august
—« that boy went stone-cold crazy »
H
e’s heard the laugh of a man like that before. Many times, in fact, usually well after midnight, when the Scarab’s main room was hazy and sweet with smoke, and only the serious players remained. The ones who had lost everything before, and seemed intent on doing so again. It’s a strange sound to hear from a holy man.
But that makes sense, as soon as the paint speaks. The dirty rag wrapped around his fine-boned face makes more sense, too, though it also makes August a little sick to his stomach to think of them doing it. Tenebrae is not the only one to have broken vows (though perhaps his were technically met - it wasn’t like Aghavni needed his protection anymore). At least August hadn’t been punished by his former family; he’d only done it to himself.
He watches the stallion, and not the pretty, sunlit day or the way the wind plays over the grass like a light hand, bending the seed-heads. He doesn’t say anything, which maybe isn’t fair, at least until the monk (past monk? Outcast monk?) says he’s changed. Then, he snorts something that is not quite a laugh. “I was having a rough night.” It’s hard to think back to that time, as distant and faded as the city through a haze of smoke. But also like smoke, there are parts of it that still cling to him, cinders caught in his lungs.
Maybe it’s because Tenebrae can’t actually meet his eye; maybe it’s because he is - or was - a religious man, and so someone it felt almost natural to confess to. Maybe it’s because August didn’t really care about him (they are as good as strangers, after all), and he’s sure the feeling is mutual. Whatever it is, after a moment he says, “Did you go there - the island? When it first appeared. I was one of those who tried for the Relic.” He tries to sound offhand, nonchalant, and not like an urgent little boy who needs to express that’s when it all fell apart.
It seemed like the kind of thing that had to do with gods and monks, anyway.
