in sunshine and in shadow
He does not know what to make of what she says next. Asterion would blush, if he were able; he would turn rose from cheeks to nose to rival the color of the sky, but instead he only dips his chin toward his chest. “Oh,” he says, and his gaze strays toward hers, only to find her looking down.
Somehow this emboldens him, her shyness smoothing away his own; perhaps that is why he answers her, though he hesitates for a long moment first. The wind and the waves and the soft cry of the gulls is the only sound between them, and then he says, “It is a long tale, not yet all told, and you may regret your asking.” The breeze carries his sigh out to sea the same way it had his laugh, and he begins.
“It was a night not long ago, as beautiful as this, but colder. Terrastella was hosting a festival, and all the courts came to drink, to dance, to greet one another in peace – to paint themselves in colors of their courts or their loves and to throw wishes to the sea.” He angles a little smile toward her, at the last. She is one of the only bright things left in the gathering dark; her presence is almost a comfort, a candle on the cliffside.
“I made no wishes, but I was painted in silver, in rose, in blue. With all the colors of twilight I pledged myself to Dusk, and then I walked the streets of my home, and drank, and danced.” Of Aislinn he makes no mention, and guilt lays a finger on his heart for the omission – but stronger is the guilt that he had been with her and not his queen in the first place. Oh, it is difficult to stand in the middle of the story and have no guesses for how it will end.
Now the color has washed from the sky, now the constellations are appearing, shapes he has finally come to name and to know. Hunter, healer, hero – all the stories they tell themselves on midwinter nights, on summer evenings. Perhaps he should have ended the telling there. But Asterion swallows, and his gaze searches for hers, though he must be difficult to find, now, in the dark.
“Meanwhile, my queen and sister, Florentine, was confronting her lover. She had discovered him with her regent, and while no one had transgressed, their secrecy – their intent – was cause enough for her to question. They separated that night, but her lover was angry. With some of his friends he attacked another member of our court, and left him beaten in the snow. After, the regent was removed from his position, freed at last to join his lover. And now everything feels fractured, uncertain.”
In the silence that follows, the waves thrash themselves against the rocks. Fool, fool, they accuse him, as they pull away again from stone, making way for the next assault. He wonders if he is one; he wonders if she has heard the tale already, and if she can hear the guilt in his voice, and if she would be so quick with her compliments now. He wonders many things, as they breathe together in the dark.
“It is a poor story, and I do not know how it ends,” he says at last, and there is a wry, sad smile on his dark mouth. “Maybe if I had made a wish, it would not have happened so.” Of course he knows differently, but he is still a dreamer at heart, and once his head was full of stardust and of folly.
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