A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
“I do.” His gaze lingers on her, curious, waiting for her to continue and trailing his eyes idly down each golden line of her face. That day, that driving rain, that laughing girl with her trailing flowers - they have all been etched onto his heart (Sometimes he thinks his heart - or maybe his soul - soul is nothing but wet sand, and it is covered in footprints that will never be washed away).
Continue she does, but not entirely the direction he expects. At last he only smiles at her, and looks away.
“I have no doubt you will,” he says, and nothing more - for how can he tell her that oh, he hopes she does - and oh, he is afraid of that hope? Asterion is not sure which would be worse - to find himself face to face before his father and not be found enough, or to find himself disappointed in the red man he has heard so many stories of.
Still he is glad when she leans against him, and absently he lips at her hair, inhales the sweet scent of a petal (she has always carried spring with her, always lived in summer, no matter the rains or the sorrows or the hurts). It is enough to make him laugh when she levels her gaze at him, accusing, though he does try to smooth away the furrowed brow that seems always present when she talks of Gabriel. “Perhaps it is a family trait, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
In truth, he might not mind a coup; in truth he might welcome somebody - Florentine especially - lifting this burden again from his shoulders.
But there is little point in turning talk to that, not when there are so few of them to rebel, and so few left to lead.
Easier, then, to laugh at her threats, for they are nothing more than words on the wind. “I see now why you chose me in your stead, and not someone like Marisol,” he jests, nudging her hindquarters as she steps away. “I should like to see you try and plait and glitter her.” As he says it, he thinks of his Commander - the last time he’d seen her had been when he’d announced the move to Denocte. The disappointment had been clear in her slate eyes then, hard and deep as a diamond mine.
No; he cannot play pretend for long. Not even with Florentine, who’s dreaming so closely rivals his own (though hers are a little brighter, a little wilder, a little stranger). There is too much before them, too much to be decided and done.
Like this castle before them, with its dark windows and wide doorways, so foreign and so familiar.
“I should go into the city.” His voice is softer than it had been, his smile gone. But after he presses his forehead against her neck he still nips at her cheek as he pulls away, and there is a shine in his eye that hadn’t been there when first he approached her. “Stay out of trouble - gods know we can afford no more healers.”
They are true enough, his words, but the wink he tips her is another thing - and when he pushes into a lope ahead of her, he does not look back.
If he did he might ask her to run with him, that they might only be a brother and sister fled into the forest, with nothing to look after but each other.
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