the subject (flo/august, day 1)

(Woodland Elf) August

Stepping out for a brief spell, he tells them– to walk off the adrenaline so he can sleep. It is half-truth. Neither tries to talk him out of it, although Tsiuri, big-sister-like, seems disapproving, and Thomas a bit anxious. Maybe they are simply too tired to argue.

Woodland Elf August is on the move again.

Cape billowing behind him, he slips through the shadows of the trees– no, he becomes shadow itself– the deafening whine of the cicadas swallowing the sound of his footsteps. In the moonlight, the shape of everything becomes fluid, their boundaries blurred. The forest, the crumbling stone columns, the headstones, are reduced to silhouettes that flatten to make way for his passing.

At the sound of footsteps, he dashes into the long-neglected topiary. Maybe it was trimmed into a shape once; it looks vaguely like a horse, or a dog, depending on the imagined scale. Regardless, it is a bush, and he dashes into it, holding his breath, shutting his eyes as tight as they go.

”is anybody there?”

Silent, silent, silent, he thinks. (Though he can’t silence the incessant pounding of Old August’s heart, which threatens to betray both of them.)

The footsteps move on; his silence is convincing. Once he opens his eyes, he can’t discern a face through the dense leaves. Who is it? Nobody with good hearing, that’s for sure. After allowing time to put distance between them, he continues along his path.

The stones of the ruined castle are warm, emanating the sunlight they gathered during the day. But a cold draft clings to the floor, creeping along the cobblestones, tickling Woodland Elf August’s knobby ankles as he presses his back to one of the columns. At the far end of the throne room, he is, you guessed it, a shadow.

The plan is to slowly peek around the corner to decide if the coast is clear. Then, quickly run to the pile and grab a few more supplies. A foolproof plan, he thinks.

Until a clear voice bellows, ”Who’s there?”

…And I, caught in my foolish role-play like a little boy practicing in the mirror with daddy’s razor, almost leap out of my forest green leotard.

Show yourself, the voice insists.

It seems smart not to make any sudden movements. Woodland Elf August hadn’t had the forethought to carry his bow in his hand, and now I’m the one answering for it, rounding the column in slow steps, my palms open above my head.

My footsteps echo in the empty air. One. Two. Three. Four. Proof that I’m no silent shadow.

I nearly hang my head in shame.

Instead, squinting in the torchlight, I see Florentine watching me from her seat on the throne. My smile is muscle-memory, automatic. Like running into a friend on the street.

But this is different. Obviously.

So it's true that she's with the careers, like Tsiuri had warned me. I had dismissed the thought at the time; just because someone was from the upper districts didn't make them a career, I had insisted, noting Thomas as a prime example.

But if she is here, it means she's taken control of the wealth with psychopath Andromache and bloodthirsty Eulalie. I can't think of a similar adjective for Florentine. She never struck me as the type. But then again, we've only spoken once. I guess I just don't know that much about her.

Though, during our first conversation, I thought maybe I would like to. She had a strange way of making me question the foundations of right and wrong that I had always slept pretty soundly on, until recently.

And here I am, with more questions. I wonder if she will answer with more riddles, like some kind of sphinx woman. Maybe she is made of stone, too, because she hasn't moved.

I chance a few more steps across the room, watching her watch me. In the dim light, it's unclear if her expression is cautious or curious. I can't help but wonder what her face looked like before she realized I was here. Was she only resting, thinking, unpacking the day's events before attempting to sleep? Approaching her, I can almost picture her moonlit face relaxing, worry lines softening, her pale eyes unfocused as her mind wanders elsewhere. Unbothered, unwound.

I'm starting to sound like Woodland Elf August. Waxing poetic.

I can see her clearly now. She hasn't moved to attack, so I dare to let my guard down a little, bending down to pluck a colorful jester's hat from the pile of discarded objects.

"It's me," I say--or, assert to myself, really: August Vance. Quietly, though. Not sure if she can hear me. "I was hoping to pick through the spoils."

Slowly, still cautious, I slip the hat over my head. It's too big on me, almost covering my eyes. Maybe they meant to do that.

She had told me:

“not everyone is rotten, though. just some people. not you. not me. they do the things they do and they tell themselves whatever stories allows them to keep doing it. i bet you've done it, too. we all have."

There wasn't enough time for all my questions to be answered. Better to ask while I'm here. Before she decides to show me all the ways I underestimated her capacity to kill. I stop a few feet away so she knows I'm not here to pull any tricks.

My voice is barely more than a whisper.

"Did you mean what you said? About people making up stories for themselves, to allow themselves to do the rotten things they do?"

August

Something about Florentine’s total lack of concern at my approach, as if she would never in a million years think of me as a threat, is almost disheartening. I didn’t want her to feel threatened by me, of course–that’s why I walked towards her with my hands up. But if she were just a little more phased, or at least think that I look capable of making a move… forget about it, it’s a stupid thought. Anyway, she’s looking at me as if she’s holding in another laugh. I bite my lip, waiting.

”You should know something about me, August.” she addresses me casually, as if we were still just talking over the library table. ”I never mean what I say.”

Then she beams at me. It catches me off guard–such an enigmatic statement has my face furrowed into a serious frown. Then I realize that, if what she says is true, she can’t mean a word she’s saying now, either. Maybe she really is a sphinx woman. The topsy-turviness of the whole thing surprises a laugh out of me, my dimples showing, the harsh sound of it splashing against the stone.

”That being said, we’ve all got to live with ourselves.”

”Well,” I begin aloud, but then, pressing my lips together, I only think: For a little while, maybe.

