Incarnadine [Multi]

The revolting thief outshines every other contestant. Nathan's clean force and lack of rhythm with his one-handed longsword have the gluttonous and rowdy crowds roaring in awe after each duel.

Curling into his straining blue eyes are locks of sweaty, windswept dark brown; August can imagine the midday sun's glare directly buffeting Nathan's tanned face, already parched from facing it himself in the southeast stands with his distasteful peers. Meanwhile, Cecelia stands across from the beast. Sunlight beats heavily against her drenched back, bouncing off the fastened iron point of her battle-worn spear with a glowing gleam. Her shortened blonde locks are sticking against her sharp, glowing cheekbones—meticulous like the tunic and pantaloons contributing to her misidentification.

Pride suffuses August's broad chest as he watches his devoted best friend dart forward.

"My child," his father, the Archduke of Va'en, calls over the ear-splitting chanting. August patiently gives the man his undeserved attention. "You are not one for these activities."

His voice is as hollow and rancorous as ever. Steady and penetrating mossy eyes sweep behind him when a cool breeze whips past them. It carries the heavy floral perfume of the fussy noblewomen up their noses and makes his father's short curls of copper, peppered with grey, fall on his wrinkle-lined forehead.

"As are you, father," August pointedly returns to the intense duel. Disgust wells up within him despite his controlled exhale; his slightly angular brows briefly furrow.

The tangled void squeezing his chest contracts harshly as he watches Nathan's feint absentmindedly. Demons spawned from the blood that runs through his body like poison. He still tries to sustain this backward nation and his people—

August rubs the sweaty skin along his collarbone, forcing himself to focus on Nathan's movements as the cocoon of beloved Divines blankets his body, grounding him.

The man evades a fierce sweep, dropping his body with his free hand slapped against the engraved stone ground.

August's mind whirs, and as Cecelia thrusts her spear towards Nathan, the blonde straightens his sword arm with a loud snap.

The white sun glares brighter through parted clouds, and August catches a gleam reflecting off Nathan's hair. Now young and frivolous, it's yet to tickle his straight and long nose. Neither has it grown to his future-cleanly-shaven jaw, like how he's not the person he may become.

Yet he's somewhat the person for whom August's treacherous heart races and agonises over still—

"Do not fret, my love, for I am yours in every way, in every hour, and every place," August whispers hoarsely, cradling and caressing Nathan's wet cheek in his twitching hand.

—He blinks in time to catch the next move.

And blinks again.

"Francis! Francis! Francis!"

He furiously repeats the unexpected parry in his mind, ears ringing from the cries soaring into the air for Cecelia's victory.

August barely stops himself from darting onto his feet when his father readjusts his legs, staring at the point of Cecelia's spear pressing into Nathan's flushed and sweat-slicked neck, trickling with blood. Frozen and wordless, August's heart palpitates, and his breath noiselessly catches in his throat. He almost starts when a large hand clasps over his shoulder. It's like ice where it rests, seeping past his embroidered overcoat into his hot skin.

Frigid is his father's tone when he calls August's name right next to his ear, sending a grim shiver zipping down his back. August takes a moment to recover and tilts his head toward his father's direction.

The Archduke stands, blocking the sunlight from piercing his eyes. A slim arm is by his side, and a white cotton tunic ripples against his fair and aged skin. The corner of his pink lips quirks up, making August lower his head in a slight nod. His blood feels chilled.

"We will talk upon my return."

"May the Divines bless you with safe journey and success, Father," August responds pedantically as the man's hard leather-pointed shoes leave his visual field. Sweat prickles his calloused palms by the time he gets to his feet, every second making his heart thump swifter.

He is still alive.

Living.

Somehow.

August briskly walks past the stands to the arching stone-brick corridor lavished with portraits of deceased... beasts. He feels his father's intense stare pierce him, even as a painting while eluding the social cliques and breaching touches of sharp elbows.

Bile builds and burns in the back of August's throat when he reaches the end of the weathered stone hallway to step past the open gates.

