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?"