[AW] BONE-SAW.

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* Asterion would tell her, if he could, that being human makes her no less hard. But surely she knows this already – that people are far more monstrous indeed for their ability to feel. It is among the chief lessons he has learned in Novus, and he will not forget it. The dark mare (dark save for the stripes on her wings, and then the underside of them, which spread like a secret unfurling when she takes flight) is no monster. This he does not doubt in the way he doubts oh, so many other things, like himself or the gods or the fragile longevity of peace. They draw up before the high-carved wooden doors, near black in the dim moonlight, and he lets his gaze wander up them, picking out the little intricacies, whorls inset with such care. What hands, he wonders, had made them? What horse had first decided that they should all sleep inside, where the wind could not reach them, where the starlight could not color their hair? It is almost a relief to meet her gaze again, though she speaks of mysteries, too. It is, perhaps, the most he’s ever heard her say at once. He listens to the low rhythm of her voice and it reminds him of a late-summer rain, deep and easy, and although Asterion nods it does little to settle him. When he thinks of addiction it is not the gods he pictures. The twilit bay has been devout, but never for them. Perhaps he should feel guilty – that was a piece of religion, was it not? But the regent can’t bring himself to. He wonders, instead, what Tempus (or Vespera, he supposes) has supplied to the commander, and how she knows from whom such gifts came. But Asterion knows he is far from understanding tonight, and for once he does not mind. “Invisible, but not inaccessible.” He repeats it as though it is part of a liturgy, and then, smiling, inclines his head toward her. “I like that. Thank you, Marisol, for your company.” The bay turns away then, just enough to touch his muzzle to the doors. If he wished it, he could part them with a thought (or with a shoulder), but while he is not so restless, not so wound-tight, as when he first saw her tonight, he is not ready for sleep. At least, not indoors. “Sleep well, Commander. I’ll see you at some council or another soon, I’m sure.” With a last smile, muted as the moonlight, the stallion turns away. @Marisol