I know my chances of living with myself are slim; even compared to Florentine, skilled as she is at making me feel like her equal. Still, I can’t picture myself dying. It’s like the script is there, but the picture won’t focus. Can’t picture myself killing anyone, either. I know I will, though. Sure as someone drowning knows they’ve got to doggy paddle, or face the consequences.

Florentine continues, in a storytelling mood:

”For example, today I ruined everything we couldn’t carry. All of it, gone. So people like you wouldn’t get any. Want to take a guess what story I told myself?”

She pulls up her feet, reclining in the chair, folding her hands behind her head, gazing up at something, all while I’m standing there, jester hat sinking down further over my ears.

And I think, seems like she’s not gonna kill me. Not now, at least.

Silence softens the space between us; I feel my shoulders relaxing. It takes me a moment to remember that she’s asked me a question and is waiting for an answer. I’m just standing, hands at my sides now, watching her watch the stars. You would think, from the way that I’m frozen here, listening intently and without argument while she speaks, that she really is the queen, and I’m one of many subjects, waiting at the foot of her throne.

But no, look at my hat. I’m not just another subject. I’m the fool.

Hired to make mistakes. For fun.

So I climb the steps to the dias. One. Two. Three.

And I sit at the foot of the throne, resting my head on its hard stone seat. I think she could slit my throat if she wanted to. But I don’t think she will now. The corner is so cold against the back of my neck that I wonder how she can bear it. But then again, it does feel nice to sit.

”I would guess…” I say, taking a stab at her question, even though it was definitely rhetorical. ”You told yourself it would improve your chances. Like you said. Keeping it all away from...people like me." I smirk, though she can't see it. People like me. The losers who come back to dig through the scraps. That's me. A raccoon in the wealth garbage can, painted face and everything.

”It was bold of you, destroying everything like that. I wouldn’t have even thought to do it.” I frown, kicking a pebble with my boot. It skitters off the dias and into the pile of stuff. ”I just don’t think I’m cut out for all this… strategizing stuff.” I raise my right hand. ”Confession.” I crane my neck to look at her with upside-down eyes. "Did you at least keep something good?"

August

”No, we ruined every last thing,” she drawls, with the biting sarcasm of someone who’s had practice. ”We just thought it would be fairer that way.” I turn around in my seat with a little jump, and in the trickle of moonlight, I think I see her eyes rolling.

I grunt, playing dumb to numb the sting, ”Huh. Shame.”

What I was hoping to clarify, out of burning curiosity is: what did she keep? What kind of treasure did Tsiuri, Thomas, and I leave behind as we fled for the fields of rubble surrounding the castle? When it became clear that it was no time for Tsiuri to enact her vendetta against Andromache, or vice-versa, because she and eulalie–and, I remind myself, Florentine–had years of training where we had to rely on grit and luck alone.

But she quickly pivots to a different subject. Maybe it’s none of my business, who knows. Maybe it’s for the best, not knowing the full extent of her advantage, so that I can continue to lean against her throne without thinking about how close her hands are to my throat.

”Those kids you’re with–do you trust them?”

”Well, yeah, I–” The question stops me mid-thought, and I hesitate, chewing on it. To think of Tsiuri as a ‘kid’ when she surpasses both me and Thompson in life experience, maturity, and general common sense, almost makes me laugh. And here I was feeling like a grown-up after taking care of my sisters. Tsiuri is like a mom–and an overbearing one. I can’t pretend I’m not just a little relieved to have a few hours away from her concerned look.

Thomas, on the other hand…poor kid. If he had stayed home, he might have even made it into the national orchestra someday. Here, he’s like a lamb in the lion’s den. While the three of us scouted the arena for a good place to camp, he was all wide-eyed and full of wonder at everything in sight–the ruins, the trees, the butterflies fluttering around the ponds. I couldn’t picture him killing a spider, let alone an armed person.

But all of that’s not really her question, I know.

”They’re good people,” I decide, forming the words slowly, ”The kind of people I would have liked to know, back home.” I pause for a beat, index finger tracing a circle on the stone dias. When my voice comes back, it’s quiet, like my throat won’t produce sound. ”And maybe it’ll be harder like that.”

Then I begin to choke on the words that might have followed.

I don’t know how to tell her all of this, out loud. That as the numbers dwindle, I know I will wish for someone else to kill them so I won’t have to. That I don’t even know if I could. That if I make it home, I want it to be someone else’s face keeping me up at night, and not the faces of the two people I shared three meals and a lean-to with. Worse, that I’m not even sure they would think the same of me. I’m worried that Thompson is too good, too selfless–that he might try to save me or Tsiuri before himself.

I’m even more afraid that I knew that all along. And maybe that’s why I picked him. Them. The child flautist with the spotless conscience, and the grieving girlfriend who might just decide to reenact her trauma by trying to protect a boy who doesn’t know how to choose himself first. And me, determined to live out Mackenzie’s advice.

Choose yourself.

A slight tremor begins to bloom in my fingers. From the cold, I think.

”Do you think you’ll be able to kill them?” I ask suddenly, surprising even myself. Then I clarify, ”Andromache and Eulalie. I get the feeling they’re not the most reliable bodyguards. Have you thought about… how you’re going to outlive them?”

And the unspoken, I hope that you outlive them.

And then what?

I scoot an inch closer, trying to make out the shape of her face in the darkness. The barest sliver of moonlight draws a line under her jaw, tracing the curve of her neck; she could die by the hands of the next person whose eyes follow that same line. My heartbeat jumps, tugging at my chest, a dull, heavy, queasy feeling.

I watch for her eyes until she looks at me. I wonder if she already knows what I am thinking, hopelessly. That I could never hurt her.