august
The bellow of a dragon pierces his consciousness only dimly, like a roll of distant thunder, something he can ignore. That’s good, since otherwise it would certainly mean death. While August, if the choice were up to him, would prefer to be eaten by a dragon than a pack of scavenging coyotes and the ravens overhead, he would really like to not be eaten at all.
Should have thought of that before. Amaunet was right - he is a fool, a fool, a fool. He’s known it for a while now, though he’s not sure when it started. Was idiocy something you could catch like a sickness? Had he picked it up at sea? It was definitely not before that, when his life had been a choreographed chaos, a dance to which he knew all the steps. Lately he just keeps plunging further into the dark. He’s played enough games of chance to know that smacking into a wall was only a statistical probability.
His steps are slowing, but he hasn’t realized it yet. Each one urges another rivulet of blood down his foreleg, a bright river. His breath is harsh, but he focuses on it and the trees in the distance (too far, too far) instead of things like dragon roars.
So when she calls out Stop the first time he doesn’t hear, and when he does hear he dismisses it as his imagination, which is blossoming into something truly creative as his cells and nerves all panic. It’s not until she appears before him like an apparition that he does stop, and blinks against the way sunlight reflects off the snow and makes her horn and scales glitter.
He really only hears the word death. “I’m not sure there’s a way to slow it,” he says, still cavalier, and if he had hands one of his palms would be leaving a bloody smear on the pommel of his sword. August sways and rights himself without quite noticing. Instead he’s squinting at the unicorn, wondering if he’s feverish, conjuring illusions, making his imagination bring him a hero.
“Hey,” he says, and almost laughs. “Aren’t you Isra?” And then, as if in a bow to the fabled queen, he sinks to his knees in the snow.
we drink the poison our minds pour for us
and wonder why we feel so sick
and wonder why we feel so sick
@Isra |
