Together they are nothing but a handful of horses, covered gray in sweat and grime. Asterion lets every other thought, every other worry, fall out of his head as he toils against the tumbled stone.
Even though it does not seem to budge, it is less sharp than the edges of his thoughts in this place. He does not want to think of the gods and what their arguing, or Tempus’s actions and lack of explanations, might mean. He does not want to think of how flippant, almost cruel, the Denocte regime is in this holy, awful place.
It is good, then, to put his shoulder to the rubble and push. To work in the unnatural glow of the Solterran Regent’s magic, to feel his coat lather with sweat and grow gritty with dirt. To stand beside Eik and Flora and hear the rhythm of their breathing along with his own. To smile at Cyrene’s quip about the goose, and privately agree.
And yet nothing happens, and nothing happens. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear horses outside their dim circle – a scream like a unicorn’s, the scraping of other hooves, other shoulders, against the cave-in.
He takes it as a final lesson from Tempus that none of their efforts do any good.
Instead, more magic. Instead, the trees begin to shiver, leaves and limbs all moaning, and Asterion stops in his work and turns with the others to watch as the trees shrink to saplings.
It is a painful thing, to watch such magic occurring; it makes his head hurt, makes his thoughts foggy and sore. His eyes don’t want to believe it, and yet there is the proof. They are…free, although the word doesn’t feel quite right. In fact, the bay thinks he might never feel free again, not with the memory of this meeting.
The others begin to file away, and Asterion only inclines his head, dark eyes watchful, too weary to speak or to think. He returns Eik’s smile: I will see you soon, his own promises.
And then he turns to Cyrene and Florentine, his lips a wry twist. “Well,” he says, “this was…” But he can think of nothing to add, and only lets slip the kind of laughter born of exhaustion and not humor. And then he files between the trees, grateful at least for the shade, for the cool wind that begins to reach him the further from the clearing he goes.
There are so many new questions, now, they must work on the answers to – but for the moment he lets them all go.
all the ships are left to rust*
