A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
Asterion would smother her anger. He is no dry tinder, to spark and flare back at her, hot and hungry - he is soaked to the bone by weariness, by worry. He is the sea at low tide, still and quiet, the wet sand nothing but cold gray.
He might welcome her anger, if he could. His own - at Raymond, at the gods, at most of all himself - has been extinguished by driving rains and doubt.
Still he can feel it beside him, the fierce and almost physical presence of her displeasure. Like a flame he keeps his eyes from turning toward it, instead watching the life of Denocte flow by, a stream beneath the starlight. It reminds him of the night they walked together down the streets of their home - though they had been the only ones, then, haunting the cobblestones like ghosts, young and ignorant.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he answers her, as though her answer had not been dull and hard as a stone. When he glances back at her, her eyes glitter like mica. “Our work is far from over, when we go home.” Home - he had not said the word by accident, but now it hangs in the night, brighter than each bonfire they pass.
For a moment he says nothing, wondering if she will speak or if her anger will keep her mute as flint. Smoke drifts above them, twining like an archway, diffusing the sky into something hazy and dream-like. The bay still does not love fire (at least he is over his fear of it, wild-eyed and watchful) but tonight it is far better than rain. His gaze traces the arch of night above them.
“I miss the constellations from the parapet, the way they hung over the sea.” His voice is soft as ever, and musing - not a king’s voice at all. “I know they are the same here, but…” He trails off, shrugging a dark shoulder. It is not the same; it is not home. Asterion might dream, but he will never forget it - his loyalty runs deep as a shipwreck.
Now he pauses a little off the path, looking back at his Commander once again. Beyond them there is a singer with a small crowd gathering around her; she wears silver like slips of smoke or frost, and her voice rises like an offering. Asterion does not look; he only watches Marisol.
What would you have done? it lies heavy on his tongue, presses against his teeth, weights each sturdy beat of his heart. But he still does not ask it.
Instead, his gaze goes to her wings, its touch light as the brush of a finger. “What is it like, flying?” Once, he had asked Florentine - but he expected Marisol’s answer would be much different. The same constellations from two disparate cities.
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