He tries not to remember the last time he’d walked these halls, the corridors down to the infirmary that seemed to echo and sigh no matter how busy they were. When he had been here to see Aislinn (a lifetime ago, he feels; so much has changed) the rooms had been empty save for her - now they were too full, occupied by horses from Denocte and Terrastella both. Almost it looked like there had been a war.
The subject of his visit is not hard to find. Even asleep (as he finds her), even among horses of a hundred colors, even ill, she is luminous - pale as a morning-glory, the curves of her belying the strength he knows she carries.
Asterion had heard how she’d collapsed in the markets; he thinks back to how he’d last seen her in Dusk, covered in blood and mud both, working ceaselessly to save their people.
He does not know if Vespera has seen - if she has watched any of what her court has suffered (or indeed, if she had been the cause of any of it). But the king had seen.
“Oh, Theodosia, I am so sorry." His voice is soft, gentle as sea-foam, too low to carry to those around them. He watches the rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her lashes pale as frost on her cheek. “Thank you for everything you gave.”
She had not deserved this - none of them had. And he feels sorrow and anger both warring in him like rival tides, and wonders what is still to come.
@
if you'll be my star*
