I'm the hero of this story
I don't need to be saved
I don't need to be saved
It is that laughter that makes August decide that he will never love Solterra. Or maybe it is the smile that follows it; everything starts to blur together then, when the king begins to speak and August’s incredulity grows wider and longer by the moment.
It’s true that he’d been intent on needling Orestes since he saw him, with that little bit of jealousy, that misguided malcontent that has been with August since disembarking the merchant ship. But now the feeling flares into true anger - and he listens, inwardly seething, from the moment the other man says perhaps longer than me.
Yes; much longer than the man who’d arrived barely more than a year ago, after all the dust and dying had settled down.
Holding his tongue is difficult, and August is not well-practiced at it, but he manages, barely. Not until the king finishes his speech, not until the lion drops from the tree and saunters over (a presence August can hardly ignore, a threat or a promise of teeth) does he loosen his clenched jaws to respond.
“I don’t know who has taught you this place’s history, but I would fire them.” For many years, August has been an expert at the lying game, at playing politics among the affluent patrons of the Scarab. This practice allows him to keep his body loose when it wants to stand rigid as a fist; it keeps his voice easy, conversational, when he wants to shout or hiss. Even the silver of his eyes is as calm as a mirror, though his gaze doesn’t stray from the king’s.
“It’s a pity my mother and the others didn’t know that when they were killed by a Solterran raiding party in the Arma Mountains. Maybe they’d still be alive and I wouldn’t have had to watch as their throats were cut. Do you know why they must have had such vehemence against the Night Court? Could it have been because they were against Zolin’s reign, and doing battle with it as best they could, considering it was a fellow sovereign nation with a madman at the helm?” He pauses for a breath and finds that his heart is racing; as he draws the sweet garden air in a slow inhale, August glances toward the trees, the delicate patterns of vines and ferns, the cool shadows they all cast. Idly, still looking away, he continues, “I was very nearly a slave here, you know. Maybe then I would have learned its history better, eh?”
There is nothing pleasant in his smile when he turns it back to Orestes. When the oversized lion pauses beside him, what he can only take as a passive threat, August ignores him. Now, at last, there is an edge to his voice. “It was not the rest of Novus that allowed Zolin to rule. And why do you think Raum chose here to run to? I think it’s because there was no other court so fractured, so apathetic, as you say. As king, you should be aware - the actions of your country are not up to the other courts.”
Somehow, the conversation moves on. Somehow, both men take a breath. But August’s blood is still rushing, and his memories are still in that mountain pass, being shouldered into a cage as the body of his mother lays behind, still bleeding.
He is not in the mood to play nice. Not even with a king, in a king’s secret garden, with a king’s lethal companion.
“That is decidedly not why I’m here. Maybe it is your country - I’d wondered how it would be, Solterra being led by a foreigner, but you seem to fit in pretty well.” For the last time he summons a smile, ducks his head in a nod almost as gracious as Orestes’ gesture. “I’ll pass, thanks. Enjoy the morning.”
It is a difficult thing, to turn away and have them both at his back; it would be a lie if August wasn’t braced for the feeling of claws in his hide, or jaws around his leg or throat. It is an easier thing, to not look back as he walks away.
@Orestes
