cedar aristocrat (tick & august, day 1)

Woodland Elf August knows instinctively which crumbling stone column to hide behind so that he can attach his quiver to his belt properly. It’s made of smooth auburn leather, stitched with waxed thread, the fletching of each arrow perfectly straight. The bow’s intricately carved yew handle fits in his hand like it’s designed just for him.

At least, that’s the idea that August tries to manifest as he grows into his new elf skin, the superhuman disguise that his stylist made to protect and carry him through the depths of this hell.

August Vance was a pacifist. A brother-made-father, an easy friend. How could he kill?

But Woodland Elf August, with his pointed ears and dark green war paint, was raised to understand the ages-old truths of the fairytale forest. He has already plunged the depths of its darkness and returned unscathed. He understands that reality here means to kill– quickly, and without mercy. Handsome in his tunic and stretchy tights, he slinks along the moss-stippled stone wall like a shadow–no, less, like a breath of wind.

A pair of eyes, glowing beneath sweat-soaked curls, catches him off guard, stopping him short. Adrenaline prickles at the nape of his neck. Elf August raises his bow.

Tick shows his hands with a smile, like he knows something everyone else doesn’t.

”I don’t have anything. It’s not worth the effort.”

The facade falls, and the loaded bow with it. August knows he’s no battle-worn elf warrior. He’s a boy who spent too much time in the library reading fairy tales, when he should have been learning how to shoot this damn thing. And these pointy ears are just monster-movie prosthetics, silicone stench and all.

Maybe it’s the high after surviving death, or his penchant for making too many friends under the worst possible circumstances, but Tick’s smile is catching. August’s lips grip his teeth, a joke is lurking underneath.

”I’m a lousy shot anyway.” He checks over his shoulder. They’re invisible, for now. ”Nice purse.” His conspiratorial smile shines pearly white against the dark green face paint, two stripes on each cheek. ”So is Tick your real name?”

He almost bursts out laughing at his own question. What does it mean, anyway? Like August Vance–three syllables that lost their meaning as soon as the gong sounded.

_{D A R S}