[P] delicate.

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* When her eyes blaze at him, a blue that freezes, it is Calliope he thinks of. He has seen that kind of look before, but it was the unicorn who wore it – and it was for the world she found unjust, the gods she would tear down. Not for him, though it had struck him then as if it were. He wonders who Aislinn’s look is for. Try to understand, she says, but oh, how can he, when he has told him nothing? Flame spits higher, throwing sparks like an assault; Asterion winces, and despises this weakness in himself. He should be better, he should be stronger, he should not tremble as his dark eyes reflect a distant glow, a forest burning. Her voice, her movement, calls back his attention. A breeze bitter with smoke - woodsmoke, truly now the incense of the Night Court – tangles their hair, stirs the water of the bay to whitecaps. Oh, if only he still had his power over that water, the sea singing in his veins – maybe then the distant burning would not turn his heart so cold.   But he is powerless, bare before her, and his mouth is a thin line as she bares for him her scar. As if he could have forgotten it, that skin-soaked night he raced for Denocte, to wait out her whispers, her screams. To confess his love. He might have done it again, there between the sea and the shore, but her next words catch him like a fist. Even then, perhaps he might not have spoken if the accusations and warnings of Jude were not so fresh. Perhaps he might have held his tongue if an explanation had been earlier coming, or if the horizon were not burning, or if he didn’t feel like everything was falling to ash around him. Almost, almost, he brushes his muzzle against her scar. Almost he presses a kiss to the constellations he has memorized, the ones he has dusted with cinnamon kisses. But Aislinn is not the only one to know loyalty, and anger, and cold fingers of fear. She is not the only ones whose people have bled and been maimed. His voice is soft when he answers, and he says nothing of her scar (what can he say? He hurts for her, he remembers too well the tatters of her wing, the screams, the crust of dried blood, but she had chosen that fight, if not the result). For all its quiet, it is no less firm – a carrying current, slow and silver beneath the burning sky. “Their Regent rebelled against their court? I know nothing of that. I only know of a Regent who rebelled, in his way, against this court, then abandoned it when his intent was laid bare. Recently we were told that he might set Terrastella alight out of petty pride. A warning I did not take to heart, though I see now I should have.” A sigh, a whisper of sorrow that shivers along his skin. He has never been so weary as this world has made him. But he has pledged himself, and he can not leave, to be borne upon the waves to brighter shores. There is a people under his care, and he loves them as he loves her. Loves her even though her gaze scalds him, even though she could call down lightning to smite him if she wished it. (And would she? His heart says no, but he does not recognize the Night Court any more, not since the festival, when the two of them danced as Lysander bled). He forces his voice to be measured, his expression smooth. She cannot hear the way his heart races like a rabbit’s over the noise of the waves. “Peace, you say. Then why does your own country burn? I would not look for peace from men who would do such a thing. I would not look for peace from men who would beat a citizen at an occasion of unity and never offer apology, however insincere.” His eyes are the endless sea to the fire of hers, and they might have stood like that for a long time. Until she looked away. Until the distant fire kissed gold along her cheekbone, and she said the word goodbye. “Goodbye?” His voice falls to a whisper; he shakes his head like the word is nothing more than smoke. Something he can close his eyes against. But like smoke, it lingers in the air, and it tastes bitter, bitter. “For how long?” Suddenly the space between them is an ocean, a chasm; it is a shut gate, a burning pass. Oh, Asterion wants to bridge it and he leans toward her, a ghost seeking warmth. But it is too far – too far to cross alone. “Please,” he pleads, more unsteady now than he has yet been. Even the seafoam that rushes up and kisses his hocks does nothing to soothe him. “Please stay. Help me to understand – don’t leave me when I don’t understand.” He does not tell her the truth – that he is afraid of what might happen if she does. @Aislinn  oops wrote a book