August

Chapter 7

I can sit here, not a person in sight

And I'm not lonely, it feels just right

August stood in the servant's kitchen, slicing the bread into thin pieces, then moving on and slicing the cheese into thin pieces, the methodic chopping sound soothing his soul and letting his mind become blank. He finished and pushed the food to the side, taking a bite of the bread.

He took out the cylinder and unrolled its contents upon the wooden table marked with knife scars. However, he only had to gaze at the drawings for a moment before rolling them up and shoving them back into the cylinder. It was hopeless, there was no opening in the ranks, and the factions remained locked in a stand still.

He sat down on the stool and picked at the food, eating slowly.

"What can I do?" he asked softly.

There was no reply. In fact, it was deathly quiet in the kitchen. Sun light filtered in through dusty windows, creating a hazy effect on his vision. He wanted desperately to retreat to his piano and sing, to fill the emptiness with sound and emotion.

"Alas, I have one option. And that's to remain here, in hiding until father makes a move, and to kill Smithson if I can," he thought aloud. But how? How was he supposed to kill a major general leading a revolution? August had training in instinct fighting, and was quite skilled at knives, but he wasn't particularly muscular or strong.

"Dearest brother was the strong one," he said bitterly, "I'm sure if he was here, he could kill this puny Smithson by blinking at him." He sighed, thinking of his brother. They had been so close in childhood, but where was he now? Gone. Gone with the entire line of Summanus. But he had been conveniently left behind.

August shook his head. He was not asking those questions now.

"I could use my powers and create an illusion, but what good would that do? I haven't used them since they left me," August chewed his food angrily, "Maybe it's time to practice again. It's the only way to survive."

August was a pure blood of the line of Summanus. This entitled him to certain abilities. He was the master of trickery, but in consequence, his mind was constantly delusional and depressed. The more he created illusions and transformed into other beings, the more delusional he became. This was not so with his other family members. They could use their abilities as much as they desired, and not be punished in a single way. But August thought of himself as cursed, and preferred to use his cunning and shrewdness to gain importance and favor.

"This may be the only way to survive. I need to somehow lure Smithson away, and then I strike."

August reached into his boot, tracing the inside of the fabric, and pulling out a long thin knife, gazed at it with an intense pleasure. Then he did the same with his other boot and replaced them in their spots. Standing, he walked to the center of the kitchen, his muscles relaxed, but humming with energy and anticipation. Suddenly, in a flash, the knives were back in his hand. He threw one at the wall and dropped to the ground, rolling. Coming up, he jumped to his feet and stabbed thin air.

He stood there for a while, breathing hard. Then, he relaxed his posture and smiled,

"Time to get out the old costumes."

...

Entering the old weaponry room, August frowned at the emptiness of the walls. Where weapons used to line the walls all the way to the vaulted ceiling, now lay only dust. August hadn't entered this room for two years, since axes and such things didn't interest him. Now he gazed at the golden arches and the grand marble floors, begging to be returned to their former glory. He thought of his city, with its beautiful greenspaces, towering palaces, and loyal people. "Summanus will be returned to its ancient might," he vowed to the silent statues that stood in the entrance way.

His footsteps made no sound as he silently made his way to his corner of the weapon room. He smiled when he saw his battle clothes, dusty, but still intact. The clothes were hanging behind bars, sitting upon a marble bust. They were made of the finest leather, died into a shiny black, with a soft light green cape hanging like a curtain from the shoulders. It had gold plated cuffs and collar, with plenty of places for knives.

This was the costume that his father said he would grow into. The battle clothing that he hadn't fit in when he was young.

"But now, I'm almost eighteen. In two days, I shall reach my eternity age, and these will suit me for centuries to come," he addressed this to himself, but it felt as if he was addressing his family, Smithson, and the whole of Urbanus.

He glanced off to the side and saw his old uniform. It was similar to the new one but was smaller and had more gold than green. Looking at it, he was suddenly plunged into memories of the past. Memories of his brother and him, fighting in their battle uniforms, training. He would pull out his dull knives, and his brother would pull out a blunted sword. The two would fight until one of them won, which was usually Nicon.

August only won when he used his illusions. He would make multiple knives appear and multiple arms, all stabbing for Nicon. Or he would make clones of himself, and they would fight Nicon (and fail) while August caught his breath. The clones were hard to make though, and they would disappear, leaving Nicon to watch his brother pass out in exhaustion a meter away.

August shook the memory from his thoughts, and opened the gates to the uniform. After putting it on, he pulled his hood over his face, shadowing himself in darkness. He looked in the mirror and smiled. August looked like a prince without a crown, but that would soon be fixed.

"I'm ready for you Smithson."