Ah, but his goodness is his weakness. Over and over Asterion bares his heart, unable to keep secret even something so dear; over and over again he trusts too quickly, too fully, and finds himself surprised when his trust is betrayed.
He is only a fool, only a dreamer, only a boy who can never remember his lessons. And someday it will cost him more than he can pay.
But not today, oh, not today. This silver morning he ducks his head at her response, wearing the other half of Marisol’s smile. The mist is burning off the sea, the breeze is clearing it away – it will be a day for the record books, here at the cusp of autumn, all bright splendor.
Cirrus meets that dark-faced nod with the closest thing to a grin a gull can manage, and thrusts herself off from Asterion’s withers, stirring his hair with the wind of her wing-beats. She’s away ahead of them, then, a bright v in the thinning fog of the day, sunlight glinting off her wings like a ship’s sails.
Vespera only knows, he thinks in echo – if even she does.
And then he’s away after them, a few steps behind but catching up fast in the wet sand and windswept spray, chasing shadows and light and the promise of a newborn day.
@
if you'll be my star*
