like the moon pulled the tide
and the tide pulled the sand
and the tide pulled the sand
“D
o you reckon he’d do me?”
Aghavni's eyes widened in confusion. Perhaps August really was growing too confident in his ability to charm (she knew very few people who could resist that golden-boy smile and bronze physique) - but she had never pegged him as the type to set his sights so... high. The Weaver? Was the Weaver even interested in -
“I think I’m outgrowing blond.” Ah. So that’s what he meant. Aghavni choked down her bewilderment - thanking the gods her loosened hair was long enough to cover her face - before snorting blithely at his jest. “Blonde is always in season.” It was, after all, the Weaver’s favorite hair color.
And unlike hers, August’s was natural. “And besides, you can’t be a golden boy without golden boy looks.”
She squinted her eyes in a petulant glare when he nipped at her hip; yet even her much touted sharpness of observation failed to catch the flicker of unease dampening his smile. She strode down the corridor unperturbed, lost to the echoing clicks of their hooves on ice.
She was glad that August was here. Perhaps there’d come a day where she could say it to his face, but for now it was wiser for her to be the sole bearer of such thoughts.
When she was younger and still confined to the Hajakhan summer estate, a canary in a golden cage, Aghavni used to imagine herself as queen. What type of court would she hold? What dresses would she wear? What dances would she attend? But above all, what she had mulled over most was how to become a queen that would never have need of anyone, because she was needed by everyone.
Her lips formed a rueful smile. That childish fantasy had disintegrated when Father had taken her to the Scarab, and she'd met Charon, and August, and Vikander, and so many others. When loneliness ceased to plague you, it was terrifying how quickly you grew used to its absence. How much you wished never to know it again.
“At least pick a warmer place for sharing them.” Her lips curved into a pleased grin when August indulged her in her game of turning bitter truths into candy-sweet lies.
Tragedy was not a look that Aghavni wore well.
She could not command it to harden into diamonds like Minya. She could not persuade it to melt into gold like August. She was not a commander and she was not a persuader - she was a liar.
There were the good liars - everyone was a good liar, if they did it often enough - and then there were liars like her. What differentiated the two was not an increase in skill, or usage, or even circumstance: it was simply this.
Liars like her could not live without their lies. To them, their lies were not just intricately spun webs with threads of deceit and mischief - they were their entire worlds.
And Aghavni - with emerald eyes that should have been grey, flaxen hair that should have been black, a blood anointed throne that should have been hers - could not live without her lies. So she was glad, so very glad, when August said:
“I say I’ll take that bet, and buy something nice for myself at the Market. Maybe a scarf, prettier than yours.”
She laughed, as bright as a lark. “Remember the scarf you could have had when I dangle mine over your pretty head as I win.”
Her voice echoed off the crystalline walls. Humming, Aghavni dragged her emerald gaze up and up and up. Until her hair hung in a white curtain over her back, the curve of her exposed throat bobbing up and down as she swallowed.
What she would give for this peace to last.
@August | "speaks" | notes: I lied I couldn't resist adding another post! this one feels more like a closer anyways <3
