3
And to Folly (Have I Loved Thee)
A thousand years hence, August had tenderly cradled his Love's face in between his hands and whispered all the secrets of his heart. He spoke of the depth of his feelings and bared himself in ways he had never done before. His Love had smiled up at him with eyes the color of blue sea glass and just as cutting in their sharpness, whispered back his own promises. Promises that had turned out to be lies, for it was an accursed world that August walked in and an equally accursed Lord that he served. He had never meant to rescind his vows, to speak falsehood into the trembling newness of their bond, but he had, and his Love had responded in kind. Rejected him with every atom of his soul until August was left grasping at the fragments of memories, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers; they had fled him so swiftly until all that remained was the raw and bleeding edges of his own heart.
With salt and thistle, he had sewn himself up the only way he knew how unwittingly enclosing a putrid mucus within his chest and allowing it to fester through the long years he spent alone. And so it was that when his Love next crossed his path, there was not an atom of affection that remained within him, and he had looked down upon the man he had once sworn to cherish eternally with naught but hatred. It had been a hard time for both of them, but mainly for himself, as his Love had fucked off to greener pastures, leaving August to lament eternity on his own. As it turned out, there had been a single atom of affection left within his soul, for as his Love's body cooled to ice within his arms, he discovered that he was still capable of tears.
Like shards of glass, they ripped their way free of his eyes and fell glittering through the air, to crash against bloodied skin and disperse into nothingness. No amount of screaming, magic, or pleading could force a heart that had stopped to beat again, but there was magic that could tie two souls together. A taboo for sure, but August had long ago flung all morality aside, and so it was without hesitation that he performed the forbidden act. Bound their souls together with ribbon and heartstrings and blood and spite, and for a moment, through the haze of tears, he had thought he saw the image of his Love floating in the air before him. Looking almost as he had in life were it not for the gaping hole in his chest, through which the stark white of his ribcage was visible. Long locks of silvery-gold hair fell in waves around his face, the ends curling in on themselves sweetly. His thin brows were faintly furrowed, an inquisitive expression and August could almost imagine that he was standing at his shoulder inquiring politely after the progress of his research project. His lips were parted though no air escaped them, the slightest hint of a curve suggesting a smile that he had once upon a time given so freely to August. His lips parted further, forming words that even August's formidable hearing could not discern, and a pained expression grew to fruition on his fair visage. His hand lifted, fingers outstretched as if to touch August's cheek, but they could never have spanned the space between them.
Nor were they given a chance, for it was then that a great gust of wind came, ripping through the mirage of his delusions, and when it had passed, all that remained were the grains of dirt that it had left across his Love's body and his own blood-soaked hands. He'd looked down then and seen the hole that he had created; the rib cage snapped open to reveal the fragile organs residing inside. Wordlessly, he wiped his mouth, smearing more blood across his lips as he did and released a great sigh. All around him, the wind blew, slowly burying the proof of his transgressions under a pile of sand and dirt, but it would not take long for the gods to realize just what he had done. And, when they did, not even his Lord could protect him from their wrath. So he rose to his feet and picked up his weapon once more. Better to dispose of the gods while they still slept, as defenseless as babes in their slovenity, than to allow them the time to plan his execution.
Fifty score and eight years ago, August had just been a simple man. A human with slightly too many brain cells and a desperate desire to learn about everything that could be known to man. This pursuit of knowledge had seen him elevated to a position higher than he was perhaps worthy of or prepared for, were he being honest, but he had accepted the accolades as was his due and strove to rise even higher. His Lord had rewarded his ambitions with more power than he could imagine, and that had been the beginning of the end. For, in exchange for that power and support, his Lord had asked him to do things that the weak little August, who was merely a smarter than average human would have never done, but that fragile creature was dead and buried, and this new August would do anything to remain at the top. Even if it meant losing everything.
And it had cost him everything in the end. First, his Love, whose light had burned so bright but ultimately so short. The few and rare friends he had managed to cobble together over the lonely decades eventually turned to grave dirt until only he remained to walk across the landscape of the ever-changing Earth. From dirt and mud to stone and iron, and onwards until where once stood wooden forts, skyscrapers of concrete and glass now arched towards the sky. It was in this current monotony that August first saw the signs that his ancient transgression had borne fruit. Equipped with his latest vice, an American Cherry Pie Frappuccino, he had been walking back to his office when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brightly glowing star. Startled by this unexpected burst of magic, he had spun — the drink flying from his hand almost as an afterthought — and set off after it at a dead run.
