A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
The infinite meadows of heaven. There are a lot of things he likes about Marisol - her steadfastness, her duty that so reminds him to honor his own, her sense of humor dry as the Mors - but one of his favorite things is when she says something like this. It always surprises him, when she says a slip of a phrase like she’s revealing some secret, softer part of herself, and it makes him smile now. “Yes,” he agrees simply, and if she were nearer he would press the soft skin of his nose against the plane of her shoulder.
But she isn’t, not yet, and Asterion has never been the kind to push his presence on anyone. It is a marvel they find themselves together as often as they do, these two, so tied as they are to their own ideas of proper.
Still his gaze holds on hers, and still he wonders why she will not meet it (he thinks it must be her disappointment in him, though he would not have expected her to hide it - Marisol has always seemed to him boldly forthright. Is it his kingship, still ill-fitting as new skin, that keeps her from voicing her thoughts?). At last the bay gives up, begins to look away - but then the Commander answers, a tolling word he does not expect. This time, when his eyes turn back to her, the slate of hers snare him.
Again her words catch him by surprise, though they are not the fanciful poetry of before. His expression is considering, as she matches her steps to his own, and they become near-twin shadows in the semi-dark. The bonfires and merchants are growing further away, now, the stones of the street more silver than gold.
For a long moment he is silent, because he is thinking of Aislinn, now, and her shredded wing, and the desperation in her voice as her numb shock gave way to realization. What a fool he was, for ever thinking that desperation was for him. It is so much more clear now, the thing she feared the most.
“But you can always fly again,” he says, and it is almost a question, and there is almost despair in his own voice and his own eyes when he looks at her.
Asterion has never worn wings, but he still knows what it is to be grounded, and he fears it the way free things always have.
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