[P] delicate.

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* He watches those proud wings unfurl, and tries not to think of the brush of their feathers against his skin, soft as a kiss in a dream. He watches her exhale, and tries not to think of the way he had counted her breaths, there in the infirmary that smelled of blood and antiseptic, guarding her as she had slept. Even then he should have known – even then he had been helpless to hunt her demons for her. He watches her turn away, and tries not to think of the times their eyes have met across a crowd, the way he felt drawn to her like something inevitable. Like their ending had been already decided and nothing could rewrite it. Asterion watches her rewrite it now. Oh, he has never before felt a pain like this, such an aching where his heart had been. He would not have thought it possible, to feel it like a wound, like a physical thing. Asterion wants to be sick, wants to fold up on himself and cry like a colt for the thing he has lost. But he forces himself to stand firm, to breathe in the salt and the brine like a balm and welcome the way it stings, to watch until there is nothing left of her but the memory of a constellation he could trace in his sleep and eyes the color of no blue he will see again. He does not hear her say goodbye. Ash falls on the waves, and through his tear-blurred eyes it looks like snow. Their summer of starlight is over; the dreaming is at an end. It is time to wake up. @Aislinn   oof.