[P] I had a dream,

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   If he had thought (or hoped) that the bulk of his duties would have shed off slick as rain-water once he passed a refugee into someone else’s court, well, of course he was wrong. There is, perhaps, even more to be discussed now, now that there is finally the time for talking. Before it had been all rush, all survival, no time for planning or consideration. Choose, choose, choose and every decision had an after-ripple, a recoil, where Asterion thought but if I am wrong- Now he attends his many meetings without complaint, wearing his and Florentine’s and Marisol’s and everyone’s disappointment as heavy as a woven cloak. But he cannot deny how nice it is, not to have to lift his voice over the constant drum-beat of the rain. Not to shiver and soak. He can feel his own magic pooling in him again, a spring once more fed, somewhere in the secret place that is neither stomach nor sinew nor soul. (Where does the magic come from? Where does it live? He wonders these things, sometimes, when he is alone). Today he stands and talks of the status of Terrastella, of mud and remnants, of how the swamp has swollen beyond its borders and shows little sign of retreating, now the spring rains are on the way. It is difficult to keep his gaze from the horizon of the sea; it draws him like a magnet, like a hurt, like a dream. After a lifetime of it he still finds it so hard to ignore. The air smells of it, at least, and the breeze is cool and wet, and when at last his scout turns to go he begins to turn toward it - Asterion. At that the water is forgotten. When Eik reaches to meet his muzzle, the bay presses his forehead to the gray’s, an embrace like a brother’s. His heart sings with a joy so sharp it feels almost like sorrow, but there is nothing sad in the smile that his dark lips shape then. “Eik. How I have missed you.” For only a moment as their breaths mingle he remembers the Summit - darkness and the deep smell of disturbed soil and dusty rock, the grating voice of the gods - and he wonders how everything could have been so different only a few seasons ago. One of his ears twitches at Eik’s words and his smile softens. Almost he answers I am not, and he knows it wouldn’t even have been a lie - but he can’t, not with the weight of all that has happened, and the knowledge of those that were lost. “I never would have guessed it of Novus,” he says instead, and thinks of the other worlds between them (between all of them - Calliope, and Cyrene, and Florentine, and all the others with their stories and their scars). “But here we are.” Only the wind between them, then, with its taste of salt and brine like something vital and ancient, and then Eik reaches for his gift. Asterion steps back, curious and watchful, until the thing is offered and he leans forward once more. “Oh,” he says, and holds it tight in his mental grip even as he ghosts his lips across the surface. It is smooth-edged, cool, and smells a little of Eik, a little of wind and sand, a whiff of salt like a ghost of the sea. His dark eyes trace the shape of the star until he sees the pattern when he blinks. “It’s like a little piece of everything,” he says, half-wondering, and his smile grows warm again. “Thank you.” For now he ties it into his own mane, pale as a piece of bone against the silver-shot black; later he will find a better way to wear it. And then his gaze turns to Eik’s again, questions held like constellations in its liquid dark. “Tell me how you are,” he says, and then steps toward the balcony with a gesture of his muzzle. “And then I have someone who wants to meet you.”   @Eik <3