A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
She is good at disguising her feelings, is the Commander; knowing how straightforward she is you wouldn’t expect it, that she could hide some things away so well.
But Asterion doesn’t need to see her frown bloom the way a smile does on some girls to know her disappointment in him. They are enough alike; he feels it for himself, too. (He does not, of course, suspect that she hates how he might belong here - but this is a feeling the young king also shares).
He is not surprised, then, by her retort. He even nods, and does not waver beneath the cold flash of her eyes.
“No,” he agrees softly, evenly, “it shouldn’t be.”
Her next words are less expected; one of his brows lifts, almost amused. It is not only that he is unused to Marisol asking him anything so pedestrian, it’s that the answer should be so obvious - Asterion doesn’t know of a single one of them that has been alright in weeks.
Right as rain, he thinks at first, and must fight back the mad grin that threatens. He has never given in to exhausted hysterics; if he must ever start he prays it will not be in front of the Commander. “As much as anyone,” he says instead, and any flicker of humor that might have been is wiped clean as his gaze scans the markets. Despite the flags and the fires, the wares and the music, there are too many wounded.
Denocte makes a beautiful illusion, but it is broken, too. He might not have noticed it, before, but Asterion has learned what to look for.
Marisol, though - he thinks as he looks back at her that she would never break. She wouldn’t know how. Not for the first time, he is envious of her strength, and grateful for it too.
“And you?” he says, his dark eyes holding hers, and then the bay gestures with a tilt of his chin down a star-silver street and begins to walk. He does not look back at the compasses and maps and promises of other worlds.
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