He thinks it’s the drink that’s doing this to him, whatever was in it; cactus-nectar and sage-smoke on the heels of his run across the desert. What else could send him trembling over the edge of madness so readily, without even a glance back? Oh, she plays a part in it, the cords of hair and arcane paint, the molten gold of her eyes and the whisper of her lips and teeth over his skin, but August has no idea how much.
A fool, but a happy one. Or if not happy, at least not empty. At least alive.
The final test is to stay that way.
There is a firelight-glow out the corner of his eye but he never turns to see that it is her; there are plenty of other fires that send light bouncing and scattering and throwing up big shadows in the hot desert night. He is a feral thing there at the corner of the ring with her body crowded behind him; he trembles as she ties one of her feathers into his pale mane, his nostrils flared, eyes wide and wild. It is difficult to keep still, difficult to focus on anything but the noise of the crowd and the turbulent ground in the middle of the ring.
And then he lifts his gaze across it, and locks eyes with a stallion at the other side. August bares his teeth in matching greeting; the stranger’s ears twist back and his neck arches. In his expression August sees all the old enemies that live in his heart, and in the baring of his throat he sees the chance for blood.
The scrape of her teeth has him curving around; when she nips him he tosses his head to keep from lashing out, and the feather spins against his skin. ”Survive,” he hears, and there is god-light in her eyes, there is a thundering noise from the crowd, there is the sound of her laughter above it, echoing through him, sinking like teeth into his heart. There is only one way he knows of how to loosen its grip again -
he throws himself into the ring and it feels like letting go.
@Amaunet
A fool, but a happy one. Or if not happy, at least not empty. At least alive.
The final test is to stay that way.
There is a firelight-glow out the corner of his eye but he never turns to see that it is her; there are plenty of other fires that send light bouncing and scattering and throwing up big shadows in the hot desert night. He is a feral thing there at the corner of the ring with her body crowded behind him; he trembles as she ties one of her feathers into his pale mane, his nostrils flared, eyes wide and wild. It is difficult to keep still, difficult to focus on anything but the noise of the crowd and the turbulent ground in the middle of the ring.
And then he lifts his gaze across it, and locks eyes with a stallion at the other side. August bares his teeth in matching greeting; the stranger’s ears twist back and his neck arches. In his expression August sees all the old enemies that live in his heart, and in the baring of his throat he sees the chance for blood.
The scrape of her teeth has him curving around; when she nips him he tosses his head to keep from lashing out, and the feather spins against his skin. ”Survive,” he hears, and there is god-light in her eyes, there is a thundering noise from the crowd, there is the sound of her laughter above it, echoing through him, sinking like teeth into his heart. There is only one way he knows of how to loosen its grip again -
he throws himself into the ring and it feels like letting go.
@Amaunet
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
