AUGUST • C.CULLEN

seven

AUGUST
1918, CHICAGO

The wind is gentle as it brushes against the tall trees surrounding their home, making the leaves dance quietly with one another, the only noise in the quiet surrounding area.

When August steps out onto the warm grass with bare feet the wind rushes to him joyously, playfully ruffling his hair, his loose clothes. He chuckles as it sweeps up behind him and begins to push him in the direction of a thick, towering spruce tree.

"Okay, okay." He laughs. "I should have said goodbye before leaving, I'm sorry!"

The wind stops, placated, and he grins as he looks around the open space. "Thank you." Feeling eyes on him, August looks over his shoulder and sees Carlisle standing in the window, smiling gently. He grins and blows the blond man a kiss, chuckling as he faintly hears him chuckle as he smiles.

August greets the warmth of the sun on his skin like an old friend, spreading his arms wide and letting his eyes drift shut. Then, subconsciously, he moves into position on the ground, fingers tangled in the grass, toes buried in the soil, and he is gone from the waking world, exploring the strong roots of the spruce tree nearby, seeing its memories.

In the tree's soul, he feels the joy and sorrow carried through the years, he feels the comfort it finds in having one of the Forest Folk so close by. He sees, then, his own body, alone in the clearing. He watches as something blindingly light, a blur, tackles him - and he is thrown from his connection with the tree. He feels the pain of being forced out of the sacred connection and of slamming against the hard earth.

His head hits something hard with a loud crack. He grits his teeth and cries out. He feels the tree cry out with him.

He pushes against the force on top of him - underneath him? No, it's - next to him. Across the field. Where did it go?

His heart pounds.

His vision is skewed, blurring, and his head pounds aggressively. He vaguely makes out the shape of the tree and reaches for it. He needs to finish meditating.

August's attacker presses the Nymph's wrist away from him distractedly, only focused on the scent of his blood.

The grass beneath them stretches, crying out for August to use it - and August throws his hand out blindly, feeling it wrap around his hand. He plunges the weapon into the side of his attacker and scrambles away, chest heaving as Carlisle (he thinks?) speeds to his side.

"I'm fine." He says distractedly. His head hurts. But it is Carlisle. He knows that now. His comforting coolness is all that keeps him from breaking down.

"August." Carlisle's gentle hands cup the sides of his face and stay there until August tears his eyes from the guilt-ridden red ones of his attacker who is restrained with thick vines and meets Carlisle's golden ones.

"I need you to let me check your wounds."

"I'm fine."

"August."

Auggie swallows thickly at the intense eye contact and leans into Carlisle's touch, letting himself relax. "Okay." He doesn't flinch when his partner gently prods at the back of his head from when he hit the ground despite the concerned look he's given when Carlisle's finger tips come back with blood on them.