[Worship] it took me years to say the words;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   It is evening, there on the mountain - her time. He wonders if autumn is her time, too; it is the twilight of the year, all the colors rich and full before they fade away. The air has a bite to it, this far up, and Asterion can see the sunlight gleaming off the water of the sea. He’s looking toward the water when the scant birds this high up fall silent, when the wind itself seems to hold its breath. When the bay stallion turns his head she is there. It is that simple and that striking. All he’s seen of her before is likenesses on tapestries and paintings, and it takes his mind a moment to realize who she is, with the sunset full behind her - oh, but his heart knows right away. The air itself feels heavier, holier. Later, he will think of how similar it was to the first time he saw a unicorn. Now he does not think at all - except to send a fleeting thought to the distant gull. Oh, Cirrus, it’s her. Asterion drops his head as she speaks, solemn deference for his court’s patron goddess. Her words wash over him and it feels like the last golden sunlight before a cool evening. The bay finds it’s difficult to look directly at her; his dark-eyed gaze skirts the edges, touches on the myriad of colors, the shape she chooses to wear. It’s not until she says his name that he meets her gaze in full. He finds that it’s easier than he would have thought to match her smile. “If I thank her now I’ll never hear the end of it,” he answers, and through their bond he can hear the bird’s soft laughter. When the goddess’s voice drops the Regent dares a step nearer (not too close, though he can’t help but wonder what it might be like, to touch his dark muzzle to the rose gold of her shoulder), and his expression turns as serious as hers. His choices - he wonders if the deity refers to anything specific. To a night along the crashing sea with a burning in the distance, the unnatural light reflected in Aislinn’s blue eyes. Asterion has never considered his love a choice, always too quick to follow his hopeful, heedless heart. But he is responsible now for more than himself, a burden he is still growing strong enough to shoulder. In the end he only nods, for what is there to say? It is not for her to tell him what choices to make - this, at least, he knows enough of gods to be sure of. But the bay recalls the meeting at the summit, the godly voices raising in dispute, and Tempus’s warning - “Can you tell me anything of the change that we were warned will come? So that our people might prepare…” His voice is soft but there is nothing weak about it, a still surface with measureless depth. Any doubt he pushes back - surely she would not find him impertinent, when he sought only to help his court. @Random Events