He is looking forward to tonight.
August had forgotten, in all that had passed since the eruption and the bridge and the island, how good it felt to be home. He can’t manage to be ashamed for the way he’d felt in that god-touched forest - like one of the lost boys, or a pirate like his father, the promise of treasure over every hill - but he is ashamed for what treasonous whispers had flowed through his mind like clear water on those nights alone. The island had sung to him like a siren and pled for him to stay, and if not for the way it had ended -
But it is good to be back. To inhale the sweet smoke of the bonfires and the sharp brine of the midsummer sea and watch the mountains bluing the horizon. To hear the music ringing out through the marketplace, an altogether different symphony than the island. And, though at the time he’d enjoyed playing feral, to bathe.
Now he regards himself in the mirror, his hair half-braided along his back. It feels strange after so long leaving it loose on the island (no stranger, he supposes, than closing his eyes and seeing a cloud of butterflies descend like a rainbow mist). The mirror reflects what little else there is in his room in the dancing light of the fireplace; it is austere, compared to most of the riches of the White Scarab. There is a simple pallet, tidily made up, and a chest faintly gleaming with gold leaf along one wall, and a desk in the corner, guarded by a small slim carving of Caligo. Above the desk hangs his sword, and it is by far the most ornate thing in the room - a handsome sabre with a handle encrusted with barnacles and bits of coral, carefully placed as though they were hand-picked jewels. To August they may as well be.
His window is open and the moon hangs in a pale sliver above the bay. He had requested this room specifically for the view, though he let Minya believe it was only to remind them all of the pecking order. Though the sea is too far to hear, he sleeps with the window open. And in August’s own room, he always sleeps alone.
There is a soft knock. One of the two-year-old valets come to tell him there’s trouble brewing at one of the tables, or Anghavni with some other news of trouble - but trouble or no, he’s smiling before he turns away from the mirror and smiling still as he opens the door.
That near-grin gives way to pure surprise when he finds Boudika on the other side of it. He might have stared longer if it weren’t for her ready greeting; his brows remain arched but his grin returns, broader, and he steps aside and motions her in. August thanks the valet - Finch, he thinks, or maybe Wren - and turns to his guest, softly closing the door again behind them.
“Boudika,” he says. “I’m glad you made it. I have to say, you might make gold look better than I do.” He nods at her approvingly, a brow still playfully arched. The room feels almost too small with the both of them in it - though he wonders if this is only because she seems to take up more space, as though there is a tiger in his room, and not a woman, with painted-gold stripes glimmering against her natural ones in the changing firelight. “Have you come for that spar, or the dance? I’m sorry it’s been so long. Things got...” And here, uncharacteristically, August trails off. When he blinks he sees vines and butterflies, a tree with the face of a crone, Locust and Bexley, birds with gemstones for eyes, and always, always the sea.
When he lifts his moon-silver gaze to hers, his expression is apologetic, but his eyes are searching. They ask a question he can’t find the words to; maybe it is only do you feel it too? The change? “Well, you know.”
August had forgotten, in all that had passed since the eruption and the bridge and the island, how good it felt to be home. He can’t manage to be ashamed for the way he’d felt in that god-touched forest - like one of the lost boys, or a pirate like his father, the promise of treasure over every hill - but he is ashamed for what treasonous whispers had flowed through his mind like clear water on those nights alone. The island had sung to him like a siren and pled for him to stay, and if not for the way it had ended -
But it is good to be back. To inhale the sweet smoke of the bonfires and the sharp brine of the midsummer sea and watch the mountains bluing the horizon. To hear the music ringing out through the marketplace, an altogether different symphony than the island. And, though at the time he’d enjoyed playing feral, to bathe.
Now he regards himself in the mirror, his hair half-braided along his back. It feels strange after so long leaving it loose on the island (no stranger, he supposes, than closing his eyes and seeing a cloud of butterflies descend like a rainbow mist). The mirror reflects what little else there is in his room in the dancing light of the fireplace; it is austere, compared to most of the riches of the White Scarab. There is a simple pallet, tidily made up, and a chest faintly gleaming with gold leaf along one wall, and a desk in the corner, guarded by a small slim carving of Caligo. Above the desk hangs his sword, and it is by far the most ornate thing in the room - a handsome sabre with a handle encrusted with barnacles and bits of coral, carefully placed as though they were hand-picked jewels. To August they may as well be.
His window is open and the moon hangs in a pale sliver above the bay. He had requested this room specifically for the view, though he let Minya believe it was only to remind them all of the pecking order. Though the sea is too far to hear, he sleeps with the window open. And in August’s own room, he always sleeps alone.
There is a soft knock. One of the two-year-old valets come to tell him there’s trouble brewing at one of the tables, or Anghavni with some other news of trouble - but trouble or no, he’s smiling before he turns away from the mirror and smiling still as he opens the door.
That near-grin gives way to pure surprise when he finds Boudika on the other side of it. He might have stared longer if it weren’t for her ready greeting; his brows remain arched but his grin returns, broader, and he steps aside and motions her in. August thanks the valet - Finch, he thinks, or maybe Wren - and turns to his guest, softly closing the door again behind them.
“Boudika,” he says. “I’m glad you made it. I have to say, you might make gold look better than I do.” He nods at her approvingly, a brow still playfully arched. The room feels almost too small with the both of them in it - though he wonders if this is only because she seems to take up more space, as though there is a tiger in his room, and not a woman, with painted-gold stripes glimmering against her natural ones in the changing firelight. “Have you come for that spar, or the dance? I’m sorry it’s been so long. Things got...” And here, uncharacteristically, August trails off. When he blinks he sees vines and butterflies, a tree with the face of a crone, Locust and Bexley, birds with gemstones for eyes, and always, always the sea.
When he lifts his moon-silver gaze to hers, his expression is apologetic, but his eyes are searching. They ask a question he can’t find the words to; maybe it is only do you feel it too? The change? “Well, you know.”
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