What a sight he must have made shoving his way through the crowd of hapless pigeons, his three-piece Armani suit rapidly becoming unpleasant to wear, so it was without hesitation that he had ripped off the jacket and flung it aside. Ahead of him, the glow was still visible, some unknown force calling his attention like a moth to a flame. And, moth that he was, he was bereft of any ability to ignore the pull, his limbs not his own as he ran. Chased it down alleyways and across streets without pausing for something as negligible as a pedestrian light. The cars that might have seen fit to hit him found themselves instead having unplanned dates with the nearest solid surface. Their drivers to distracted to give mind to the figure currently racing away. Yet, no matter how fast he ran, the glow remained just out of reach, only tangible at the edge of his vision. Like a firefly that glowed so brightly, only to fade away into nothingness when it was entrapped in a glass jar. As a child, he had been told to never keep them enclosed for more than a few hours, but August had never been very good at releasing them. Something was fascinating about observing their final days was what he had claimed when questioned, but in reality, he had simply forgotten about the jar.
Just as he had forgotten about the soul, he had intertangled with his own, trapped in permanent prison of his own making, but finally it had found the exit and now — now! August skidded around one last corner and came to a sudden halt, his lungs heaving within his chest as sweat poured down his skin in rivulets. The glow had disappeared and in its place stood a man. Wide eyes, the color of the ocean, a blue-green that had always reminded August of sea glass. Dirty blond hair, the roots of which hinted at a more sun-kissed gold. Thin brows slightly furrowed, and an inquisitive expression greeted him when he finally focused on something other than the living, breathing body before him. He was dressed like one who spent his days indoors; a button-down shirt and pressed slacks accentuated the leanness of his body.
"Can I help you?" The man asked, his voice infected with the dialect that the people of the lands he lived in used, but August would be willing to ignore that fault if only the man would never stop talking. For far too long had he gone without being blessed with that acerbic wit, he would sit and listen to endless curses if only it meant that his Love would talk to him again.
"No," he said softly, "perhaps at some point, but not right now."
A blink. Long lashes cast shadows against pale cheeks, and the man's head tilted in visible confusion. One brow arched, and there was a familiar dryness in his voice when he spoke again. "Do I know you then?"
"No," August said again, unable to tear his eyes away from the line of the man's neck. There was a faint discoloration there, a fault on otherwise flawless again, and perhaps it was nothing, but it was oddly reminiscent of the scar that had once graced his Love's throat. "We met once, a long time ago, I doubt you remember."
"Tell me your name; perhaps it might jog my recollection," the man replied, and if he was rendered uncomfortable by August's intent staring, it was difficult to perceive. His Love had always had an incredible poker face; it made sense that his reincarnation would possess such a skill as well.
"It won't help you," August said, suddenly unwilling to give away a name he had not heard spoken in centuries. "It was a lifetime ago."
"I am afraid then, sir, that you have me at a disadvantageous," the man said, his posture drawing tense like the string of a bow. "You appear to know me and yet I haven't the faintest idea of who you might be."
At that, August let out a loud snort that rapidly dissolved into a painful guffaw. "Truly?" He asked, half-mocking and half sincere. "Does my face not ring a bell to you?" It was after all a face that had been plastered upon many placards in the city, for August had never been one to sit idly by when he could be in charge. He took a step closer and then another when the man automatically stepped back. "Perhaps, I am not as famous as I had thought that you would not recognize me," he murmured, unintentionally lowering his voice until it was all but a rumble.
"I—"
Once upon a time, a word from that voice, breathless and rife with confusion, would have had August twisting himself into pretzels to solve the source of its woes. Now, however, it made him want to draw out the confusion like one might savor an exceptionally well-constructed dish. Fifty scores and countless years have he waited for this day, so he finds himself almost unwilling to let the mystery clarify itself so quickly. He reached into his pocket, fingers discreetly snapping as he spawned a business card into being and withdrew it.
"I'm sorry —"
"Do not apologize, Athanase," August replied and leaned down to tuck the card into the pocket of the man's shirt. "You need not fear, for soon you and I shall be very well acquainted." So saying, he spun on his heels and strode off down the street, heart filled with something that could almost be mistaken for happiness.
