It is not what he expects her to say, but when, with Florentine, has it ever been?
“Oh,” he says, and even in that one syllable his surprise is clear. He had expected a game, or a dance, or something silly, something frivolous, something light. Instead, his thoughts turn back to Ravos, back to the hollowed-out space inside him where once something vital and real had been. Back to wilderness and gods and nothing at all like this fragile civilization.
It is a comfort to have her chin resting on his back, and though he shifts his weight he is careful to keep still as he considers, as he forgets the riot of color and sound around them.
There are many stories he could choose from, and for a moment he almost tells her about Talia – about the firestorm in the desert, the one she had run to, wanting to be swallowed up. About how he had pulled together everything he had and shouted for his magic to save her, and how it had, bringing rain, stifling the fire enough to buy others time to arrive and help. How when it was over, she had still left him.
But it is not the story he wants to tell. It is not a moment he wants to live in any longer.
“There were gods in Ravos,” he begins instead, “and they could be kind or they could be cruel, but always they were insistent on teaching lessons.” For a moment he smiles, whether or not she can see it; his dark galaxy eyes see far away indeed, now, back to No and to Selke and Maaemo.
“Herds were grouped by abilities – water magic, earth, fire. The earth horses lived in a place called Sydan. They had been squabbling over leadership when they should have been working together to rebuild after a fire.” He presses his eyes closed for a moment, remembering the fire’s beginnings – how it had been started by a filly, how Calliope had chased her down so effortlessly, careless of her age or inexperience, and promised her she would have no more warnings, only punishment. How Asterion himself had done nothing, paralyzed by fear and indecision.
When he speaks again his voice is lower, quieter.
“The earth goddess was angry with her people for bickering. She blighted the land – covered it in poisonous plants, plants large enough and hungry enough to eat horses. She bade them heal it.” He licks his dark lips, glances back at his sister. He wears no smile, now.
“I had a friend in Sydan. I had promised him I would return with others that shared the water-gifts I had, so we might bring back the land after the fire. We didn’t know until we arrived what the goddess had done. After we learned – after we encountered one of the plants ourselves – we didn’t know what to do. We’d come to help regrow, not do battle with a jungle.” Oh, if only he knew that one of Florentine’s friends had been among them, then. How grateful he had been, for Pan’s enthusiasm and optimism. He remembers the moment when doubt first began to turn to hope, like a silver veil lifting. Like smoke clearing to a blue-sky day.
“But then I realized we could still work together. We had the earth horses draw the soil away from the roots of the plants, and then we inundated them with water. And then we lowered the temperature of that water until it froze, becoming ice, shattering the roots. The plants did not last long then.” Asterion grins again, and it is a happy thing but a wistful one, too, as he remembers the hum of magic in his blood. Ah, what a gift it had been, to create, to draw water into dry spaces. He had not appreciated it enough when he had it, and he misses it fiercely now.
The bay’s tone shifts, easier now as he closes his story. “Afterward, the earth goddess was kind. She gave us gifts of gratitude, and bade us remember.” At last he falls silent, recalling the scene, the weight of the stone she had gifted him, the look in her eyes for the moment they had met his own. And then he shakes his head, and turns his gaze back to the amethyst of his sister’s.
“But none of it should have happened in the first place,” he says.
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if you'll be my star*
