smell like home,” he murmurs into her ear, and feels his cheeks heat with a blush even as he fights the urge to bury his face in the curve of her neck, the tumble of her mane. He is still disoriented, he thinks; that’s why his heart feels like it’s constricting at the faint trace of the Scarab’s spice-and-sweet. August blinks and begins to pull away, and now his own neck and shoulder sport bright spots of blood.
His eyes catch on the tiny smashed galleon, so shattered he doesn’t recognize it as a ship. He takes a deep breath before searching out her gaze again. “Well, princess. You didn’t have to stage such a dramatic assassination attempt to convince me not to leave again. You could have just asked.”
If she had (why hadn’t she?) he doesn’t know what he would have said. His feelings for Solterra are mixed but all unpleasant; resentment for what it’s taken from him, pity, distaste for their wars and ways.
But now August is sure, with the kind of certainty he hasn’t felt in months, that he will not be seeing Denocte anytime soon.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
