Asterion does not try to hide his smile, not at the sound of humor from her, however unwillingly-pulled – it makes him think of his own laugh, rare enough as to nearly rust inside him between uses.
Their world at the moment is like a snow-globe, closed in by fog and waves, each sound muffled and the edges all hidden away. It feels as safe as the night they had walked the city streets together, two shadows whose color was only reflected in glimpses from silver puddles of rain. As much as he dreams of adventure, he is grateful for these little-moments, where his world is small and secret and manageable. But –
My world is a knife-point, and Asterion almost sighs. Ah, will they ever escape their violence? It is her task, her job, as much as diplomacy has somehow become his, but he would leave behind all trappings of war, if he could. Even words.
He and the gull both shift their heads toward her then, a strange twinning of movement, and she makes a soft, catlike sound in her throat as he speaks. Lucky thing you’re steady, then, and ours is a land of healers.” His voice is like the granite cliffs, dark with water, cushioned by fog, and then his smile turns wry and he looks away again – but before he does he presses his shoulder to hers, brief as a wave but long enough to be intentional. “My world is a meeting-room.” It isn’t true, not entirely, but in the make-believe feeling of the morning it is easier to joke, to try to wash that look once more out of her eyes.
But it does not work; her words are just as low when she speaks again. The bay stallion is not entirely surprised; when, he thinks, have I ever been able to help the women in my life? It is no different than golden Talia, his twin, or the meager support he’s been able to give Florentine.
Cirrus, though, never had any patience for his self-pity, and he forgets his thoughts are no longer his own; with a clack of beak she half-shuffles, half-flies to his withers, where she nips good-naturedly at his ear. Asterion shakes his head, suitably contrite.
“You’re just harder to impress than some of us. Another reason you’re well-suited to your role.” He stretches beneath the gull’s scant weight, letting the wet sand gather gray and grainy against his ankles. Already his muscles are growing sore from his headlong race to the sea-shore; it will be a far slower trip back.
As it ever does, his name spoken by another draws his attention back. He wonders if he will ever stop being a little surprised to hear it, as though it belongs to an older brother, or is a title he’s only just earned.
“Not old yet,” he repeats, and that secret little slip of grin finds its way back to his mouth. His dark eyes flick back to her, and there is a pinpoint in each, bright as a star. “So what are two young, handsome horses like ourselves to do with a whole wide day before us?”
@
if you'll be my star*
