A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
“I never heard from Delumine,” he says. And their people had been so hungry, and the Night Court so close, and Isra’s letter like a balm to a searing, fretful wound -
Oh, he had never known Somnus and the Dawn Court the way that Florentine had. Asterion counted few enough friends, and so many of them lived in Denocte, regardless of wounds whose causes were now gone. Regardless, too, of history and the way it wound around and around again (and had Florentine been able to counsel him then, she might have told him so - she knows it better than anyone).
At her words of their father he closes his mouth; his eyes are deep things then, and the resemble a red stallion whom he has never met. And because of that never-meeting Asterion can say nothing. No matter how many sweet things she says of him, no matter the proud timber of her voice when she speaks of Gabriel, the king cannot claim him. Not this man, this shadow.
So it is a good thing when she changes the subject, swift as a bird in flight. It surprises a laugh from him, silver on the air. “No, I am not in love with Isra.” He presses his lips together at the rest of her comment, but they retain the shape of a smile - and he tries not to think of Aislinn then, though she still haunts him like a ghost. (And yet he thinks of Moira too, and even of Calliope, and-)
“Or if I am, it’s only a little,” he says then, and if the joke isn’t clear the way he lips at one of her slim ears is. But there is truth along with the jest; like all dreamers, he thinks he might fall a little in love with everyone he meets. Perhaps that is why he is so heavy, of late; there are so many that he carries with him.
When she talks of love, though - oh, that feels different. The bay king keeps his expression smooth as a windless sea when she names Lysander, despite the way his thoughts turn to darkness, to vines, to rich black earth. Asterion has never spoken with the man, but he is loyal, in his way.
But Flora without her dagger -
“How many times has that dagger saved your life?” he asks, though he refuses to turn his gaze upon it; he wonders (not for the first time) how much of the magic is in her and how much the knife. Whether she could save herself, if she must, or if —
Ah, he cannot finish the thought. It is well, then, that she steps closer, presses the plane of her cheek to his twilight-flecked shoulder, says she will not leave him.
His sigh then feels a little like mourning, a little like release.
“I could never make you do anything,” he says, and smiles even as his eyes wander the windows and angles of Denocte’s castle. “You were barely convinced to come here, and the hospital was half-flooded.”
How could he ever think she was like Talia? Their shared father, their shared color, the space they took up in his heart - all of these things are the same, but his sisters are nothing alike and oh, he is grateful for it. At her last words, the tickle of her breath against his neck, he laughs again, and steps away with a flick of his tail.
“Two more days,” he says, turning his voice deep and stony, trying to shape his face into something grave and haughty. It feels like nothing more than playing pretend as a boy, naming himself a knight as he raced the foam and gulls up the shore. “Then you must forgive me, by decree of the King.” It is difficult not to laugh then, but he manages, despite the betraying crook at the corner of his mouth.
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