[P] give us a little love

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   He wonders if his heart has grown, to be able to hold so many conflicting feelings - surely it must have, for he cannot remember it being so full when he was only a boy with each day a new adventure. Then there had been room for excitement, for hope, for just a touch of fear - but now, oh now, everything his gaze touches within Terrastella summons a roil of emotions. There is sadness, there is guilt, there is fierce pride and fiercer joy; most of all there is love, love like a sea for the court that has become his home. Maybe someday it would be enough to wash the rest of those feelings clean. For now, there are still too many scars, too many wounds not yet healed by summer sun or the flowers that bloomed on the mud-slick hills. The king had been restless, had wandered the prairie and the cliffside and the swamp with Cirrus above him all through the long summer day. As the light thickened to gold then darkened to deep purple he at last turned toward the city, weary and dirty but with his mind, at least, quieter. He parts from Cirrus at the wide wooden doors, promising to meet with her on the cliffside below the pale wedge of moon. The gull nips at his ear - a bird’s kiss - and then is gone, pale as a spirit in the deepening evening. Asterion watches her until she is gone beyond the curve of the castle, and then he steps inside. The wandering mood still has a hold of him; with no destination in mind he walks the hallways of his keep, greeting those he meets, never settling. For a moment he is a wanderer again, but within his own walls; it is not until he steps by chance into a quiet room and finds Fiona that he at last stops. At first he thinks he is alone; it is not until his ears catch the soft scrabble of the pencil, the softer sound of her breathing, that his gaze catches on her. For a moment he says nothing, only watches the Champion as she works at her drawing; he cannot see what she creates so instead reads the truths written on her skin in tear-tracks and ash, and feels his heart sink low as a stone. But then he nickers, and crosses the room toward her until he stands above her. His gaze moves between the shapes on the page and the dusky purple of her skin (so like the sky outside). Gently he reaches out, touches his muzzle to the curve of her shoulder, closes his eyes at the dusty smell of ash. Asterion does not ask if she is well; the answer is written on her skin, in her eyes. They weave pretty lies for each other, his friends and his court; he hasn’t the heart to hear them now. Instead he watches the pencil sweep across the paper in its dance, and says softly (as if afraid to disturb the peace of the room), “Did someone teach you how to draw, when you first began? None of the sketches I’ve seen in the markets are half so lovely as yours.” @Fiona <3