She doesn’t look back.
That alone is enough to tell August that she is somebody, even if it weren’t given away by how the others watched her as though they were gazelles and she a lioness among them. There was fear in some of their eyes, and awe, and jealousy and want and distaste - all the expressions he knew to follow power.
And he followed too, with nothing asking for his time and only an itch beneath his skin, a hollowness in his mind, an ache under his jaw. August feels the hum as the dark and the cold settle like a sigh around the city; he feels like the sky before a storm, taut almost to trembling, still but building and waiting for the first hailstone, the first meeting of lightning and sand.
Whatever this stranger has, whatever she is with paint like a snake’s warnings over her eyes and the vivid white striping her, he wants it, or to be near to it, or to watch it for just a little longer. To take some of it for himself and remember what it is like, to smile down at the world and need nothing it offers.
There is almost trouble at the gate. The guards are still distracted after her passing, but he still must use the emissary’s name, which gives him a sear of shame. But then he is out in the wide desert, painted in deep, rich tones like dyed silk. It is a holy kind of place - he can admit that even as he knows a viper might lurk underfoot anywhere. It does not feel safe in the way Denocte always has to him, and it is not just the memory of all the blood the sand has drunk.
But there is not time for contemplation now, and he is grateful for it. She is running, a swift dark wind sweeping down over the dunes, and without giving himself time to reconsider August follows.
It has been a long time since he has run like this, with his legs extending fully and the sharp cold air burning in his lungs, and it feels like glory. It doesn’t matter that he’ll pay for it in aching muscles later. It only matters that he keeps her ahead of him, the white slashes on her wings guiding him like a beacon, a little cloud of sand billowing behind her like a veil. August wonders where she’s going, but doesn’t even truly care; it is enough to run, to see her running. To be out from the city and its people and have only the eyes of the stars watching him, cold and distant though they are.
At the sight of the gates he stops. He’s breathing heavily, too distant for her to hear him, and his breath steams up in little clouds, the wind freezing the sweat on his sides. His heart is still knocking at his ribs like a card in spokes but it is not just from running, not when his silver eyes pick out the carved shapes of twin snakes with their eyes red and small as old embers.
She still does not look back. And as soon as he’s caught his breath, August follows her through the gates.
@Amaunet
That alone is enough to tell August that she is somebody, even if it weren’t given away by how the others watched her as though they were gazelles and she a lioness among them. There was fear in some of their eyes, and awe, and jealousy and want and distaste - all the expressions he knew to follow power.
And he followed too, with nothing asking for his time and only an itch beneath his skin, a hollowness in his mind, an ache under his jaw. August feels the hum as the dark and the cold settle like a sigh around the city; he feels like the sky before a storm, taut almost to trembling, still but building and waiting for the first hailstone, the first meeting of lightning and sand.
Whatever this stranger has, whatever she is with paint like a snake’s warnings over her eyes and the vivid white striping her, he wants it, or to be near to it, or to watch it for just a little longer. To take some of it for himself and remember what it is like, to smile down at the world and need nothing it offers.
There is almost trouble at the gate. The guards are still distracted after her passing, but he still must use the emissary’s name, which gives him a sear of shame. But then he is out in the wide desert, painted in deep, rich tones like dyed silk. It is a holy kind of place - he can admit that even as he knows a viper might lurk underfoot anywhere. It does not feel safe in the way Denocte always has to him, and it is not just the memory of all the blood the sand has drunk.
But there is not time for contemplation now, and he is grateful for it. She is running, a swift dark wind sweeping down over the dunes, and without giving himself time to reconsider August follows.
It has been a long time since he has run like this, with his legs extending fully and the sharp cold air burning in his lungs, and it feels like glory. It doesn’t matter that he’ll pay for it in aching muscles later. It only matters that he keeps her ahead of him, the white slashes on her wings guiding him like a beacon, a little cloud of sand billowing behind her like a veil. August wonders where she’s going, but doesn’t even truly care; it is enough to run, to see her running. To be out from the city and its people and have only the eyes of the stars watching him, cold and distant though they are.
At the sight of the gates he stops. He’s breathing heavily, too distant for her to hear him, and his breath steams up in little clouds, the wind freezing the sweat on his sides. His heart is still knocking at his ribs like a card in spokes but it is not just from running, not when his silver eyes pick out the carved shapes of twin snakes with their eyes red and small as old embers.
She still does not look back. And as soon as he’s caught his breath, August follows her through the gates.
@Amaunet
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
