He laughs, too, when she embraces him, though he also makes a face and a big show of shaking off, dog-like, afterward. The seawater is cold enough on his warm skin the sensation is almost like pain, but afterward he does feel more awake.
She smells like the sea (no surprise there), all salt and brine, but August had never paid attention to the kinds of tales that spoke of kelpies. His bedtime stories were full of pirates and goddesses, brave princes and crooked kings - until there were no more stories, because there were no more parents.
All that to say, when she says she was Changed, it takes him a few beats to realize what she really means. First his brow is furrowed in confusion, silver eyes narrowed, and they widen, eyebrows arching up and up, as he puts the pieces together. The ocean behind her, the smell on her skin, the way she looked not quite equine. “Oh,” he says, and then “oh,” and he steps back, not to get away from her, but to look her over anew.
There is something sharper about her, more elegant (she was elegant before, of course, with the lifelong grace of a dancer and fighter), more leonine, almost. He shakes his head, a little dazed by the news, but before he can ask any of the questions that have flocked to his tongue like starlings she is asking him one.
“Not so dramatically as that. Just the usual standard-grade misadventures. Inadvisable fights, a near-death experience, you know. I left the Scarab - oh, about a year ago now.” August is well-practiced at light patter, waving away his experiences and all the still-tender stuff beneath them. But her last question makes him pause, and he considers it seriously. “Better than I was,” he says, more slowly, “but honestly I’m not sure what to do with myself, Boudika.”
He’s not sure why it is that telling the truth to her comes so naturally, but he’s grateful for it.
@Boudika
She smells like the sea (no surprise there), all salt and brine, but August had never paid attention to the kinds of tales that spoke of kelpies. His bedtime stories were full of pirates and goddesses, brave princes and crooked kings - until there were no more stories, because there were no more parents.
All that to say, when she says she was Changed, it takes him a few beats to realize what she really means. First his brow is furrowed in confusion, silver eyes narrowed, and they widen, eyebrows arching up and up, as he puts the pieces together. The ocean behind her, the smell on her skin, the way she looked not quite equine. “Oh,” he says, and then “oh,” and he steps back, not to get away from her, but to look her over anew.
There is something sharper about her, more elegant (she was elegant before, of course, with the lifelong grace of a dancer and fighter), more leonine, almost. He shakes his head, a little dazed by the news, but before he can ask any of the questions that have flocked to his tongue like starlings she is asking him one.
“Not so dramatically as that. Just the usual standard-grade misadventures. Inadvisable fights, a near-death experience, you know. I left the Scarab - oh, about a year ago now.” August is well-practiced at light patter, waving away his experiences and all the still-tender stuff beneath them. But her last question makes him pause, and he considers it seriously. “Better than I was,” he says, more slowly, “but honestly I’m not sure what to do with myself, Boudika.”
He’s not sure why it is that telling the truth to her comes so naturally, but he’s grateful for it.
@Boudika
August - -
I've got that American meanness;
