He might have laughed at that - at least you know what you are. Ah, but princess, he could have said (were there time, were they not drawing a crowd, were her blade not dimpling his skin, so near biting it) that’s exactly the trouble. She has always known who she is - Sol IV, rightful heir of an ancient kingdom - and August is no one, sure of nothing, for the first time in his life. A painful realization, hence the sea and the quarter-life crisis.
But none of that matters now, when she is real and warm and pressed against him. It had never really been about what he wanted, anyway, and perhaps that’s why he’s had so much difficulty deciding now. Protect her. His one true purpose, and instead he’d - he’d run away. Coward.
Everything is red-stained now, like a wash of watercolor over the city. She still looks beautiful, even cast in crimson, even with her hair in disarray and blood streaking her face and chest, a careless artist. Of course she has always been beautiful, but August has always thought of it matter-of-factly, a passionless truth. For some reason he’s unable to so now, and it only disorients him further.
This, he thinks, is why he’s never come to Solterra. Some premonition that it would ruin everything.
At least he is not the only one stumbling. He arches a brow at her, waiting for her to clarify, swallowing his own explanations. The crowd around them is not thinning as it should, and he follows her obligingly (though with a wince at the yank on his unbound hair), with guilt again nipping at him - he should have already gotten her somewhere safe, away from this dangerous scene. Never mind that he has no idea where he’s going here.
Following her through the throng at least feels familiar. So does the sword at his side, and he focuses on these two things as everything else around him continues to hold that slightly unreal quality, the dream-state. In the darkness of the alley her face hovers like a moon.
He doesn’t say anything, at first, because she is right. He would not have said no. And he could protest that with a thousand hypotheticals and still know the truth: he would have resented her for it, and always wondered, always wished himself elsewhere. August can’t bear to watch her fold her legs beneath her; it is too easy to superimpose the image of her collapsing, lungs vacant of air, green eyes vacant of sight. Instead he turns back toward the mouth of the alley, a darkening throat, making sure they aren’t followed.
Only when her voice wavers does he look back, and the sight of her there, lying like a child in a sandy forgotten alleyway, is enough to break his heart. She looks like an orphan, not a princess, or an emissary, or a queen.
“What,” he says, and his voice is steady and bright, a counterpoint to hers. “You think I can’t handle a little bit of sand? Sure, my hair my suffer for the heat, but it’s a dry heat. If it were humid, now -“ How easy it is, to fall back into pretending everything is fine; maybe that’s what they’ve always been best at. And maybe he realizes that, too, because he cuts himself off, and lowers his nose to her cheek.
“Aghavni. I know enough of what it’s like here. And isn’t that why you came in the first place, hasn’t that always been the purpose - to make it better?“
He knows it is. And that it’s a far more noble purpose than any he can pretend for himself, no matter how many times he runs away to the ocean, mopping poop decks and calling it adventure.
He tries to resist, but the last hour has weakened his resolve. Before he straightens again, August presses the ghost of a kiss to her forehead, just below the jut of her horn. When he looks away, toward the city, it’s as much to keep from seeing her expression as to hide whatever’s fighting in his own.
“When you’re ready,” he says brusquely, “I’ll escort you…wherever it is you’re staying now.” He can’t quite bring himself to say home. But he is smiling, when he glances back at her, a shadow on the sand, a girl who (he tells himself) still needs him after all. “And I really hope your city isn’t rationing water, because I haven’t bathed in weeks.”
But none of that matters now, when she is real and warm and pressed against him. It had never really been about what he wanted, anyway, and perhaps that’s why he’s had so much difficulty deciding now. Protect her. His one true purpose, and instead he’d - he’d run away. Coward.
Everything is red-stained now, like a wash of watercolor over the city. She still looks beautiful, even cast in crimson, even with her hair in disarray and blood streaking her face and chest, a careless artist. Of course she has always been beautiful, but August has always thought of it matter-of-factly, a passionless truth. For some reason he’s unable to so now, and it only disorients him further.
This, he thinks, is why he’s never come to Solterra. Some premonition that it would ruin everything.
At least he is not the only one stumbling. He arches a brow at her, waiting for her to clarify, swallowing his own explanations. The crowd around them is not thinning as it should, and he follows her obligingly (though with a wince at the yank on his unbound hair), with guilt again nipping at him - he should have already gotten her somewhere safe, away from this dangerous scene. Never mind that he has no idea where he’s going here.
Following her through the throng at least feels familiar. So does the sword at his side, and he focuses on these two things as everything else around him continues to hold that slightly unreal quality, the dream-state. In the darkness of the alley her face hovers like a moon.
He doesn’t say anything, at first, because she is right. He would not have said no. And he could protest that with a thousand hypotheticals and still know the truth: he would have resented her for it, and always wondered, always wished himself elsewhere. August can’t bear to watch her fold her legs beneath her; it is too easy to superimpose the image of her collapsing, lungs vacant of air, green eyes vacant of sight. Instead he turns back toward the mouth of the alley, a darkening throat, making sure they aren’t followed.
Only when her voice wavers does he look back, and the sight of her there, lying like a child in a sandy forgotten alleyway, is enough to break his heart. She looks like an orphan, not a princess, or an emissary, or a queen.
“What,” he says, and his voice is steady and bright, a counterpoint to hers. “You think I can’t handle a little bit of sand? Sure, my hair my suffer for the heat, but it’s a dry heat. If it were humid, now -“ How easy it is, to fall back into pretending everything is fine; maybe that’s what they’ve always been best at. And maybe he realizes that, too, because he cuts himself off, and lowers his nose to her cheek.
“Aghavni. I know enough of what it’s like here. And isn’t that why you came in the first place, hasn’t that always been the purpose - to make it better?“
He knows it is. And that it’s a far more noble purpose than any he can pretend for himself, no matter how many times he runs away to the ocean, mopping poop decks and calling it adventure.
He tries to resist, but the last hour has weakened his resolve. Before he straightens again, August presses the ghost of a kiss to her forehead, just below the jut of her horn. When he looks away, toward the city, it’s as much to keep from seeing her expression as to hide whatever’s fighting in his own.
“When you’re ready,” he says brusquely, “I’ll escort you…wherever it is you’re staying now.” He can’t quite bring himself to say home. But he is smiling, when he glances back at her, a shadow on the sand, a girl who (he tells himself) still needs him after all. “And I really hope your city isn’t rationing water, because I haven’t bathed in weeks.”
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
