to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
August is in over his head. He knows it, even if there’s no time to think about it; for all the delicate situations he’s seen as part of the Scarab family, he has no experience to compare to racing pell-mell down a dark foreign street after a dangerous man and a girl who’d just turned into a panther. (Later, he’d think of how all his ‘adventures’ in Solterra felt like the stuff of dreams, terrifying and exhilarating and strange, only the consequences never faded when he woke).
But for now there is only trying to keep up, trying not to stumble when there’s a dip beneath his feet, trying to be aware of any other heads poking out of doors to identify the thunder of hooves, the roar of a wildcat. The sandstone walls feel close, claustrophobic; but for the strip of starlight overhead he could be back on the island, back in the not-cave, back with blood-substance raining down and the relic waiting like a heart at the center of it all. This has the same tilted, unreal feel to it.
His thoughts skip the tricky question of what he just saw Warset become in favor of the hunt. It’s a relief to feel anger start to burn him up at the edges like a piece of paper touched to a candle; he welcomes it, thinks of the man with his blade lifted toward Aghavni, his scarf around her neck. In this way he battles the chaos, and so by the time the creature that was Warset sends the stallion tumbling with a terrible sound and a worse cry, by the time August clatters to a stop a few feet away, he is settling into a killing-calm.
Still, his heart is a drum it feels like he’s shouting over, even though his actual voice is low and urgent when he drops his head to be level with the tiger-eyes of the other man. “Who are you with? Why did you threaten Aghavni?" There is no vocal answer, only a baring of teeth, a glare of white-rimmed eyes, before the stallion thrashes like a fish. He is making a terrible racket; it won’t be long before they have company, and while August has no doubt that panther-Warset can take care of herself he is not so sure.
“Fuck you,” the chestnut snarls, “and fuck house Hajakha-” he kicks out again, and the palomino leaps back, his gaze flicking to the panther’s, pale flashing eyes like stars above the collar she wears. From behind them there is shouting, and the sound of doors opening, and the dim glow of torches. They have very little time.
August jerks his head in a nod. He doesn’t know what he’s asking - both kill him and let him go - and his conscience says how awful, how awful to make her decide.
@warset | <3
