Chapter Text
Inching lower, slowly sinking into the horizon; Magnus hung heavy in the sky, beating residual heat, bouncing over the sea in blinding reflection. Gulls sounded, distant and few as evening approached. Beside the call of birds, the atmosphere was clouded with the crashing of waves against the shore. Softly, mostly, they rolled in; though occasionally, a wave rose, pounding into the wet sand with prominent force.
Brushing her fingers across a thin curtain of sand, Sybille revealed a creamy-beige mass underneath. She slipped her ivory fingers into the surrounding sand, feeling the edge, and pulling the object up from its previous station, cemented into the bank. She held it delicately in her cupped palms, tilting it under the sunlight, watching a shimmer of reflection run across the surface. A sand dollar, she held, with its strangely carved indentation, round and hard exterior. A smile graced her pink lips, and he watched her from a distance; seeing her stand from her crouch on the shore, gripping the sand dollar in one fist, her other hand gathering up her tan skirt.
A wave rolled in from behind her, and she jumped with excited surprise, jogging further up the shore toward him. Sweet, soft laughter fell from her, and she nearly tripped on her on two feet as she made her way up the beach. He smiled, too; meeting her brown eyes with his own, seeing her squint through the bright afternoon sun, smiling wider when they looked upon each other.
She approached, letting go of her skirt and using both hands to brandish her find, as if offering it to him. He looked down to the thing- such an object that brought him no interest, nor excitement. He smiled, so did she, swallowing and laughing slightly once more at her own breathless trek up the shore.
"Finally," She exhaled, holding the sand dollar higher, as if Lucien hadn't seen it to begin with, "Finally, I found one. See? These are also so hard to find back home. I always thought they were lucky."
Her dark brown eyes were adoring, lighting up as she looked in her own hands. She crouched before him, setting the sand dollar into a pile of colorful, sun-bleached shells she'd spent the last hour gathering. They lay upon a plaid blue cloth, as if a display at a market; she arranged them so, sunlight bouncing in glitters across her smooth, alabaster hair. Looking down at her, huddled at her collection, he watched as she blended effortlessly into her surroundings. Rolling bank, hot and watery shore, tall and swaying sweet-grass that bristled with the wind where the coast met grassy plains. Her cheeks flushed peach, her white hands freckled with sand, and her hair a wavy, white pearl on the beach. He remembered how she begged to be here. It was fittingly hers, all airy linens and shining coastal smiles.
Sybille sat back on her heels, still crouched with her knees in front of her. She rested her elbows on them, arms crossed, and looked up, squinting against the sun. Lucien kicked his boot idly, bunching up the carefully-laid cloth that housed her shells. He toed at it, trying to pull it back, giving up as his eyes glanced to see her amused smile.
"You almost ready?" He asked, his voice low; always clear as glass, smooth as the Abecean sea. "Not that I want to rush this. Truly interesting work here."
She smiled wider, close-lipped at his veiled sarcasm, her eyes twinkling happily from the bank. She stood and brushed off her white skirt, digging her feet into the warm sand. Sybille bent low to gather the corners of her cloth, a makeshift bag for her shells that she clutched with both hands.
"Are we staying for the night?" She asked, and although he did not want to, Lucien felt compelled to give her agreement. She wouldn't fight him, she never really did; though, bearing one impossibly hot night on the Gold Coast was much more tolerable than having to watch her solemnly look out the window on the carriage ride home. Pretending she wasn't upset- like she often did- but he'd know all the same that she wanted to cry. Her voice would be impossible to hear, and her smile would hurt, and things always went off without a hitch. He'd get his way, but she'd become something of a wounded bird- for a few hours. In an unfamiliar turn of his heart, Lucien knew that he hated to upset her- even when it would result in a perfectly advantageous conclusion for him.
Lucien took the bag from her, looping corners into his belt and tying a firm knot to hold it there. He licked his lips, salty from the air, and nodded as he looked back at her with eyes he didn't fully recognize on himself. "Of course we are," and somehow, he felt happy to say it. He wanted to stay.
Sybille's soft hands grasped gently at his bicep, pulling him slowly to turn away from the beach and up into the grass. Mid-walk, she ducked, jostling him down in a fit of surprised laughter. She came back up with her quilted shoes, teetering on unsteady feet, still smiling and holding him.
Lucien blew hair from his face, looking into her eyes with a smile beating warmly in his cheeks. She matched him, letting go of his arm to tuck the hair behind his ears, her movements clumsy, odd, but met gently. Interesting juxtaposition she happened to be, carving him even more so.
"We can divvy up the loot at the inn."
"The loot?" He remarked, "The shells?"
"Yes. Though, I already know what you're getting, and I'm keeping. So don't get excited."
An amused huff, and the towering walls of Anvil were soon in sight. "I was almost shaking with excitement. I thought I'd get to choose..."
"Oh, no," She matched his tone, shooting him a look of warm, sweet joy, "Not when I've done all the work."
Like apple and ginger tea; smooth, and sweet, warming him all the way down into himself, he saw her as. Her hair was frizzed from coastal wind and humidity, tumbling to meet her collarbones in a mess of milky hue. She cuts into a sweetcake, insisting he please have some, though he isn't really ever partial to sweets. Curling into one another under the satin covers, upstairs in the Count's Arms, she tries to crawl on top of his chest to sleep and he complains about the heat. She toys with his long, coffee-brown hair, tilts his jaw in her fingertips and lays her peachy lips on the tip of his nose. He drags tanned, calloused fingers along her soft cheeks, meeting her gently at the mouth.
In the end, Lucien felt an odd, sweet nectar sapping in his chest; in the bed in Anvil, no one is dead, no one is betrayed; under the green silken sheets, he is- for once- utterly human, and impossibly himself.