[P] we can weep and call it singing;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* There is quiet, for a moment, as he stands with the nurse and her whispering voice. And then Asterion hears her call his name, and fears his heart might rend to pieces, torn by the pain in her voice. His gaze is so serious, so heavy on the healer – until Aislinn screams. Then they both break into action, a covey of doves startled to flight. He does not pause to name the feelings that flood him then (Asterion has never felt hate before, only knows that this is an anger that freezes instead of burns). He is too busy filling his gaze with her, too busy forcing himself not to touch her, to let the healer do her work. His limited telepathy can do what he cannot; like a ghost he traces a touch along the arch of her neck, makes soothing circles and whorls. He does not realize he is tracing the same patterns that had been painted on him the night of the festival. At last she is quiet, at last she is still. Asterion leans forward to catch her final murmurs, though there is a part of him that wishes he hadn’t, for they undo something within him. “I’m here,” he promises, and, after a glance at he healer, places a quick kiss on the velvet of her nose. It tastes like salt, but that is better than copper. And then he waits, and he stays, as long as it takes. @Aislinn   <3