I'm the hero of this story
I don't need to be saved
I don't need to be saved
It was not perhaps his best instinct that led him to surprise a man looking to fling a few knives, though it could be argued he’d made poorer choices of late. There was everything that had passed in the desert, for instance; when he thinks of Warset, guilt like a bruise covers his heart, and when he thinks of Orestes - well, there’s no shame there. Instead he regrets not staying, forcing the man to recant what he said, maybe muddying that pretty hide before getting disemboweled by his lion.
There is a difference, he is sure, between having a death wish and simply having nothing to live for. August knows which side of the line he walks, even if it’s an increasingly closer thing.
He catches the first response on the brine-tasting breeze, and feels his lips shape a lazy curve; a few of the following words are snatched away or transmuted to nonsense, but he doesn’t miss the gesture to the satchel. Meanwhile the stranger’s blade twirls, cutting like a swallow through the air, singing softly as it waits for a target. Probably that should be a warning, but August is already coming closer, near enough to notice a flash of silver eyes from the man, and silver tooling, handles and blades from the knives.
“That is quite a collection,” he says, admiring, even as he touches his thoughts to the grip of his father’s sword as if in reassurance. “But too many? I’m not sure that exists.”
His gaze follows the dagger until it stops, and then lifts to the man. It’s strange to see eyes the same silver as his own set in so dark a face, something half-familiar. Has he seen him before at the Scarab? Perhaps the island?
Saint Volta.
He studies the proffered handle, the intricate carvings, boys and beasts. When he takes it, it’s as live as a warm thing in his grip; he tilts it and a bead of red sunset-light slides down the blade. August has a dozen questions but he keeps them all behind his teeth for now. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and holds it as lightly as a bird in his palm; then he flings it, end-over-end, into the surf. Watching it vanish makes him feel both satisfied and sorry, and he sighs before looking back to the stranger, the corner of his mouth hooked in a grin. “Should I expect to be cursed now?”
@Caine I did it
