A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
He would never admit it to Marisol, but he is relieved once they are safe in Denocte. Far more difficult was facing the decision to ask his court to be temporary refugees in the first place; now that he has already failed, the weight is easier to bear.
It helps to have work to do. It keeps him grounded when his thoughts are tempted to fly, to reach for stardust and stories and forget what he must do. The bay stallion is no more a wanderer; he is a king.
But he does not walk like a king as he weaves through the valleys and foothills up to the pass where a gate once stood. It is a bright spring day, and there are birds singing from the brush, returned from their winter grounds. It feels good to walk, to stretch weary muscles. It feels good to anticipate the work ahead, shoulder to shoulder with others.
Asterion thinks more than anything of Ravos, of the time the earth-goddess had turned her followers’ land to something treacherous. This replanting was not so different, and he again had his gift of water to help settle each sapling and seed, sinking it down into thirsty soil.
It is Ravos he is still dreaming of when the voice cuts through his reverie, and the king blinks his dark lashes and looks up at her.
“Of course,” he says, and dutifully draws to a stop, his gaze curious as it skims her features until the sling draws taut with its new weight. When the mare gets it settled and switches to the other side he holds it the same as the first, the sun a warm hand on their backs.
She is not one of his; in the past few weeks he has come to know most of the faces of Terrastella, and certainly all that had traveled with him from the Dusk Court.
Asterion wonders how long she had been a citizen of the Night Court, what she must think of all the changes the past year. “Were you here when the wall fell?” His voice is not so soft as it once was – the boyhood timbre of it has gone. But there is still a dreamer’s tilt to the words, a colt asking to be told a story.
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