[P] You lift me up and I am found

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow*   It is with the words of the stranger by the lake in his mind as Asterion steps into the keep, another fantastical world that Isra had crafted. For a long moment he only stands in the entryway, marveling at the light and laughter and bustling of activity, wondering at the queen who had made it and the nimble, beautiful magic she wrought. It would be a waste, he thinks, not to enjoy it. So he allows himself to be swept up by the color and the noise, allows a few giggling strangers to clothe him in dark gray gossamer like the light off the sea during an evening storm. He even chooses a mask - only enough to cover his eyes and brush the tops of his cheeks. It is silver as starlight, wrought with wandering patterns like willow-boughs and curling leaves. He is not sure it makes him look more like a king, or anything less like himself. Last of all, before joining the throng and the winding, wailing music, he considers the row of punches, with the long table groaning beneath. At last he steps forward, takes a draught of one a deep and unnerving violet, and drinks deeply. It swells like starlight in his veins, warm as a hearth in midwinter. Maybe it is more of a mask than anything else - at any rate, it gives him the courage to step into the crowd, and be swept up by the night. When Katniss steps alongside him Asterion is at the edge of the great room (turned into a gossamer ball-room, tonight), flushed with dance and with drink. He is smiling already when she catches his attention, but it widens to see her, and he ducks his chin in boyish greeting. Her question does nothing to dampen his expression, though it turns more wry. “It didn’t seem pertinent at the time,” he says, leaning toward her so that his voice is heard over the cacophony of the room. “And admittedly I was new at it, and taking to it poorly. I hope you won’t fault me for it.” The evening (the drink, perhaps, and the mask, and the air of celebration after so much sadness) has loosened him, has made him forget his normal reserve and his worries both. It frees his tongue, and the way his smile turns to something like a grin — ah, the court itself is not the only thing transformed by the magic of the night. @Katniss