A stench fouler than the heavy perfume lingers, almost engraved into the air. Dilapidated and indecent houses stand cramped and overcrowded, lining part of the deafening colosseum's perimeter where grand and wide cobblestone-paved boulevards stretch throughout the city. August turns from the debris and smoke plumes blurring the sky's great blue to the familiar keeper and guards on horseback stationed next to the wheels of his navy and gold chariotee.

"Young master," greets Thaddeus, bow steady. August doesn't forget the snivelling middle-aged worker's name, how a drunken mob of potters lopped his head from his lean body to parade it around the harbour on a pike.

The man's coarse dark brown hair falls over his pale, red-patched face as he opens the carriage door with his gloved hand. August learned to ignore the runes embroidered on the dark leather once he saw the burns himself in a past return, seemingly lifetimes ago.

"I trust you have restocked fine wine for this journey," August drawls, stubbled chin raised as he steps up wax-polished steps to settle inside. "Unlike Aristole," he adds. He deals with the cancerous, shit-fested pig swiftly as soon as he's able.

"Your favourite, young master," Thaddeus answers firmly. His big, brown eyes glance around the slightly cracked mossy road to find August draped across sumptuous cushioned seats. One knee hooks over the other, and golden sunlight filters through the gaps in the curtained windows. Yellow dapples over his skin like glowing scales, revealing the puckered patches of skin stretching across his peeking collarbone.

Thaddeus's eyes shoot to his hand, pulling away from a crate of dark green glass bottles snuggled in the corner, the cool glass glinting under the light. August closes his eyes when the door clicks shut. Tension still cages his weary shoulders, rigid even as he hears Thaddeus take the reins at the front of the carriage over the shouting.

Muffled neighs come through, and soon, the chariotee hastens forward. He brings the stocky bottle closer to his face when a jarring headache sets in from the flurry of thundering hoofbeats. Lying down on the seats with the back of his head pressed against the padded wood interior, August tucks his knees slightly on the velvety-navy cushions. He cradles the Blessed drink near his chest, and fingers clamped around the bottle as they jostle over the dips and rises of the cobblestone, taking care not to choke on the apple-infused beverage.

August huffs a chuckle, squinting his eyes open at the sound of grapeshot firing in his head.

His father's skull caved in near his left temple. Wet hair limp on freezing skin; the rain was the worst he'd ever experienced that day. It flooded his province and displaced over half of his people. He still doesn't know if that round ball of lead was more difficult to retrieve than the one a hand deep in the centre of father's back, or the one in the lower right of his ribs. It would've likely left him brain-damaged and paralysed with broken ribs puncturing his lung. Not that anyone else could tell. He ensured it.

"—damn clergy," August mumbles, taking a swig to soothe the warmth pricking his skin like needles.

All this for what? Tarron's findings and theories were all ludicrous. In what way did they look like pigs? Toads? Dogs? Their doctors were nothing but shit and full of it, too.

August has seen too many struggling city workers walk through roads filled with harbingers of death like the one he is in now. He still suffers nightmares of patrollers dragging squashed corpses off the streets once they had become plated with iron. The peasants—primarily farmers, his mind supplies—suffer from another poor harvest again, like the bakers. And the ordinary workers struggle to buy even bread, let alone clothes or pay their rent. The absurd and inefficient tax collectors infuriated him enough without knowing how they harassed them. Those captious artisans from those greedy, belligerent guilds—

"Young master! We have arrived!" Thaddeus calls out, his three sharp knocks echoing bluntly through the carriage door.

Startled, August throws his upper body up, spilling a slosh of the Blessed wine on a nearby cushion. Securing the bottle with its cork, he pats his breeches, tunic, and overcoat down with his other hand, straightening any wrinkles in time as the door opens to throw Thaddeus a slightly annoyed look.

It wasn't as though he was cleaning the family's coffers like his toad of a cousin. Coffers he was filling himself.

Wordlessly, August stalks past Thaddeus towards the side entrance to purposefully slam open the heavy door into the wall. Let them know he's in an atrocious, ill-tempered mood. The thought of the revolting man-child he calls cousin makes him incomprehensibly incandescent, even with the Divines burbling under his skin.

He reminds himself why he entertains these fools because immeasurable as their stupidity is, his patience, unfortunately, is not.