I'm the hero of this story
I don't need to be saved
I don't need to be saved
He shouldn’t still be here; he doesn’t even particularly want to be here, not any longer, not after Orestes and his damn cat, not after Warset (and her cat). And yet there is something about Solterra, an undeniable draw. Maybe it is the heat that makes him lazy and not-quite-content, or the dreamlike way his shadow moves on the sand, or the threat and promise of violence under everything. Maybe it is the music of the wind in the dunes or the reed flutes in the streets. Possibly it is as simple as the fact that he doesn’t recognize anyone.
Whatever it is August remains in the desert, despite the scabs his time here has already left on his skin and his heart.
Today, at least (he swears to himself) he will only be an observer. No trouble except what he watches in the ring; let the blood be someone else’s this time. And anyway, it’s Amaunet fighting, and thought the night he followed her feels more like a fever-dream than anything real - except for the bruises he still wears - the memory of her touch, of her eyes, still makes his pulse thrill. It would be a sin not to watch her in the ring.
And, he decides as he enters the Colosseum, it would be a folly not to bet on her winning.
Token in hand and purse painfully light, he threads his way through the crowd. There is a frenetic energy to the stadium, a hum of eagerness for the violence that should (he tells himself) turn him off more than it does. He likes the anonymity, if not the close quarters of the throng; for a moment he considers pressing closer, or trying to find wherever Aghavni is surely watching from, but the prospect feels exhausting. Instead he settles back on his heels, idly scanning the crowd, and that is when he sees a spot of bright blood seeping through a white bandage on a dark shoulder. August’s gaze narrows, taking in the dapples, the lean muscles, the hazy beer. He shouldn’t bother, but - what fun is there, anyway, in watching such a match alone?
“Hey,” he says, moving forward to fall in beside the stranger, “did you just come from down there?” He indicates the stadium floor with a gesture of his chin, then raises a brow. “You’re bleeding through your bandages.” Far below, the crowd begins to chant.
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