asterion*
For a long moment there is only stillness, as the ripples of his words and Florentine’s revelation echo across those gathered, changing their expressions like wind on water. He reads many expressions, all of which make his heart tighten even as it beats, beats, beats against his ribs like the waves against the rock. There is a tide coming in and he wonders if it will bear them all away.
The king’s gaze falls to the first to step forward, and she so favors her parents that no surprise registers on his face when she names them. He had been new to Novus when Rannveig abdicated, but he remembered the day well, for it was his first in the capital. Asterion nods at her, and the expression he wears is near enough to a smile.
“I would be honored to have you as a warrior, Valkyr,” he says solemnly, and his gaze lingers on the bright amber of her eyes until the movement of another catches his attention.
Auru. Even after years he isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to the man, but he remembers him. Novus may be a world of wings and horns and fanciful things, but even so the maned stallion is distinct among them, and Asterion only stands as he bows, humbled. Humbled and glad that Auru was still here, and came forth for this. The bay tries, before he goes, to catch that leonine gaze with the dark, still water of his own, and convey his thanks however he can – but oh, his heart aches to see the thin figure go again.
He knows what it’s like, to feel safest in the shadows.
It is almost a relief to draw his gaze then to Theodosia, who had risen through the storm to shoulder any burdens asked of her as few others had. She is pale as salt-spray, pale as mist over flooded fields, but no less alive for that, and he draws strength from the iron in her gaze even as his heart flinches to hear the words the crowd murmurs.
What is it he looks for in the darkness of Marisol’s face? If it is approval, if it is reassurance, if it is an echo of what she had told him the last time they stood at the edge of the waves, he isn’t sure he finds it. But his gaze is still unwavering as it meets hers, and when he dips his dark muzzle the gesture is almost wry.
They are so very few.
He had had the thought before, but in the chaos of the storms, in the business of his own position, in the aftermath of the summit – there had been no time to think. But now he looks over them, his dwindling Court, and as the waves rush like his own heartbeat he wonders that he could ever hope to keep them safe.
Already the world is crumbling around them. Already their stores are low, their herbs and medicines diminished, their fields turned to mud and holes that vanished too deep to see the bottom of. It seems improbable that they will see spring, and he wonders, oh, he wonders –
“Vespera keep us all,” he says softly, and already the words feel something like pretend.
The king’s gaze falls to the first to step forward, and she so favors her parents that no surprise registers on his face when she names them. He had been new to Novus when Rannveig abdicated, but he remembered the day well, for it was his first in the capital. Asterion nods at her, and the expression he wears is near enough to a smile.
“I would be honored to have you as a warrior, Valkyr,” he says solemnly, and his gaze lingers on the bright amber of her eyes until the movement of another catches his attention.
Auru. Even after years he isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to the man, but he remembers him. Novus may be a world of wings and horns and fanciful things, but even so the maned stallion is distinct among them, and Asterion only stands as he bows, humbled. Humbled and glad that Auru was still here, and came forth for this. The bay tries, before he goes, to catch that leonine gaze with the dark, still water of his own, and convey his thanks however he can – but oh, his heart aches to see the thin figure go again.
He knows what it’s like, to feel safest in the shadows.
It is almost a relief to draw his gaze then to Theodosia, who had risen through the storm to shoulder any burdens asked of her as few others had. She is pale as salt-spray, pale as mist over flooded fields, but no less alive for that, and he draws strength from the iron in her gaze even as his heart flinches to hear the words the crowd murmurs.
What is it he looks for in the darkness of Marisol’s face? If it is approval, if it is reassurance, if it is an echo of what she had told him the last time they stood at the edge of the waves, he isn’t sure he finds it. But his gaze is still unwavering as it meets hers, and when he dips his dark muzzle the gesture is almost wry.
They are so very few.
He had had the thought before, but in the chaos of the storms, in the business of his own position, in the aftermath of the summit – there had been no time to think. But now he looks over them, his dwindling Court, and as the waves rush like his own heartbeat he wonders that he could ever hope to keep them safe.
Already the world is crumbling around them. Already their stores are low, their herbs and medicines diminished, their fields turned to mud and holes that vanished too deep to see the bottom of. It seems improbable that they will see spring, and he wonders, oh, he wonders –
“Vespera keep us all,” he says softly, and already the words feel something like pretend.
